It’s 8 a.m. and I’m annoyed. Not unusual for me in the AM but today the source of my annoyance hasn’t been my early morning allergies , the cat yowling next door (our not-quite-as-charming version of the rooster) or, you know, other people in general. It’s one of the great ironies of life that the less of a morning person you are, the more chipper everyone else is around you.
Today however, my ire is directed toward my taxi driver. My taxi driver who seems content to trail the swaying, smoke-belching BEST bus in front of us. My taxi driver whose lined face is serene, his mouth pulling up slightly at the corners as I seethe in frustration and try not to fill my lungs with the acrid smoke. The old cab is put-putting along at what feels like 10 kmph. I’m pretty sure I’m not imagining the old Parsi men plodding along faster than we’re going.
We approach a speedbump and I barely feel it. He didn’t even attempt to race over it and wreck his front bumper. The nerve. Pedestrians stroll across the road completely ignoring the zebra crossing and, instead of leaning on his horn and playing a real-life, far less fun game of Frogger with them, my taxi driver does the unthinkable. He slows down. Catching sight of my bewildered face in the rearview mirror, he grins. A hint of a sheepish shrug, as if to say, “Jaane do, what’s the point?”
He stops at a red light – before the zebra crossing. “He’s abiding by driving rules that don’t even exist in this country!,” I think, unsure of whether to be amazed or indignant. He hasn’t used the horn once. “It probably doesn’t even work,” whispers the not-so-little cynic in me. “I’m surprised this old clunker even made it this far.”
He leans out his window and I sit up, anticipating the “haarrk, ptooi” of the ubiquitous paan spit. “Aha, I’ve got him now,” think I. I think wrong. He folds himself back through the window, smiles gently as he catches me staring and I realize what has unconsciously been bothering me – there is no telltale red stain on his lips; his teeth gleam white against the burnt brown of his skin.
Here is a cab with seat covers that are threadbare but stain free. My door is just about hanging on its hinges but with a little gentle prodding, it is coaxed to stay in place. The interior is bereft of blinking neon lights or mirrors when I look up (I kid you not, this exists). I am not overwhelmed by artifical scents (which, by the way, do not make me feel like I’m frolicking in a field of flowers), or agarbattis or, far worse, the odour of liberally applied coconut oil. The old man’s nail’s are clean – no inch long pinky nail for him – the parting in his hair is sharp as a crease. Even the tufts of ear hair are neatly trimmed.
And here’s the icing on top of my undeserved cake – he has somehow gotten me to work faster than usual. I am early and the fare is Rs. 10 less than what I usually pay. I am a lot of things in the morning but I am usually not ashamed. Have I really become so accustomed to the rash driving of most drivers in the city? So blinded that I am actually annoyed when somebody plays by the rules and is something that nobody ever seems to be anymore – considerate.
Here is a man who takes pride in himself and his job. Who got out to open the door for me and refused to let me cross the busy street, insisting on pulling into the building compound instead. There are a lot of reasons to be wary these days. Cynicism and having your b**** face on can be your greatest weapons of self-defense. I’m not advocating naïveté, nor, to be honest, do I believe that playing fair always works. Perhaps this was simply a once in a lifetime experience for me. Maybe he was just too sleepy to be rash. Maybe he’ll be pulled over for driving too slowly. Maybe he’ll get another customer who is in enough of a rush to berate the genteel out of him – I don’t know. But what it got him from me was a smile, a grateful nod and a tip.
