Tags:
Journalism of Courage
If Mumbai has its cabbies, Pune has its autorickshaw drivers. The ones who signal right and turn left, that is if they signal at all; the ones who you are convinced have a meter running far faster than P.T. Usha; the ones who never seem to be wanting to go where you want to go.
But they are also the ones who form an indispensable part of the city’s life and experiences. For they are also the ones who have returned bags full of cash and jewellery left behind in their autos to the rightful owner; the ones who despite the fact that they cram schoolkids like sardines into their rickshaws are lovingly called “kaka” by them all; the ones who have their road sense in the wrong places but their hearts in the right ones.
Like Ram Jadhav, whose auto I took when going for an assignment to Dighi, on Pune’s outskirts. After driving through a desolate road and labyrinthine lanes, we reached a suspicious looking house where I was to meet my contact. It was already dark and seeing little hope of finding a rickshaw to go back, I asked the driver if he would be willing to wait.
“So did you think I would leave you here in this kind of place by yourself?” he shot back. Not only did he wait, he even translated many of the answers in chaste Marathi that I received to my queries. Finally, when he did drop me home, it was with a chiding, “Next time don’t go to such places alone, understood?” Understood.
Then there was the one autorickshawallah who asked me the minute I sat down, whether I wanted to go to the Osho Commune. This was simply because I happened to be wearing a maroon dress. On my answering in the negative, he smiled benignly, “It’s okay you don’t have to feel shy about it!”
Another advised me just the other day, “Such a bad throat you have. Take Corex.” One driver kept giving me details about his family. But what worried me was that—because he thought that it would be rude to turn his back on me while talking—kept swivelling round to face me every now and then!
But there was no one to beat the one who used to park at the auto stand below my office. On observing that I would generally leave office by 7pm and take an auto back to Aundh, he asked me if this was my daily routine. “I rarely get a passenger to Aundh in the evening and since I stay there I really need one going that side at that hour. So if you go there everyday, why don’t you take my rickshaw every time?” I agreed, seeing no harm in the arrangement.
The next day he was promptly there waiting for me as I left my office and happily drove me all the way home. I got off and as my mother-in-law and husband opened the door for me, our man waved back to me cheerily, shouting, “Okay, then, see you tomorrow again at seven!”
