Driving Ms Moulee - I

most often was Shibu's driver, Pyaremohan. This was our nickname for him once I took the precaution of asking him if he had seen "Chupke Chupke".

PM: Haan, woh Ajay Devgan wala picture?
Me: Nahin, woh purana picture, Dharmendra aur Amitabh ke saath.
PM: Nahin maloom.

Which clearly indicates how old I am. He was religious too and seemed to have a fascination for TV serials that featured reptilian deities, particularly when played by comely Southern women (in one of my numerous cringe inducing moments, I lectured him on the serpent as a recurring religious symbol across cultures thus neatly demonstrating the divide between a lived faith and an academic one). Apart from providing me a rapid update on soaps (Woh rehen wali mahlon ki I believe is a hot favourite), he also took me on a mini tour of all that lies between Kandivali and Ghatkopar, prompted no doubt by my gawking at new edifices. I attempted a few debates on regionalism and chauvinism prompted by his extended praise of the charm of Haryanvi women, their graceful dances, the beauty and modesty of the veil and the like. His moth balled idea of chivalry meant a polite acceptance of all my contrary views, which oddly enough left me more amused than enraged.

Almost everyone in India starts a conversation with the lack of money thus indicating that memsahib had better make up the deficit. Rickshaw drivers from the airport are particularly adept in the art of whingeing for their daily cake. I caught a rickshaw and no sooner had I sat down I was informed that he had waited endlessly for a customer and that "police wale sab chor hain" (delicious juxtaposition of terms) and really it was up to me to ensure that he stayed in employment.

Me: If the police guy takes from you and you take from me, who do I take from?
Whinger: Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha

For appreciating my wit, I gave him more than he deserved.

All rickshaw drivers talk. The sweetest was the guy with whom I did a slow crawl through Asalfa (can I ever make a visit to Mumbai without spending hours on its narrow roads?). He was - as most are - from UP and more precisely from Kanpur where I lived briefly. He talked in a good natured kind of way about his travails and also provided an incisive delineation of the psyche of the UPwala and the Mumbaiwala. Which is - No sooner does a UPwala do well, his neighbour has cast a covetous eye and then spends sleepless nights wondering how to literally blast him out of body and property. The Mumbaiwala, on the other hand, has little use for his neighbour and is only concerned with getting his own body and property to the next level. This, my driver believed, was the reason UP would always be hell and Mumbai heaven. The heaven of Mumbai was belied by his punishing working schedule but he seemed happy enough. Rather surprisingly, he was childless at age 30. His wife worked and they intended to save enough for the child.

Talking to so many people, I found myself switching with ease between Mumbaiya Hindi, UP Hindi, Tamil and English. A sort of English that is, it will take me at least a month to slip into the English I speak here.