|
Magazine
VIEWPOINT
Convenient untruth
ADVAITA KALA
|
Ironically, when regional lords hunger for national relevance, what they endanger is the notion of a unified nation.
|
PHOTO: PTI
Dreaming of home, in the city for a living: Nothing complicated.
Having lived in different parts of the world and on occasion been in situations and places that are not always hospitable to outsiders, the Mumbai situation distils for me a truth that has till now remained diluted in my inner consciousness. It makes
real for me a discrimination that I have always assumed to be the reserve of others — people who are dogmatic and have beliefs cripple others, in fact such beliefs survive in their ability to render another handicapped. But it was always somewhere else and someplace else. In someone else’s country, in a different social context. But then again, maybe I am one of the many who have bought into this convenient cul de sac of rationalist opinion, never bothering to lower the fence or clip the hedge, never bothering to look beyond the horizon of the convenient untruth — that of a country which is truly one. My recent trip to Mumbai changed all that. It was aided by long hours of commuting and close interaction with the Mumbai cabbie — the unwitting protagonist in this tale of regional xenophobia and intolerance.
Candid conversations
The snarl of traffic encouraged unanticipated conversation and candid disclosure. Here are a few revelations — it is true that most of the cabbies are from North India and in particular U.P. and it’s also true that some of them have spent as many as 30 years in Mumbai with only annual visits home. Needless to mention, home is at most times a moniker for all that is right and dear, but it is only that — it does not feed and it does not sustain. That is why he is here. This is what the average cabbie’s life is like; it is unlikely that he owns the taxi he drives, in all likelihood he rents it and is hence entitled to only a third of its earnings. One portion goes to the owner, the other on maintenance and the third is his portion. He can make as little or as much as Rs. 100/- a day. On that salary he supports a family back home and his life in Mumbai. Usually he lives in a space that is 10x10 in dimension and shares it with nine other people, there is no “coming home” in his life. The rent is about Rs. 1,500 and the accommodation far from comfortable. But he manages, as the sleeping quarters are divided into day and night shifts depending on which shift he works. You have to wonder what keeps him in this city of strangers by day and acquaintances by night. A livelihood — is the simple and almost apologetic answer.
So what does a group of around 60,000 to 70,000 cabbies do when their colleagues have been assaulted and union officials roughed up? Nothing, he still ferries passengers as news channels trip over each other to announce flash strikes. His only articulation of dissent, he drives with his meter at half mast, a silent protest. But the rate, I am assured, is never in excess. The commuter is not to suffer the myopic folly of regional lords hungry for national relevance. He sees it clearly, this seventh class pass daily wager and he surmounts it with his belief in the spirit of this great metropolis.
For my last cab ride, I hail one at a traffic light that is a three-minute walk from the union office that was vandalised a few hours ago. This time the cabbie is young and yet again from UP. He rushes me into the taxi alerting me of the murmurs of a pending strike and general unease; this is to be his last ride for the day, till further news comes in. The alert Delhi commuter in me immediately responds to this by saying that I will only travel by the meter. Frankly, I would have travelled without it as well, it’s just that in Delhi we are so used to being taken for a ride (no pun intended), we are in a perpetual stance of them against us. “Don’t worry madam,” he smiles, “I came here on the meter and will return to Colaba on the meter”. I feel mildly chastised but also a little intrigued by his cheery attitude. “The strike was announced hours ago, why are you still driving around, aren’t you scared?”
“No, no, our union will handle it. We have to wait to hear from them.”
“And how do you hear from them if you are driving around.”
“You see that guy there,” he points to a man on the side of the street in a white bush-shirt hailing down cabs, “he is passing on the message and there are more like him at various hubs.”
“Pretty organised,” I comment, “But the TV channels announced a strike hours ago?”
“Yes, but no one from the union has confirmed it. Till we hear from them we won’t do anything final. But you are my last ride, I will park and wait in Colaba. Nothing happens there because the Army comes out, if there is any problem,” he answers, still cavalier, still believing in the system.
Migrant lives
I got off his cab and pay by the meter; I also throw in a tip, not for the ride but for his spirit. This is, after all, the same cabbie that women in Mumbai can hail in the late hours, he always goes by the meter unlike his counterparts in many cities and then there are those times like when the bombs go off that he ferries the injured without the use of one at all. So he comes to Mumbai to earn a living and home, no matter how hard he tries, in his heart, is a place far away. But then its not that complicated; if you have ever lived away from home for any reason bigger or even smaller than earning a livelihood, you will understand.
Printer friendly
page
Send this article to Friends by
E-Mail
Magazine
|
