A ride and a half

by Nilay Bhandari (India)

I didn't expect to find India

Delhi is a haggler’s delight and a non-haggler’s nightmare....it’s auto rickshaw drivers live up to this promise with utmost sincerity. The summer of 2012 took me to Delhi for my product design internship. Daily, I would argue with rickshaw wallahs to get them down from Rs.40 to Rs.20, for travel from my rented stay in a cramped by-lane of Yusuf Sarai to my workplace at DDA Flats in posh Shahpur Jat. On most instances of this 15 min ride, I would be chatty and strike a conversation with the drivers. Each exchange was a tango between two dialects of Hindi: theirs, characteristically Delhi, peppered with Punjabi or Haryanvi swear words and mine, central Indian with glimpses of Marathi. On a particularly sunny morning, I ended up walking far until Green Park Metro station, searching for a rick. I spotted one and approached. Sitting behind the steering was the rickshaw driver: a mid 40s face, salt and pepper beard, wire rimmed glasses and sporting the customary khaki uniform. I rattled my routine enquiry, “Bhaiyya, Shahpur Jat j? Siri Fort Auditorium ke pas?” His response stumped me. “Where exactly do you want to go near the Auditorium, my friend?” he asked, in impeccable English and an accent indicative of formal education! To come across an English speaking rickshaw driver on the streets of India is both unusual and unexpected. I feigned normalcy and fought off the urge to pry for a backstory. He went on to ask details of my destination in Hinglish. With the suaveness of a dinner party guest holding wine in one hand and a cigar in the other, he went on to quote Rs. 50. I tried negotiating but he was being relentless. I barked definitively, “Not a rupee more than 25” and marched towards another auto. As I was explaining the address, the Hinglish gentleman meddled in and dissuaded the driver from going. This ticked me off mightily. I shot back, “If you don't want to go at least let him go,” and sprinted off. I can’t guess why, but he drove from behind, braked and signaled me to hop on, declaring “Thik hai..25 rupae chalega” I got in, must admit, feeling vindicated! He attempted to begin a dialogue, possibly, to cool me down. I grunted a ‘Hmm’ and sat in silence for the rest of the ride. For that day and that week, this remained an interesting anecdote to share: the rickshaw driver who quarreled with me in English. The internship progressed and alongside, I continued to explore Delhi through its nooks and riches. Four weeks later, one breezy weekend, I made my way to the heart of the city. Easing into this slow afternoon, I was strolling down the lush and foresty Lodhi Road. “So where do you want to go?” I heard from my right and turned 90° to face the voice behind that abrupt query. It turned out, a rickshaw had slowed itself and posed that question. I absentmindedly answered, “Lodhi garden and then India Habitat Centre.” The next instant, it dawned on me that this was the same Hinglishman auto-bhaiyya from a month ago! He continued, “You know how to go there?” “Yes I do..umm..Do you recognise me?” He had possibly stopped because he had indeed recognised me. “Ahh, yes. I had dropped you once from..” he went on, trying to recollect. “Green Park to Shahpur Jat”, I completed for him. “Yes, right..so are you in Delhi for holiday or do you work here?” “I am here for an internship..for about six weeks,” I beamed. “Hmm..Is there an event at Habitat Centre?” “Not sure..I’ll just go and find out.” “Hmm..okay, you know how to go there? Just go straight and..” “Turn right.” “Yes, correct! Have a nice day. Good luck” And just like that, he drove off as I was still in the middle of saying my “Bye, see ya.” I meant it: a conversation had over two chance meetings.. and perhaps, to be continued over more. I definitely want to ask him about his English. Maybe another time when I am walking down another road and a rickshaw stops by. Come to think of it, Delhi is also a surrealist’s fantasy.