One foggy, wintery evening in Delhi, I hailed a taxi cab from midtown to Noida. It was late at night and so when a decrepit taxi pulled up, I hesitated only for a moment. As I climbed in I noticed that the unkempt driver matched the taxi’s decor. I fired off the destination and closed my eyes, signaling that I was in no mood for banter. So, he took off without a word.
After fifteen minutes, I awoke with a start, with a feeling that the cab had stopped. I looked outside but the vehicle was moving: swerving smoothly through the city’s traffic like fish through water. In fact, the taxi didn’t stop or brake; it cruised at an even pace which was slightly above that of a hand pulled rickshaw. “Hello, you - what’s your name?” I asked. “SuRes” came the reply. “ Why are you driving like this?”. “ Sir, I’m driving like I am swimming,” he boasted. “This is how I do it only.”
Then he launched into his driving technique which he had optimized for the city's chaos. I groaned and listened. Gently, he expounded his method in some detail. Here is what I understood:
First, remove all mirrors, he explained. The side mirrors were likely to break off during tight parking and in close range driving encounters. And the rear view mirror blinded him at night from the high beam of cars. He saw no use for any of them. Second, keep a weak engine. He was proud of the old engine. This, he said, gave him no temptation to over take foreign cars or large trucks. “But, sir, I have very good brakes.” Indeed, he could stop on a dime, but I never saw him use his brakes much.
That was because of his most impressive accessory: a power horn. He had a custom one installed that could chill any cow's heart who dared obstruct the road. SuRes demonstrated. Dogs scampered away from fifty meters. Pedestrians plugged their ears as they jumped on to broken side walks. Despite its power of auditory devastation, SuRes assured me that he used the horn sparingly. His voice lowered as he revealed the finer secrets of his method. “Sir, I don’t like to use my horn. Too noisy, you see. I don’t even like brakes. Use too much petrol. Also, I never turn to see the traffic in the back or sides. Why look? let them take care. I just drive straight. At same, same speed. That’s the best."
SuRes exhibited his craft for rest of the journey. He meandered through traffic with confidence and insouciance bordering on revelry. I noticed that he had lost the habit of giving turn signals. He hadn't repaired them since they had broken, like the speedometer. Instead he had taken to gently drifting from one lane to another. Without turning his head. He gave ample time to cars behind him to decipher his intent. In this state of driving bliss, he could finally turn to focus on his true passion: listening to FM radio. With pride, SuRes showed me the only functioning instrument on his dashboard: a custom-installed radio player. He pulled out a lighter sized remote control, and flipped to his favorite bhajan station of religious songs. And then he started singing softly to match his smooth driving.
Finally, we reached Noida. As I paid him, I asked him how long he'd been driving. Thirteen he said. Thirteen years? No, since he was thirteen. I asked for the change back. He stepped out of the cab, opened the trunk, took out and unrolled a handkerchief and gave me back a few notes from a wad of rupees. Then he pulled out a jerry can, splashed water on his face and wiped it with his cotton scarf. A faint smell of sweat wafted in the air. I peeked and saw into the trunk: a rolled up bedding, a back pack, a blanket, a few boxes of Gluco biscuits and a pair of shoes. Possibly all his life belongings were in the trunk. Then it hit me. This was not his taxi, but his home.
As I walked away it didn't occur to me to inquire whether he had had a license. Ever.
12/2013
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