Mumbai Diaries - 3

It’s been only a couple of days since I moved back from Paris, and I’ve arranged to meet friends every evening in an attempt to reconnect and settle in.

I reach the mill gates to see empty roads – a rare sight in this bustling city – and a line of taxis waiting for their next fares. A couple of drivers come up to me and ask me where I’m headed. I fold my arms together and state my destination curtly, many years of practised street smarts coming back to me in a single instant. One of the drivers gestures towards his cab, indicating he’ll take me there.

I get into the car and check that the meter’s been reset. “Chaliye,” I say to him, and we’re off, the wind in my hair. This is my favourite time in Mumbai, when the city is about to sleep and seems to revel in its own contradictions. From one of the many flyovers that float over the city, I see skyscrapers of varying heights rise into the air dizzyingly, pulling the eye away from ramshackle three-floor buildings that appear to shudder in their shadow. I think about how much the city has changed in my own lifetime, marvelling at the new, nostalgic for the old.

“Was the bar closing when you left?” I am jolted out of my reverie by the driver’s question. “Yes,” I reply, wanting to get back to my own thoughts as soon as possible. “How many customers do you think were still in there?” he continues. Mildly annoyed that this guy wants to actually talk, I tell him it’s a weekday and there were not many people to start off with.

I check myself, wondering why I’m being so standoffish with the man. Then it all comes back – recollections of an Uber ride a couple of years ago when I came back on holiday, how the driver said that he could smell the alcohol on my breath, how he would take me home safely anyway, implying I had done something wrong; how I had reached home fuming.

“Besides, today is Tuesday – devout Hindus don’t drink today,” I continue, hoping he doesn’t ask me whether I did and wondering whether the pitcher of mojito we shared amongst the four of us was ‘too much’. He nods attentively, then says “oh yes I had forgotten about that, beti”, using the Hindi word for daughter. I warm up to him, feeling suddenly safe.

“What work do you do?” he asks. I explain that I am a translator by profession, and have moved back from France after many years living in Europe. “That’s very interesting, why did you choose to come back?” “I just wanted to come home,” I say, knowing that of all the people I have talked to, this taxi driver would need no further justification.

“Your parents must be so happy that you came back,” he smiles, “plus it’s nice to give back to your own country. You see beti, I’m from Uttar Pradesh in the North. I’ve lived my whole life as a taxi driver in Bombay. I also miss home, but my earnings have helped put both my boys through school and college. I have many hopes from the elder one who is in his second year of computer engineering. Bright kid, he just applied for a scholarship to study abroad! I’ve always told him to go there, gain the experience, save up some money and then come back to apply his skills here. It’s heartening to see people like you come back, it makes me very proud.” I nod along, surprised at the ease with which he lets me into his life.

Before we know it, we’re home. The meter reads 103 rupees. I hand the driver a hundred rupee note and a five rupee coin, opening the door to step out. “Take your 2 rupees’ change, beti,” the driver calls out to me, “they don’t belong to me. I’m happy I got to talk to somebody like you. All the best for your future.”

“I really enjoyed talking to you too, chacha” I say, calling him uncle, and smile inwardly at how much I actually mean what I say.