Taxi
This was written a few months ago. The empty roads, the silences of the past month are so eerie that now I even miss the taxis…
Sometimes it takes a two year old to teach you a much needed lesson on good manners. The kids would be in the backseat as I drove them to and from various activities every evening. This was when the younger son had only barely started speaking a couple of words. Unbeknowest to his mother, he apparently registered Everything. As I turned into my building every evening, a line of taxis would block the entrance. With buses honking from behind to get out of their way, and the taxi guys mooching around near the front of the line, I would invariably have to roll down my window and holler Arré o taxiwallah – aapki gaadi hatao!! (You there, taximan, move your car). The guy would saunter up in a manner that would further aggravate the situation, slowly get in, take his time to start the car and reluctantly drive out of my way. By now, the steady litany of profanities in my head would be at the tip of my tongue and only the presence of a six and two year old in the back seat would prevent an eruption. Every single damned day.
That day, I must have been preoccupied as I waited for the taxi to move and hadn’t rolled down my window. And then I heard it. Before I could react, the rear window was rolled down and a sharp little piccolo of a voice screamed from the back: Avey o taxiballa, gaddi hatao!! It was the silent two year old, letting loose with everything in those tiny lungs.
The taxi men erupted in laughter and ran to move their cars. I ducked my head as the six year old read me a sermon on how moms should behave in front of impressionable younger siblings. I learnt that day to keep my thoughts and obscenities to myself, at least while out driving with that kid.
As I drove home this afternoon, that memory of sixteen years ago made me chuckle. Taxiwallahs are a special breed in Bombay. I mean, of course, the old timers who drove the Premier Padmini kaali-peeli (black and yellow) taxis and now the jaunty Hyundais and Marutis, not the brash barely-driven-a-tractor Uber and Ola drivers.
These men are hardened, tough middle aged men mostly. Some wear a cap to identify themselves as devout or proud of their ancestry. This headgear runs the spectrum from gandhi cap to crocheted skull caps to turbans and even once, a Parsi prayer cap. Others display their faith in one God or many or no Gods on the dashboard. The Kaa’ba, Ganpati Bappa, Mother Mary of the Mount or both Sai Babas and now increasingly the Tricolour, decorated with fresh flowers or a gold fringed red chunni are symbols of a touching faith in the unknown as these men, many living far from families and homes for years on end, transport this godless city.
The taxis these days are a step up from the sagging, malodorous Padminis of yore. The last of those clunkers are retired now and all that remains in the collective memory is the clouds of black smoke spewing out of their exhausts, the bumper hanging off one end from the last minor accident, the overwhelming body odour of a large and sweaty driver and the sometimes startling interiors. Remember the roof of a taxi upholstered in flowered velvet? Or the posters of a Bollywood or cricket star leering at you, bulging arms crossed in macho counterpoint to the carefully styled and coloured hair?
The taxis today are rather subdued, they seem to have assimilated the lesson of cleanliness and hygiene over gaudy interiors from their aggregator brethren. Sure, you still get the occasional dirty cloth covers, torn and stained with things you don’t want to imagine. But more often, you get into a taxi with clean rexine seats and just the merest whiff of body odour. I’d much rather sit in a kaali-peeli with fresh diesel fumes wafting away the other smells than be cooped up in an airconditioned Uber with nowhere for the odours to go.
Some cabbies have a chewing habit, continuously hawking and spitting streams of vile red out the window. Others smoke a beedi, puffing out evil clouds that blow straight into the eyes of hapless passengers. Some are foul mouthed, in the endearingly casual Bombay style – BC, MC and everything in between, flung with impartiality at jaywalkers, bus drivers and other taxis who dare cut into their space. Others are gentlemen of tehzeeb and tameez. They say aap and bhabhi instead of apun and aunty, and behave much like courtly knights errant of yore. I once hired an old cabbie, ghost-like in white kurta, white beard and white cap. He refused to leave when I got down at a deserted corner, to find my friends not waiting for me as promised. He said, Beti, main yahaan hoon. Aap fikar mat kariye. (Daughter, I’m here. Don’t worry.) He waited until they arrived, grumbled politely about the younger generation always running late and then drove away.
Some drive with one arm hooked outside the window, miraculously never getting grazed, let alone maimed by road ragers. Others sit with their torsoes at the oddest angles or with one foot jammed on the clutch. Most grind the gears of the zippy new cars they now own, in fond memory of the old tanks they grew up driving. All of them are addicted to the horn and take great umbrage if asked to desist from noisily making their way down even a halfway empty stretch of road. Most also seem quite startled to find that these new cars can actually withstand a shift to third gear. A hair raising ride, especially on flyovers, used to be guaranteed when these new taxis first hit the roads. Until a conspiracy theory gained popularity. This one claims that the lone speed camera on each flyover can track you from the beginning to end of the five or six kilometre stretch. The taxi men are so convinced of this that they drive at the asinine speed limit of 30 kmph all along the flyover, ignoring the entreaties and/or threats emanating from the passenger. The metre ticks over at the same rate anyway. It’s only the passenger’s blood pressure that accelerates alarmingly.
Behind all these oddball idiosyncrasies lie some stories worth the telling and the listening too. Stories of returning home once every two or three years. Stories of never finding a comfortable spot to sleep in the crowded room he shares with eight others. Stories of being threatened and mocked, of burning tyres and menacing mobs forcing him to drive in reverse until he makes good his escape. Stories also of celebrities (apun to Sallu Bhai ko waise janta hai, woh toh ekdum fit hai) and heroics, the returning to grateful passengers, left behind bags of cash, phones and babies.
The lined faces tell their own stories. Some are eager, optimistic, still hopeful of making their living in this heartless city. Others are bitter, resigned, angry at the crushing of their dreams and hopes in this merciless city. Some meet your eyes steadily, their souls intact. Others look away, having sold up a long time ago. They are men, after all, like you and me, not angels. But sometimes, when they agree to take an elderly couple a short distance down the road to the doctor, or when they allow a passel of school kids to pile in with an indulgent look, you could be forgiven for thinking otherwise.