C V Sukumaran
Will it not sound rather odd if grocers say there is no such thing as customers, the very purpose of their business, according to Gandhiji? But it is less anomalous than rickshaw and taxi drivers denying the existence of passengers. They may not have said so but their demeanor suggests as much. They often pick and choose their fares, and are short on affability. Short fare is anathema to them, but at times they give cold shoulder to long distance commuters too, on grounds flimsier than the proverbial drop of a hat. Office-goers in Mumbai – may be in other cities too – often find themselves at their wit’s end when it comes to hiring a rickshaw to reach the nearest metro or railway station en route to their offices.
The drivers seemingly try to make you think that you are in the sellers’ market. They thus acquire a rarity value which is their forte. Travelers’ travails are as numerous and varied as they are ubiquitous. Other lands are no strangers to errant drivers. Bestselling author Bill Bryson writes how in Rome a cabbie bilked him out of a huge sum for transporting him from the railway station to his hotel which, he learned later, was hardly two blocks away! Awful experiences with choleric drivers often top the list of topics for people to talk about. However, on Sundays, since there is less demand for their vehicles, the drivers are an entirely different lot. They are seen looking expectantly at anyone coming out of his or her house. A friend is often rubbed up the wrong way by rickshaw drivers. So, whenever we meet, he has tales of woes to pour out. Once he was full of invectives against the drivers. After giving me the lowdown on his recent experiences, he speculated on the shape of things to come if drivers weren’t reined in by the authorities.
Suppose one morning on a weekday, he says, as you wake up you realize that you have stayed in bed longer than you should have. Since you are loath to see the long face of your boss, a stickler for punctuality, you decide to take a rickshaw, instead of bus, to the railway station. The station unfortunately is only a kilometer from your house, a distance too short to be of the drivers’ liking.
You flag down one, which pulls up just near you. The driver sticks his head out, giving you a “Why-do-you-want-to-bother-me-man,” look. Certain of rebuff, you meekly submit the following words for his favourable consideration, mustering all the politeness at your command, radiating humility, with the salutation ‘Brother’ thrown in. For a moment, you are civility itself. “If it is not bothersome for you, will you be kind enough to drop me at the station?” you ask him. But he looks at you scornfully, with a high hand, because he is not in a ‘ride mode’ right then. Moreover, how can you ask him for a short fare when he is expecting a long one? Though he has heard you, he feigns deafness. The warmth you exude fails to thaw him. He drives off, leaving you high and dry.
Despite setbacks, you are unruffled and upbeat and wouldn’t throw in the towel in a hurry, for you know perseverance eventually pays off. And sure enough it does. Remember, all drivers are not black sheep and unresponsive. Among them there are Good Samaritans.
