What... me, chicken?!

I’m not yellow, just non-violent — or so I would like myself to believe.
Like the other day, when my bike accidentally scraped against a run-down Maruti car at the MG Road junction. The mistake was as much the car driver's as it was mine but then, he had the advantage of language. So, as he let loose a barrage of abuses in Kannada, I just stood there behind blinking eyes and wondered Oh shit, what a mess...
Sure, calling his mother a few names in English would have been in order right then, but... well... that's my problem - I think a lot. Especially before a fight.
Like back then, while the guy was hollering in a tongue as alien as the Martian Manhunter, I was busy thinking if resistance would be worth waking up with a black eye the next morning. And by the time the wheels in my head had stopped grinding, the dude was already walking back to his car with a wind of accomplishment about him.
There on the street, amid thousands of strangers, I emerged the loser. Or, upon looking at things from a different perspective, the more sensible of the two.
You may think it's weird, but I find squabbling very difficult - especially if my opponent is talking a different language. I hate languages I don't understand (you must have gathered just as much from my earlier post) and many a time it has landed me in uncomfortable situations - and once in the railway clink.
But then, there is a silver lining to this cloud also. Because if there’s a man who’s tearing through his gullet to get at me, I can remain grinning like a plum-faced baboon without knowing that he has already cursed all the members on my family tree, and is currently giving unpleasant names to my unborn children.
Come to think of it, even my schooldays were completely lacking in brawls and love affairs, probably because I was the principal’s son. While the reason for people not choosing to fight with me is quite evident, I think the girls kept away from me because they (quite obviously) dreaded the possibility of having their rule-by-the-rod headmaster as a prospective father-in-law. And so, there it was — a childhood completely lacking in love as well as war.
But tell you what... I am quite capable of intelligent conversation. But that is just about the last thing anybody wants to do while preparing to box the other’s ears in. Which is probably why I manage just a little beyond ‘Duh!’ in such a situation, whether I am in the right or wrong. Very much like a Calvin-Moe situation.
Well, whatever. I bet late Mr MK Gandhi is proud of me. Even though I prefer denim cottons to loin cloth.