A couple of minutes later, dressed again in my jacket with my hair running with oil, I stood before the barber, wallet in hand. I wished I could tell him that the massage had been terrific, that it had relaxed me like nothing else had in a few years. But I didn’t speak a work of Hindi, so I just waited for the barber to communicate what I should pay him. He, however, simply stood there, smiling, with his hands behind his back. Bemused, I determined that I should pay what I saw fit, so I leafed through the currency notes in my wallet. Sifting through a few pound notes, I came upon the Indian currency that I had. I first reached for a hundred, but then, on impulse, grabbed a five hundred rupee note and turned towards him. Smiling, I handed it over, and the barber accepted it with another bow, and then reached into his pocket, ostensibly for change.
“No no, keep it,” I said, gesturing with my palms.
Smiling, he bowed again.
“Thank you,” I said fervently, and presumably to no avail. “It was the best massage I’ve ever had.”
Straightening up, he replied in the Queen’s English: “You are most welcome, Sir. And may I say, all the best for your divorce. I hope it goes smoothly.”
***
Author's Note: This story originally appeared in Indian Literature.
PREJUDICE
I knew my next passenger would be trouble as soon as she got into the car. A woman in a hurry can never be good news. I’d been waiting in the driver’s seat, twiddling my thumbs, when she swept in, twenty minutes late.
“Well, what’s the hold up?” she snapped impatiently in Hindi. Typical. She was gorgeous, of course, as women in a hurry tend to be. I chose not to reply, and quietly turned the key in the ignition.
“Should I start the ride, Madam?” I asked, also in Hindi, playing the role of the boorish cabbie from the mofussil perfectly. I even threw in an accent in “madam”, pronouncing it “medam” for good measure.
“Yes, yes,” she said irritably, not looking at me, but typing away furiously on her flashy Iphone. I shook my head slightly as I pushed the button on the company-provided phone that activated the meter. Well, at any rate, the ride would be interesting, I thought as I pulled onto the main road.
***
Taxi driving is fast becoming a white-collar occupation in India’s largest cities. I, Adhirath Singh Sisodia, am a proud product of the Uber revolution in the capital, a 20-something who dropped a shitty call-centre job in favour of driving a cab. My parents were embarrassed, of course, but the money is good and the hours of my choosing. They will have to get used to it. And the job has its perks – such as meeting specimens like my current passenger – who, I observed in the rear-view mirror, was still engrossed in her phone, her eyes narrowed. She was evidently unaware that I was perfectly well-educated and had a BA degree to my name. Hell, I even read the odd Jeffrey Archer novel; my English isn’t the Queen’s, but it’s certainly good enough. I’ve astonished several passengers by conducting intelligent conversation in English, and you’d be surprised at how many of them –
“I can’t take it anymore,” my patron said quietly, interrupting my triumphalist ramblings. I assumed that she was talking on the phone, especially since she’d spoken in English, so I continued to concentrate on the road. “I can’t do it anymore,” she repeated, again in English, a little louder this time. I ventured a surreptitious glance at her. She was not, unfortunately, talking on the phone, but sitting at the edge of her seat, staring out of the window.
“Medam?” I said cautiously, as if seeking instruction on whether to turn left or right.
“I can’t take it anymore, I want to run away.” She chose Hindi this time, so it became amply clear that she was indeed speaking to me.
As I’d been saying before she began what would undoubtedly be a sordid tale of love and heartbreak, you’d be surprised at how many of my customers talk, and just how much they are willing to divulge once they discover a sympathetic ear. Even if it belongs to a mere taxi driver.
I slowed down and shifted into the left-most lane, unsure of how to deal with this particular case.
“What appears to be the problem, Madam?” I asked at last, unwittingly responding in English. If she had noticed that I’d made the linguistic switch, she didn’t let on, and remained silent. “Is our service deficient in any manner?” I ventured somewhat lamely, almost hoping for an answer in the affirmative.
She responded by bursting into tears. She wept with the release that one can feel only upon giving vent to emotions long pent up, with great shuddering sobs that wracked her frail body. I was, as you can imagine, at a loss. Though part of me wanted to react with concern, I couldn’t help but be wary. Memories of the Uber rape incident came flooding to my mind. She was clearly unstable. Who knew how she would react if I said something, no matter how harmless?
She continued to sob quietly, appearing to have lost interest in me for the moment. I took the opportunity to study her a little more carefully. She couldn’t be a day over 25. The kumkum and mangalsutra confirmed her marital status. She was well-dressed, and wore her branded clothes and expensive accessories with a careless air, so I presumed that she’d been born to privilege. She’d mentioned running away, but carried no luggage, just a handbag which – upon a closer look – did appear to bulge slightly, and jutted out at odd angles.
Her tears had subsided by now, and she was dabbing at her eyes with what looked like a blue scarf. My curiosity – and, as I like to think, my compassion – finally got the better of me, and I asked haltingly, “Is everything all right, Madam?” She looked around, startled. Once she’d processed my words, she replied softly, “No, nothing is.”
The car was so slow by now, we were barely moving.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, looking her in the eye in the mirror.
“He – ” Her phone rang suddenly, and upon seeing the caller, she went pale. She let it ring, holding it gingerly as if it were a venomous spider. I decided upon silence, and shifted into third. If she were in real trouble, I didn’t need to go looking for it, I decided firmly. I checked her drop point: the airport. We were still half an hour away, but suddenly we couldn’t get there fast enough.
Her phone rang again a few moments later, but this time she picked up immediately, and promptly began to sob again.
“Mamma,” she wailed. “I’m c-c-oming h-home,” she spluttered, in between heaving sobs.
Eavesdropping is a most ignoble practice, yes. But do place yourself in the position of a hapless cabbie barely a foot away from the drama. Where would you go? Having justified myself thus, I strained my ears. The mother was clearly unhappy, and was speaking in sharp, short bursts.
“But Mamma, you don’t know what happened, he –” My passenger was listening in evident disbelief, her tears having dried up for the moment. “But I CAN’T possibly do that!” she burst out with a hint of defiance. “You can’t possibly want me to – ”
The mother was shouting now, clearly militating against something in the strongest possible terms. My passenger had begun to cry softly again; hearing, but not listening anymore. ‘We will NOT have you back here,’ I heard the mother shout before she hung up with a cold click.
“I have nowhere to go,” she said with a touch of finality, almost to herself.
I sped up wordlessly, wishing to be rid of the whole affair as soon as possible. To be honest, I didn’t see what the fuss was all about. It was evident that she and her husband had fallen out, and that her parents expected her to return to him and reconcile. Classic Bollywood plot-line. Except, our protagonist seemed completely unharmed. So it couldn’t, after all, have been much more than a marital spat. Even if she didn’t want to reconcile, she was undoubtedly wealthy; she would figure something out. On balance, she didn’t seem to be much more than a rich brat with an even richer husband who had squabbled over the colour of their new car or something of the sort, I thought severely, as I surveyed her again. She was now sitting calmly and gazing out of the window as if contemplatin
g what to do next. Honestly, these Delhi nouveau riche take themselves and their problems too seriously. Now, if it were a poor woman not carrying a Gucci handbag who’d been thrown out by her in-laws and turned away by her parents, she would have the right to say that she had nowhere to go.
Sure enough, within minutes, my patron dialed a number and spoke in a clipped voice.
“Rohan? It’s me. I’ve left. I thought I’d go home, as we’d discussed, but my parents –” her voice quivered slightly, “They won’t have me,” she finished curtly. I heard the other person speak in comforting tones. “Of course I tried to tell them, but my mother won’t listen…” her voice broke. “And honestly, I don’t know how to…it’s so horrible,” she whispered and began to cry again. “Where? Yes, on the cab to the airport,” she said distractedly. “But they won’t have me, Rohan,” she repeated forlornly. “So what’s the point? I can’t go to Bombay. I’ll have to stay here. Could I –” she paused for a moment, and inhaled deeply, as if summoning the strength to go on. “Could I stay with you for a few days?” ‘Yes, of course,’ I caught the faint reply. “Thank you… And Rohan? Can you…come get me?” her resolve shattered, and the tears began to flow again. “I can’t do this anymore…I’ve been so depressed, I’ve been thinking of hurting myself…”
I stiffened at these words, and put my foot down on the accelerator. No, better anyone than me to deal with this one; I wouldn’t have her blood in my cab.
“Please c-c-ome fast,” she sobbed. “The DLF Mall at Vasant Kunj, I’ll wait for you at… Starbucks? Yes, okay,” she said. “Bye,” she finished, dabbing at her eyes again with the now tear-stained scarf. ‘I’ll be there really soon. Sit tight,’ were the last words I heard from the other end.
I was relieved at the change of destination – even though a mid-way change was contrary to company policy – because we were minutes away from the mall.
“Should I turn towards the mall, Madam?” I asked helpfully. She eyed me with a faint hostility for the first time, and I realized guiltily that I had given the fact of my eavesdropping away in a single stroke.
“Yes, please take me to the mall, driver,” she said imperiously, forgetting her troubles for the moment and enunciating the last word with especial disdain. I pursed my lips and steered the car to the right. Perhaps I should have remained the ignorant cabbie from the mofussil after all.
***
I pulled over at the mall entrance, hit “Stop” on the car phone and waited for confirmation of the online payment. “Thank you, Madam,” I said once I’d received the acknowledgement, turning around to face her. To my surprise, she was fumbling with her purse, revealing a gleaming set of credit cards and rows of crisp currency notes. No hundreds there, I smirked, as she thrust a 500-rupee note at me. “But Madam, the payment has already been made!” I exclaimed.
“Keep it,” she said absent-mindedly, as if miles away, and shifted towards the door. I hastened out of my seat to hold it open for her, delighted both that the ride was at end and at the unexpected tip. She stepped out onto the pavement, her smart heels making pleasant clicks on the concrete.
“Thank you, Madam,” I said fervently. “And…”
She glanced at me quizzically. She looked even better at such close quarters, and I couldn’t help but notice her perfect features and attractive figure.
“All the best,” I finished, hoping that I sounded earnest and reassuring.
She gave me a forlorn half-smile but made no reply, and turned towards the entrance.
I stared as she cleared mall security and made her way inside. Poor girl, I found myself thinking, as I walked back to my car. Well, at least Rohan would be there soon.
***
I waited outside the mall for my next fare, but no bookings were made for a while. I treated myself to a cigarette as I waited, but I couldn’t get her out of my mind. Something wasn’t right. It was just a fight, wasn’t it? I thought uneasily. I’d stood right next to her – she was completely unhurt, and displayed no injuries or bruises. I paced around for a few moments, taking a few deep puffs. It was nothing, I decided firmly as my cigarette grew shorter. She was just a spoilt brat who’d had a fight and couldn’t handle it. And after all, a friend, maybe even a paramour, was coming to get her. She’d be just fine. She must’ve been exaggerating her mental state, playing the typical damsel in distress. I finished my cigarette, bought a chewing-gum, paid, and returned to my cab. Minutes passed. I was just beginning to get restless when the phone buzzed. A booking had been made, a customer was calling.
“Hello? Yes… Gurgaon? I’m sorry, Sir, but my car has a flat and it’ll take me a while…yes, perhaps it would be best if you made another booking… Thank you,” I said, and hung up. Turning down a fare without valid reason. My second violation of company protocol within the hour, I thought as I hurried towards the mall entrance.
***
I rushed into the mall and towards the information desk.
“Excuse me,” I said to the smartly-dressed man behind the counter, “Where is Starbucks?” He eyed my white taxi drivers’ uniform for a second, and replied patronizingly, “Second floor.” Well, bastard, my salary is thrice yours, I thought as I hustled towards the escalator. I saw the Starbucks sign even before I’d landed on firm ground, and made for it, forcing myself to slow down to avoid attention. Once at the entrance, I walked past slowly, screening the tables. It helped that the café was completely open, but there was no sign of her. My heart beating faster, I turned around and walked past the tables again, even slower this time, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. What was I afraid of? It was a huge mall, after all, and she could have gone anywhere. But sure enough, my second survey was a success: I spotted my passenger sitting at the corner table at the far end, alive and kicking, a tall glass of iced coffee before her. Her face was turned away from me, but I could tell that she was reading the newspaper, no doubt patiently waiting for her friend to come to her aid. I relaxed immediately, and chided myself. Of course she was fine: I’d been spot on about her and her troubles. Damsel in distress indeed. Taking one last look at her, I turned around and walked away, smiling sheepishly. Well, at least her large tip would cover the fare I had foregone, I thought ruefully.
***
She sat in the Starbucks café, sipping her coffee and staring out of the window. The blood stained knife lay next to her handbag, covered with her blue silk scarf. Placed on her thigh and hidden from view, her left wrist lay sliced open. Her churidar was soaked crimson, and the carpet around her feet was beginning to turn scarlet. ‘Any minute now,’ she thought. Her head became heavy, and she glanced at the newspaper open before her as her vision faded. The headlines screamed: “Govt. refuses to criminalize marital rape”.
Oh, the irony, was her last thought, as she slumped onto the table, and the first customers began to scream.
***
Author's Note: This story originally appeared in Muse India.
A SPECIAL OCCASION
He looked up as she entered the restaurant, looking as radiant as ever. Heads turned as she walked up to the table, women eyeing her enviously, men with a mixture of appreciation and desire. She looked stunning in a tight red dress which showed off her trim figure. He stood up gallantly as she approached, and she smiled: a gorgeous, dazzling smile that made his heart leap even now, after all this time. It was 17 years to the day since they had met, for the first time, in this very hotel. He had been at the bar, sipping a drink after a long and boring day at work, watching the unceasing rain outside. She had run in, completely drenched, her coat dripping a trail from the entrance right up to the bar. Sinking into the seat next to him, she’d taken one look at his drink before saying breathlessly, “I’ll have what he’s having.” Then she had turned away, disappearing from view, fiddling with her phone. He had been terribly conscious of her presence, of the way she carelessly ran her fingers through her hair; of the way the water trickled down her naked shoulders. He had worked hard to feign indifference; she
had shattered his efforts – and made his day – by addressing him suddenly: “Do you know how to fix this?” she had asked impatiently, holding out her blank phone. “It shouldn’t be a problem,” he had said, trying to sound non-committal, while worrying that his furiously beating heart would betray his true state of mind. His general obsession with gadgets had paid off, and, in a matter of minutes, the instrument was up and running, and so was a lively conversation. They had talked late into the night, breaking common ground, and had retired to their rooms reluctantly only when the bar closed down. A tentative knock at her door, later that same night, had sealed their fate.
Aryan and Kavya had spent many happy years together since, tempering their busy lives with these regular getaways together, criss-crossing the country in their unquenchable thirst for new sights and adventure. Never tiring of each other’s company, they talked ceaselessly, always discovering new things about one another, always uncovering more and more common ground. They were wholly unlike other couples their age: each had a seemingly limitless reserve of passion and zest for the other, and they had never let their responsibilities wear them down. And in this, their 17th year together, they had chosen to visit the very same hotel where they had met that day, all those years ago. Goa had always been a favourite destination: while they both loved to travel, they shared a particular affinity for the seaside. And when they had learned of an attractive deal for a week-long stay at the same hotel, they had booked immediately.
The week had been idyllic. That it was not the tourist season did not matter: they were content to merely sit on the beach and watch the waves crash against the shore for hours on end; and whenever the rain forced them indoors, they spent their time at quiet meals, at the spa, or in their suite, making passionate love. The staff of the sparsely populated hotel had grown quite fond of them, often going out of their way to please the good-looking, soft-spoken couple.
Razor-Sharp: 13 Short Stories Page 2