Of Cabbies and Celebration

Calling a cab comes easily to people who don’t have a car here. Bringing down groceries every week from Sainsbury’s, going home from office at unearthly hours, or just if you are not in the mood to walk to office – the simplest thing to do is to call a cab. I think, if you go counting, in all of my eleven months here, “Can I have a cab from … ” would come third after “Sorry” and “Thanks” in the list of most-used phrases. In fact, the phone numbers of the cab companies were one of the first ones to go into my phonebook. Most of the cabbies are from the sub-continent – Indians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis. Srilankans are conspicuous by their absence – In all these days, I have run into only one Srilankan cabbie named Kobalakrishnan. There are also a large number of African youth, and a small cross-section of local people among the cab-driving crowd.

We usually have a small chat in the seven-odd minutes it takes to drop me home. They usually start with the very British “You alright?”. I think it will slowly overcome the quintessential London cabbie opening gambit, “Where to, guv?”. Although there are 3-4 cab companies operating around here, we desi crowd usually call only one. Legend has it that the owner of this company is a man of the sub-continent who started out as a cabbie and set up shop when
Milton Keynes was in its toddler years. Considering that MK is a very young city (only 40 years old) and very different from other English cities, the cabbie grew with the city and became prosperous. The more practical and buyable reason is that in our experience of calling cabs in our Indian accented English, this company dispatches cars faster than other companies. Given the number of times we call the cabs, we get some really chatty guys who break the ice as soon as we sit down.

Some of them play with us at the local cricket club. Some of them say they have houses for rent. Some of them advertise their shop, offering discounts if we pick up beer by the crate and such like. Some of them pour out their woes on us. Apparently, software is eating away into their jobs as well.

Aapke yahan naya masheen laga hai kya? Maine phone kiya tha to automated response aaya.
Haan? Kya aaya?
Humse poocha yahan se pickup karna hai to 1 dabao, ya operator se baat karne ke liye 2 dabao. Humne 1 dabaya to poocha abhi chahiye to 1 dabao. Humne phir 1 dabaya to aapka cab bhej diya.
Achcha.
Achcha system hai, cab book karne mein pehle jitna time nahi lagta hai abhi.
Bhai, unhone 35000 hazaar ka woh masheen lagaya hai, aur who kam se kam chaar aadmiyon ka kaam karega.
35000?
Kam hai. Humare 10-12 operator baithe hain wahan. Har operator ko per week 250-300 dena padta hai. Agar ye chaar aadmi ka bhi kaam karta hai, to ye paisa to unko (250 x 4 operators x 4 weeks) 9 months mein aa jayega. Uske baad ka sab to munafa hai.

What is this new machine which you have installed? I called and got an automated response.
Yeah? What was the response?
It asked me to press 1 if you want to be picked up from (my address). I pressed 1 and it asked me to press 1 if I needed the cab immediately. I pressed 1 and you came along.
I see.
It is a good system, booking a cab is faster than before now.
Brother, they have installed a machine for 35000 pounds, it will do the job of atleast 4 people.
35000?
It is less. We have 10-12 operators, every operator is paid 250-300 (£). Even if the machine does the work of four people, this money is recovered in 9 months (250£ x 4 operators x 4 weeks). After that, it is profit.

And then, during the Twenty-20 World Cup, in the days before the final, cab-rides would generally be silent. That was because India was all set to face Pakistan, and a sizeable number of our drivers have Pakistani roots. It becomes very uncomfortable to remain neutral when speaking about obvious strengths and weaknesses of each team. More so, when they threw statistics – in the last three games of their dream run into the finals, India successively
batted first and defended its total, while Pakistan always bowled first and chased down the total. It was like an invisible wall.

Then on the day of the final, we encountered a motley crowd from the bank across – a big mix of first and second generation settlers and visiting workers like us. We were sitting in Wetherspoons, a popular watering hole, which offers food and drinks all day, and beams live telecast of major sporting events on four screens. Every boundary or wicket was cheered enthusiastically by respective crowds. The bartenders raised an eyebrow at the hooting and the
loud thumping of tables when Joginder was hit for a six in the last over. One ball later, they could not do anything about the dancing on the chairs, the shrill whistles screeching across the already high decibel level of the howling public and the wide-eyed locals watching the Indian crowd do a street-dance in their office wear. For one whole week, the hollow silence of the cab-rides echoed the ruckus of those thirty minutes. Again, the invisible wall, the curt replies and the general discomfort. Then everyone grew out of it for the better.

Last week, I took a cab home as it was chilly, and I was too bored to walk home in the cold, moist outdoors. My cabbie was a middle-aged guy from the subcontinent, white-haired, and spoke with an acquired but broken British accent. I was half expecting him to start a conversation on the current India-Pak series when he opened up asking “Haanji, kahan choD doon aapko?” (“Yes, where can I drop you off?”)

I told him, and he quickly changed back to English.
“Whereabouts are you from?”
“India.”
“Where in India?”
“Mysore.”
“Oh. Mysore”, he repeated, then, “Where from in Mysore?”
People who ask me where I’m from usually stop when I say Mysore. They say it’s a beautiful place or they associate it as the Poona of Bangalore, but few ask where I am from within Mysore. Had this guy been there?

“I’m from Mysore proper. Do you want to know which part of Mysore I come from?”
We stop at a traffic light. He looks at me and says, “Mysore is like a state in India, right?” Lights turn green. As he drives ahead, I explain, “No, the princely state of Mysore became Karnataka long ago, and Mysore is a city now.” He keeps looking across the road into a parking lot as we drive. He glances at me and says, “I’m just looking for my wife – she works here – see if you can spot a yellow Mini”.

We search for a yellow Mini, but there is none. Another traffic light. He looks at me and says, “So, which part of Mysore are you from? Karnataka?”. “No”, I reply, “I’m from Mysore, and Mysore is a part of Karnataka.”

“Yeah, yeah. And what do you speak there?”
“Kannada.”
“Canada”, he says, and smiles.

"How long are you here for?"
"Almost an year now. I might return soon", I reply.
"Given a chance", he says, "would you like to stay here permanently?"
I smile and look around the darkness at half past five. "No, a year or two is fine, but I don't think I'd like to stay back here. I would go home."
"But, why? You know, it's all dirty there, so much pollution, so much corruption. The ministers, the clerks, they all ask money to do small things."
"Yeah, but all said and done, India is home."
"Why? You have work here, you are getting money."
"Yeah, I guess it comes down to personal choice then."

We were near my house, and I told him to pull over. He reverse-parked into my driveway, and pulled out a pamphlet. "See this", he said. It was a Barclays Bank ad offering an account in India. Then he showed me a receipt printed out from a website. It showed a transaction for a sum of around 80000 USD.

"I bought a detached house in Sarjapur Road, Bangalore. Is the price about right?" he asked. I did a classic double-take. Here was a guy, driving taxis around, settled here in the UK, and he had bought a house worth 32 lakhs in Bangalore.

"Family, that's why we all go back, innit?", he continued, "I'm a Punjabi. My brother, he lives in Bangalore in a four storeyed house - he has the first floor, his mother is in the second, and his nephew in the third floor. And someone else on the fourth. I have this house now, and I will be going in January. I will eat masala dosa. Masala dosa, you don't get that here ... "

A voice inside me said, "muh to band karo, uncle", and as I drew my jaw up, he was finishing "... make money, come here; want bhelpuri, go there."

I paid him his three pounds, and as I was getting out, he offered his hand, "What's your name, I'll see you again."
"Vikas", I said, "what's yours?"
"My name means 'Light'", he declared.
"Deep?"
Yeah, yeah, he prodded.
"Deep...er...Deepak?"
"Yes", he grinned indulgently.
"Cheers, Deepak. Happy Diwali."
"Hey, is it Diwali already?"
"Yes, today is Dhan Teras. Two days later its Diwali and then Bhai Dooj."
"Oh", he said, and then, "I will show my ignorance here, but when is Rakhi?"
"Rakhi is already over, my friend."
"Not my fault, I don't have any sister, you see. See you around", he said, and drove away.

I watched him until he turned at the end of the road. Here was an Indian, driving a taxi, and come January, he would be in his own house in Bangalore, munching away on masala dosa. I took a long look at myself, and then scurried inside.

And on that note, have a Happy Diwali.