Street Walking

So imagine my delight at finding that in Bombay you could leap into any black amp; yellow Padmini and say go8217;. For a while I was so exulted by the idea that I jumped into taxis at random. In and out, in and out, I would take a taxi from Express Towers to Atlanta, in Nariman Point, and Colaba Post Office to Cuffe Parade 8212; because I could!

After a while though that frenetic ferrying was responsible for the start of a beautiful relationship.Today, not only do I love taxis, I also love taxi drivers. I think they love me too. Inconvenient halts, impossible U-turns and cut red lights, taxi drivers have done all this for me. And I didn8217;t have to beg, plead or go down on my knees 8212; a friend of mine even tried that. He wanted to go from Marine Drive to Saki Naka but the cabby refused saying it was too short a distance!!! Me, I walk into a cab, the cabby drops his meter, starts the car and then cruises till I clear the wool from my head and decide to articulate where I have to go.

Then there is no stopping us. I name the destination and he, he talks to me about everything else 8212; from dietary advice to affairs of the heart. Occasionally punctuating a point by leaping out of a running taxi. One time after lecturing me about the right diet for lunch 8212; quot;do kela, 250 gm channa aur 250 gm seengh danaquot; 8212; my cabby added quot;yogaquot;. And before I could ask him if all this had to be done at the same time, he threw the gear into neutral, jumped out ofthe taxi and started to show me yoga asanas. Backed-up traffic and blaring horns be damned; he went through the paces like a pro and restarted the taxi only after extracting a promise from me that I would do this every lunch hour.

The cabbies outside my house go a step further. Each one of them is my self-appointed guardian. If I step out of my building at 6.00 pm, holding my exercise mat, one of them immediately drops his cup of tea and drops me to my class. A lecture on quot;Kasrat apke liye acha haiquot; is compulsory hearing. If in the evening, I emerge in a mini skirt, I am quickly hustled into a cab so that my virtue is protected from the man on the street. But after dropping me, I am always told: quot;Aap pehno jo pehna hai, lekin aap saree mein bahut acchi lagti hain.quot; And heaven forbid if I don8217;t get into a cab that belongs to the stand. For the next two days, there are no quot;Namaste baby8217;squot; heard. They are sulking.

Around me, these taxi drivers tend to behave like possessive older brothers whofell on their heads a lot while they were growing up. If I am spotted with the same man more than two Saturday nights in a row, they start to run him down. quot;Woh apse umar mein bahut bade hain.quot; quot;Woh mote hain.quot; quot;Woh bahut daru peetein hain.quot; The poor sod is maligned in all of Colaba Post Office before he even knows it. And the time I broke off with my steady boyfriend, all the cabbies 8212; I suspect they rehearsed it 8212; said to me: quot;Unka shakal hi kharab tha.quot;

So why do I tolerate this interference, interrogation and incessant editorialising? Because when I first came to the city, the taxi driver played the role of tour guide in my lost and confused life. When I landed in Marol instead of Fountain a bus in the opposite direction can do that very easily it was a taxi driver who drove me back, giving me tips on how to negotiate the city 8212; quot;Yahan Amitabh ka bungalow hai, yahan Pooja Bhatt rehti hain, yeh Sharmila aur Pataudi ka flat hai.quot; It was another taxi driver who taught me all aboutbadla trade 8212; in a short cab ride from Nariman Point to Dalal Street 8212; just before I went in to interview a stock broker. And time and again, it has been the taxi driver who has educated me on polity 8212; from the importance of voting to the corruption of politicians. For me, the Bombay taxi driver has been both teacher and tutor. If I don8217;t listen to him, then whom?

Nonita Kalra is features editor, The Indian Express.