You know a city by its cab drivers. The way they drive, swear, and the tales they narrate. Usually a migrant, located at a vantage, engaged in constant commerce with the city-dweller, the original bourgeosie, and more insightful than an urban sociologist or a journalist, there is no other species on more intimate terms with a city than a cabby. And if this be the truth, one had to be all ears as the taxi driver berated.
He was not fighting, said he. He was merely explaining what Mumbai was all about. Was I a fool in not wanting to tell him my destination? He just wanted to know whether it would be a long ride or not. What kind of a stubborn man was I to question his right to determine whether he would ferry someone or not based on the destination? It was all about the laws. If only the city disallowed rickshaws, this would not be a problem. They would then accept even the shortest distance. That is what happens in the city, which is across the Mahim causeway. But not in these parts. Never mind the pincode and BMC. But the way the rules were framed, it was clear. Rickshaws for small distances, and taxis for longer. It was simple economics. How could they afford small distances? The amount owed to the owner and the downtime, and the traffic that made it impossible to get the adequate returns within the shift that they have to operate. The numbers just do not add up. And please don’t throw the law. He did not quite go to the extent of quoting Talleyrand’s reminder to Napolean that his country was one with a hundred law books but without laws. He said it more simply. Laws can be bought for 10 or 20 rupees here. And do not talk about the police. He would accompany me to the Andheri station where 40 taxis line up close to the police station. And if even one would agree to my just hopping in and turn the meter before I uttered the magic words: long journey, he would give me a ride. And yes, he was not fighting. He was just trying to explain. Even the police would ask me to behave myself and just tell the destination. He was telling me how it worked in this city. My alien status must have been obvious.
For all the talk about turning Mumbai into a Shanghai, a sorry thought if there ever was one, and of making it into a financial hub, entertainment hub, and every other kind of conceivable hub, the city is becoming a spoke story.
Every visit to the city makes it less inviting, and this from one who comes from the somnolent east and has always had an ill-disguised envy towards the city, is an unhappy thought. The commute is more harrowing than ever, the inflation makes more punishing demands, the distances make the idea of community seem far away, vehicle pollution continues, slum rehabilitation offices go up in smoke, dogs roam the streets, and rats make it to the front page of newspapers, and taxi refusals are now the norm.
My curmudgeon self was saved by the cab coming down. I hopped in, the meter came down, and I said I wanted to get to VT. But the cabby as social commentator remained in the journey past Dharavi, Wadala, Shewri, Dockyards, before the ride debouched into downtown. Forget the numbers, the charts, and statistics. Look for the cabby’s narrative and when you find a cheerful tale, plan the celebrations.
Appeared in Mumbai Mirror. Read here.
