Before you start reading this...know that I have written this after consuming a whole bottle of Red Wine, and what I have written might be in whole, or in parts, unadulterated drivel.
So, its raining like hell, and I need to get to Ghatkopar station to catch a fast to Dadar. What do I do? Duh! Take a Rick! ('Rick' bole to Autorickshaw...a noisy, shaky monstrosity that runs on three wheels and CNG and charges around 5 bucks a Km). Halfway down the 'circuit', fighting our way through waterlogged streets and traffic, and people and cows, I realize that I just have 25 bucks in my old, worn out wallet (which every now and then begs to be replaced by someone younger) , and as luck would have it, 25 bucks is just short of what it would cost to reach Ghatkopar (around 30 bucks). So I think: Nothing to panic about old boy, we (me and and my mind) shall just hop off when the meter tells me that my fare is 25 bucks, and walk the remaining distance of around 0.5 Km. Of course the only problem in this brilliant analysis is that it is raining sheets outside, and any attempt at getting out of the Rick would mean having a bath a second time over in under 30 minutes! And no soap either! So I keep my butt on the Rick's passenger seat, and anxiously keep looking at the meter whose unit dial is mercilessly (and I imagine with derisive laughter) making 360 degree rotations thereby incrementing my burden by a Rupee each. I listen to the the rainfall outside and also to the subtle 'clicks' when the dial completes each rotation, keeping a track of how much further I can go in the shelter of the Rick.
Finally, and much to my dismay, the dial strikes 26; which means that I owe the Autowallah 25 bucks; which means that I have to get down. A conversation between me and him is born at this point, and it grows as follows:
Me: Bhaiyya, bas yaheen chod dijeeye
Autowallah: Par station to thoda aur door hai Sahib
Me: Par mere paas sirf 25 Rupayein hain; aur aage jaane ke paise nahin
(Few seconds of silence...I am expecting an attack of indignation at any moment now...)
Autowallah: Aap pehle aadmee hain jinho ne aisa kaha hai. 2-3 Rupaye se kya pharak padta hai Sahib...hum aapko station tak hee chod denge
(Few more minutes of silence; I do not know how to thank him for his kindness.)
(We reach Ghatkopar station and he parks the Rick into a corner. I get off and get into the process of taking out out my wallet)
Autowallah: Rehne dijye Sahib. Aapko Agar kuch paise chahiye hon to mere se le lijye
What the...?!? The immediate thought that comes to my mind is that he is being mercilessly sarcastic. But there is not a tinge of sarcasm in his voice. His voice and his expression says it clearly that he is not only ready to waiver my fare, but also to give me some money! Give money to a total stranger! I do not know how to react. I take out all the money that I have (which anyway is not enough for the actual fair)...I fold my hands and say: 'Dhanyavaad', and leave. He takes another passenger and is off to his next familiar destination.
The Autowallah's of Mumbai come in a rich and varied kind: some are loud, some are taciturn and business like; some have radios in their mean machines with dhinchaak music blaring at ear - drum shattering decibel levels, some are quiet and contended with their idols made conspicuous by multi colored, flashing LED's. But all said, they make a unique clique who without an exception charge by the meter (a practice not detected anywhere else in the country....yet) and also help out the occasional 'firang' looking poor customer. Wonderful chaps I say eh?
(although they do sometimes get a little frustrating when they start refusing to take you where you want to go!)
So, its raining like hell, and I need to get to Ghatkopar station to catch a fast to Dadar. What do I do? Duh! Take a Rick! ('Rick' bole to Autorickshaw...a noisy, shaky monstrosity that runs on three wheels and CNG and charges around 5 bucks a Km). Halfway down the 'circuit', fighting our way through waterlogged streets and traffic, and people and cows, I realize that I just have 25 bucks in my old, worn out wallet (which every now and then begs to be replaced by someone younger) , and as luck would have it, 25 bucks is just short of what it would cost to reach Ghatkopar (around 30 bucks). So I think: Nothing to panic about old boy, we (me and and my mind) shall just hop off when the meter tells me that my fare is 25 bucks, and walk the remaining distance of around 0.5 Km. Of course the only problem in this brilliant analysis is that it is raining sheets outside, and any attempt at getting out of the Rick would mean having a bath a second time over in under 30 minutes! And no soap either! So I keep my butt on the Rick's passenger seat, and anxiously keep looking at the meter whose unit dial is mercilessly (and I imagine with derisive laughter) making 360 degree rotations thereby incrementing my burden by a Rupee each. I listen to the the rainfall outside and also to the subtle 'clicks' when the dial completes each rotation, keeping a track of how much further I can go in the shelter of the Rick.
Finally, and much to my dismay, the dial strikes 26; which means that I owe the Autowallah 25 bucks; which means that I have to get down. A conversation between me and him is born at this point, and it grows as follows:
Me: Bhaiyya, bas yaheen chod dijeeye
Autowallah: Par station to thoda aur door hai Sahib
Me: Par mere paas sirf 25 Rupayein hain; aur aage jaane ke paise nahin
(Few seconds of silence...I am expecting an attack of indignation at any moment now...)
Autowallah: Aap pehle aadmee hain jinho ne aisa kaha hai. 2-3 Rupaye se kya pharak padta hai Sahib...hum aapko station tak hee chod denge
(Few more minutes of silence; I do not know how to thank him for his kindness.)
(We reach Ghatkopar station and he parks the Rick into a corner. I get off and get into the process of taking out out my wallet)
Autowallah: Rehne dijye Sahib. Aapko Agar kuch paise chahiye hon to mere se le lijye
What the...?!? The immediate thought that comes to my mind is that he is being mercilessly sarcastic. But there is not a tinge of sarcasm in his voice. His voice and his expression says it clearly that he is not only ready to waiver my fare, but also to give me some money! Give money to a total stranger! I do not know how to react. I take out all the money that I have (which anyway is not enough for the actual fair)...I fold my hands and say: 'Dhanyavaad', and leave. He takes another passenger and is off to his next familiar destination.
The Autowallah's of Mumbai come in a rich and varied kind: some are loud, some are taciturn and business like; some have radios in their mean machines with dhinchaak music blaring at ear - drum shattering decibel levels, some are quiet and contended with their idols made conspicuous by multi colored, flashing LED's. But all said, they make a unique clique who without an exception charge by the meter (a practice not detected anywhere else in the country....yet) and also help out the occasional 'firang' looking poor customer. Wonderful chaps I say eh?
(although they do sometimes get a little frustrating when they start refusing to take you where you want to go!)
5 comments:
firstly i love yr prose. honestly, it's a real delight to read a piece here ;) brilliant recount of the story too. so, the bid bad city has a heart after all. sometimes, it's unfathomable to understand the blind trust that ppl seem to possess
wow..did this really happen? or is it due to the wine? :P
but anyways, really a nice account :)
@ Kaustubh
Oh it happened all right. The wine happened later :)
@ Deepa
You are right about the big bad city having a heart. On all possible parameters, Mumbai is a crazy place; but you just gotta love it!
i have met some good autowallas (not forgeting the really bad ones too)....sometime very helpful....a nice chap gave me a free ride once....
Tu kab sudhrega saale..no doubt yeh hua to kayi baar hoga..bas aisa rickwala pehli baar mila hoga ;) hehe :D
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