It was a normal November evening - humid and hot - and almost half past eight as I walked towards the building exit. I was sure the last bus to the station had already gone, "Why can't travel in Mumbai get any simpler?" I thought aloud as I struggled with the weight of the laptop and my bag. I'm still not sure whether it was my evident discomfort or otherwise, but just then a black and yellow taxi pulled over.
He didn't pose any questions, didn't inquire about the destination, not even if I really wanted to hail a cab - he just waited. I looked up at the yellow streetlight, and through the skylight formed through the branches of a nearby tree, all in an effort to buy some time as I cleared the thoughts in my head: "What happened to all that talk about intelligent spending?" "Oh, come on, it's just a one-off occasion..." "Wants are dearer than needs sometimes!"
With my mind following a trajectory of its own, I opened the door of the cab and in the true ritual of a 10 to 7, five daysa-week, working professional, first settled my laptop, and then seated myself.
All the while he waited patiently, barely glancing up from the steering wheel. He finally looked up through the rear view mirror to ask me where to head. It was then that I caught a glimpse of his eyes, a set of strikingly ordinary eyes. There was nothing exceptional about them, and yet in their own forgettable way they were unforgettable.
As we turned right towards the Oberoi, I pulled out my earphones and plugged them into my phone. Ah! The joys of a music phone. And then as we drove past Inox, the music was interrupted by a call. Sheesh! It was my sister calling to remind me about the pictures she needed for her project.
"Damn!" I thought, as I instructed him to turn towards Fountain from Fashion Street. She needed magazines to cut up, and the book stalls outside American Express Bank were just the place to pick up discarded National Geographic magazines for dirt cheap rates. I stopped the cab near the stalls, and asked him to wait.
It took me around 10 minutes to leaf through piles of National Geographic magazines and single out the two I needed. I hugged the books tight and re-entered the cab, sombre and pensive. As we drove towards CST station, I heard him say, "Can I ask you something?"
I nodded my head in silent affirmation and paused the Sufi track resonating in my ears. "What books do you get there?" "All sorts of," I answered. "Really?" he seemed surprised, "I thought you only get law and medical books there." I simply smiled at his amazement. "The books are cheap, na?" "Yes, they are. Most of the books are second hand books that have been discarded. So they are available at much cheaper rates." We were now moving along the JJ flyover, driving above Crawford Market, its fish bazaar, and wholesale shopping plazas.
"Books are expensive! But important." I stunned myself by raising an impressed eyebrow.
"I am a BA, madam." I could sense the pride in his voice.
He checked the mirror to see whether there was any sarcasm in what I just said. There was none. He was satisfied. "I am old now, madam. I am 26. I wanted to do my BEd. It was my dream to be a teacher." I could sense the disappointment. "Why didn't you then?"
We were above Mohamad Ali Road. I could smell the charcoaled cooking of the tandoori chicken. The aromas normally get me hungry, today I barely caught the whiff, this conversation that I was having with a stranger seemed way more gratifying.
"I am the oldest son, madam. My father died when I was 14. I started working to feed my family." "You should really consider studying further if that's what your heart desires. There's no age to education." The cab had climbed down the flyover and was now on the Byculla Bridge. "I am married now, and have two children. I can't follow my heart now. That's why I am here in this city, to earn for my children, what I lost." As I paid the fare, I saw a determination in those eyes, and all of a sudden they didn't seem ordinary any more.
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