Just need a cigarette...

We step out of the Hubli train station. We have an hour until our sleeper train departs for Mysore. I want a cigarette so badly that it feels as if all my cells have tightened. Not just the cells, the chromosomes of my dna helix are spiralling tighter, squeezing the sanity out of me. We follow the mass of bodies headed over the bridge. Exiting the dimly lit concrete square, the twit and I immediately light a cigarette.
"You can't smoke here", a man with a groomed moustache and button down grey shirt called, stampeding our direction. "5000 rupee fine. Get off the concrete". We walked through a gap in the railing that bisected the concrete on our right. Again we touched the flame to our cigarette ends. "No", called a second man dressed all in green, "you cannot smoke here!"
"Jesus Christ, where the fuck can we smoke?" I cursed at the twit, the unfortunate target of my frustrated rebuttals.
"Lets head to the end here", the twit pointed to where the long railing reached the road. "That should be fine".
We walked to where the gleaming concrete met the black dirt of the pavement. Turning left we stopped in a bus shelter and lit up. I took in a long lungful. We were surrounded by the stench of piss. An old lady, looking so brittle that she may turn to dust any second, stood in the shadows, her fingers pulling at her wild mane of grey hair.
A middle aged man with greying curls and a checked shirt walked past and stopped beside us. His eyes focused squarely at me. At the same moment a second man, slightly his junior, pulled up a scooter before our feet. "Namaste", he bowed to the twit. "You cannot smoke here sir, you are on a bus shelter, that is government property". The twit apologised profusely while we stubbed our cigarette ends on the dirt. "No worry man, no worry, but", he looked at me and shook his head, "No, no, no. Where you from?" he returned to the twit. The man with the greying curls beside us jumped onto the back of the scooter. "You from, you from?" he chanted. We swapped the usual cultural exchanges, the driver revved his scooter to indicate he was leaving, "One last thing," he called in the dank night, "you're in a really bad place. There are bad people here, you're surrounded by them. Cross the road, don't talk to anyone, and stick together, don't split up." He started to pull into the four lanes of mayhem, calling over his shoulder "remember, they're bad people here, really bad people...".
"Right", the twit festered in the roots of panic. "Lets get over the road, get some snacks and get straight back into the station". "But what about dinner?" I protested. "Lets just find a little restaurant over the road and grab something to eat".
Leading over the road directly from the train station was something that looked a bit like a zebra crossing. If it actually worked as such, well, all bets are off. We stepped into the maniacal roar of engines and rickshaws. Stepping into the road, two rickshaws immediately zipped in front and behind us. We Bambi stepped across the street, hopping backwards and forwards to avoid the traffic hurtling around.
We stopped at the confectionary store to pick up supplies for the train journey. The youth at the counter smirked when he spotted the unlit cigarette in my palm. My eyes threw him daggers, I was fraught amd desperately needed to wrap my lips around that cigarette end and inhale.
We found a busy well lit cafeteria. The manager was a plump elderly gentleman with cokebottle end glasses. His eyes peeped out, amplified under the white neon light. Tense, we discussed strategies for getting out of the Hubli ghetto alive. The twit reaoned that he should look big and strong. I said I would go for knowledgable and calm. Bullies like to kick down and out dogs. Act like you know where you are going and that all is well with the world. Then if someone tries something, thats when you should go psycho, real quick. Luckily I haven't had to try out that stage, fingers crossed I never will. We also debated whether the Indian restauranteur with the body builder physique was genuinely threatening, or if we were perceiving him as threatening because of our shock. The latter proved to be true when he playfully berated our waitor for trying not to bring us our change, and ensured we saw every rupee.
We decided our best and final chance to put to bed this nicotine craving that was clawing the underside of my flesh, was to light up on the left side of the station gate. A patch of concrete cast in shadows that did not belong to the government. The twit sparked the cigarette, as he was about to pass me the twos we spotted a traffic policeman on the other side of the road. "Not yet" hummed the twit, "I can't give it to you without him seeing us". I rolled my eyes to convey my disgust.
At that moment, a squat greasy man jumped around the corner and started gesturing at the twit. "I don't speak English, but you smoke, ok. She, she, no, no, no she can't smoke here". "I'm not smoking" I quipped bluntly. Acid bile rose in my gut, as is always the case when I am faced with unwarranted authority. "She not smoke," the man continued, looking at the twit, and gesturing at me. "No, no, not urm here, no no". "She's not smoking" replied the twit, also gesticulating at me, this time to illustrate the obvious. The man began his spiel again. "Lets just go get the train" I snapped at the twit, digging fingernails between my palms and barging between the two men. I felt like I had stepped back in time eighty years; to when it was possible to section women for enjoying smoking and long walks. "Wait up" the twit called, chasing as I paced off my ferocity. He sees my frown and the tears pricking my eyes, "Welcome to South India", his eyes radiating comfort. I tutted, "Goddam patriarchs. I hate Hubli".