Phantom jams are just our thawai playing tricks—one person taps the brake, and the wave rolls backward like a ripple. No accident needed, just a chain of small worries. On the expressway, I see it every evening: a driver glancing at his phone, and suddenly a kilometre behind, we are all stopping and starting. It reminds me of my husband’s share-auto, how a single late passenger can make his whole schedule sway—eche, it’s all about the first flutter of unease.
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