The cabbie

The phone was ringing early in the morning, an unknown landline number flashing across it. Still in my sleep, I picked up the phone. The voice from the other end of the phone was shaky, quivering. It sounded like the voice of a man missing his front teeth. I strained my ears to understand what he was saying.

"Main aapke ghar ke bahar ek ghante se khada hoon, lekin mere phone mein balance khatm ho gaya tha"( I have been waiting outside your house for more than an hour, but my outgoing calls were barred because of low balance).

It was more like an apology than a complaint. With my eyes half open, I checked the time. It was 7 in the morning on a Saturday. It took me a while to understand the situation. I had conveyed the logistics department of my company about my change of plan - to pick me up from Karol Bagh, Delhi at 9.30 AM instead of from my house in Gurgaon at 7 AM- but apparently it wasn't communicated to the driver. 

"Aapko to Karol Bagh aana tha, 9.30 baje, aap Gurgaon pahunch gaye?” (You had to come to Karol Bagh at 9.30 AM, you reached Gurgaon?), I asked. 

"Mujhe to ji yahi bataya tha" (I was communicated this only), he replied. Despite the fact that the man was hassled, his voice was still very calm.

With great efforts, I explained him where to come. 

I got up after half an hour, got ready at a luxurious pace, had a princely breakfast prepared by my mother-in-law and looked at the time. It was 9.30, yet nothing from the cab driver. 

I called him up to ask his whereabouts. He was still figuring out the address. "Aap karol bagh metro station pe wait karo, main wahin aa jata hoon" (You wait at the Karol Bagh Metro Station, I will come over there), I said finally after many such calls, partly irritated at his inability to understand the simplest of directions. 

After waiting for about 15 minutes at the metro station, I finally managed to locate my cab. It was waiting on the other side of road. I would have given the cabbie a piece of my mind for the delay, but I was taken aback to see a man in his mid-seventies behind the wheels. I said nothing except directions of where to go.

As the cabbie drove, I observed him with curiosity. He had a heavily wrinkled face, a fragile, slightly bent body frame, a pearly white beard that looked Dumbledorish, grey receding hair turning white on the edges, puckered eyebrows with strain visible on his forehead- strained probably from the struggle of making sense of the road. Each wrinkle on his face spoke about a lifetime of struggle, pain, anguish and misery. It was a sad face, yet the man sported a smile in every interaction.

He was clearly struggling- on the road, and in his life. What was his story? Why was this man even driving when he can barely even see? Didn't he have anyone else to support him? Could he even take me to my destination safely? These were some of the thoughts coming to my mind. 

Curious, I finally asked him with a bit of hesitation "Aapki umr kya hai?"(What is your age?)
"Beta"(Son), he would usually add before every sentence, "pata nahi, kareeb 70-75 hogi" (Don't know exactly, maybe 70-75). 

Why was this man driving at the age when he should have retired for good? Curiosity got the better of me and I asked him the very next instant. But I probably wasn't prepared for the answer.

His son was killed during the violent ’84 riots right in front of his eyes. I had till that point only heard about the riots from a third person perspective, but never from a victim's point of view. Yes, it evoked a sad reaction every time I heard of it but it never lingered. Almost like news statistics, it faded out of mind. But for this man, his life had changed forever. Would he have ever imagined holding his son’s ashes when he held the tender little hands for the first time? Would he ever have thought he would be forced to abandon his turban - his pride and faith - for the fear of his life? Would he have ever seen himself driving at the age of 70-odd to make ends meet.

Things became better for him as he married off his daughter. His son-in-law took good care of him, almost like his own son. The couple had a son and life seemed to be back on track. But sometimes destiny has a very cunning way of destroying happiness. Two years back, his son-in-law and grandson died in a road accident. He narrated the whole episode with almost an impassionate tone. It was difficult to discern his emotions. He might have accepted it as a quirk of fate, or still had not come out of the loss… I couldn’t tell. He had been dealt with one cruel blow after another, yet he continued to stand up and fight.

For the next 15 minutes of the ride, there was no interaction between us. He was busy navigating the crowded roads, while my thoughts started veering towards the philosophical – about the uncertainty of life, about what we take for granted, of life and death, of karma and dharma, of destiny.

I was jolted back to the present when in a busy section of the road, he accidentally scratched past a rickshaw, the wheel cover of his car flying off in the whole drama. He got off the car to inspect the damage, limping to reach the wheel cover and salvage whatever little fragments he could gather. I should have been scared being the passenger, but all I could feel was pity.

Suddenly something struck me. "Aapne nashta to kiya tha na?"(Did you have your breakfast?)
"Nahi beta subah se time nahi mila" (No son, I didn't get the time), he said. I felt guilty. This old man had been driving all through the city since the break of dawn on an empty stomach, while I had a sumptuous breakfast in the comforts of home.

Having nearly reached my venue, I handed him a hundred rupee note so he could have his breakfast. He nodded and took it and dropped me at my venue – at Roshanara Club, Delhi. I had come to manage an event.

After about 15 minutes, I saw the cab driver near the pavilion. Curious, I asked if he had his breakfast. The answer was in the negative. But I already had a strange feeling that he wouldn’t have it, so I wasn’t surprised. I knew he was saving. I brought some tea and biscuits meant for guests and players, and offered it to him. By now, my initial pity for this man had turned into adulation. He had every reason to be distraught, angry with life. But he had that drive to go on.

At the end of day, he dropped me home. I simply signed off the register and offered him another 100 rupee note. He took it, smiled, said something under his breath which I thought was a token of appreciation, and left.

The thought of Kulbir Singh, the cabbie, crossed me many times. I thought of extending some financial help to him. But my resolve was probably never strong enough. But one day I finally called the taxi service to enquire about him. They told me that the old man had packed up his bags and left for the village. My guess was he had been removed from the job… it was too risky to let him drive anyways. But what happened to Kulbir Singh post that, I do not know. The cabbie had faded away… into oblivion.