Taxi-drivers in Mumbai are a breed by themselves. It’s almost as if being a cab driver messes about with your DNA by forcibly injecting it with the Jerk Gene. This, of course, isn’t new information – I’m sure that most of you have, at some point or the other, wanted to do anatomically impossible things involving a steel rod to some members of this class. I know I have, particularly in the past week, when I’ve come face to face with,
The guy who expects me to pay him 37 bucks in exact change at 9 in the morning The guy who shares his life history with me whether I like it or not The guy who persistently asks creepy personal questions The guy who checks me out before deeming me good enough to ride in his cab The guy who refuses to go anywhere I want to The guy who keeps the meter up but refuses to take passengers The guy who agrees to give me a ride, but changes his mind after I get into the cab The guy who complains about everything, including the fact that I’m making him drive
And my personal favourite,
The guy who just drives in any odd direction, without knowing the way, figuring that we’ll reach there one way or the other.
All said and done, I have only this to say:
Dear Scooty, come back home, all is forgiven.