Blare. Blare. Blare. Honks ricochet off each other. An intricate tangle of an autorickshaw, an Audi, three bicycles, and a Carrier truck with metal rods jutting out like a Mad Max vehicle. The Tetris pieces keep haphazardly stacking on top of one another. The traffic light ceaselessly blinks red but it’s not an order, it’s a cry for help. 
A man, driving his petit prince on a scooter, wiggles between the curb and the blue Toyota sedan only to be blocked by a menacing tanker truck. The child’s expressions suggest that it's the first time Dad has failed. 
Anguished wrists slam their horns. Cars scream for every inch of progress. Some drivers poke their heads out to figure out the size of the mess. Some stare ahead blankly. They are at the mercy of the universe.

It seems that the only way out is for everything to coalesce into one ugly transformer figure and walk away.
An apparel store watches over the scene. It flickers under the harsh glare of tubelights casting a dull glow over lifeless dresses hanging on the racks. It has seen it all before. The passersby have merely adopted the screeching horns. The store was born in it. 

Out of anguish or nobility or naked necessity, one passerby or stuck-by takes matters into their own hands. He sheds his autorickshaw driver’s identity and dons the invisible uniform of authority.  
It takes a moment for people to identify the imploring gestures, the beseeching hands of a nascent leader. He asks a section of vehicles to push back. He runs to the end declaring this message with great ferocity. 
A couple of bikers ignore him. They know their 1930s German history. They won't stand for this self-proclaimed leader. But the rest of us don’t have time to worry about the precedent we are setting. We want to get on with our lives. 
The honks grow less frequent like the diminishing cries of a toddler who slowly realises he got what he wanted. 
One side opens up. The instinct, despite everything that transpired before, is to jump in and acquire the free space. But the leader's raised hand is enough to halt our irrational impulses. Yes master, those of us on the left will stop. Let the right ones go by. He begins to pull on the threads of this tangled mess. Knots unfurl one by one. The lanes breathe again.  
He can’t leave without fixing everything. His absence certain to create a power vacuum that will push the street back by several minutes.

Satisfied, the commander of our street returns to his tiny vehicle. The engine roars to honour his achievement as he rushes on, already dreaming of the next traffic jam to conquer.