Ah, my favorite punching bag!
Nothing in the whole wide world annoys me more than an unrepentant rickshaw driver. Most men in the profession are adept at effortlessly irritating the crap out of someone, but nothing beats that entitled rickshaw driver who genuinely believes that the world revolves around him and his mousey three-wheeled pile of junk.
If you need to get someplace quick and you have strong guts, a two-wheeler is the best option. But if you want to get there quick as well as intact, an auto rickshaw would be ideal. There is no arguing the practicality of the solution. An auto rickshaw does not take much space. It can turn on a dime. It can accommodate two people comfortably. Three, if you know how to stagger six thunder-thighs on a cushioned meter-and-a-half long plank, but it helps if at least two of them do not have testicles squeezed between their legs. You can park the vehicle in the narrowest of spaces. You can do speeds of sixty, which is a little over sixty times the average speed of traffic in Mumbai. The point is, I do not have anything against the vehicles. It is those men in the front seat that make me see red.
The irritation starts as soon as you start needing a ride. Auto rickshaws are abundant. With over 4,50,000 of them in just Mumbai, you would think you could easily hail one, hop on, and putter away to your destination. If only it was that simple! The usual scenario: You spot three autorickshaws waiting. The first one does not have a driver in it. The second one has a driver, one leg propped on the steering, fingers busy plucking the remnants of an hour old, chewed out paan from the depths of his mouth. Just as you walk up to him and ask him if he will give you a ride, he decides that he now needs a fresh paan and leaves the vehicle. So, you walk up to the third one, who hears you out, and refuses. No explanation needed, just a blunt refusal. You are then left to the mercy of the 'floaters' - those autorickshaws skimming the edge of the road weaving through others like you who need a ride. The men driving these rickshaws, for myriad reasons best known to them, will go along refusing every ride. That is their sport. That is what they get high on. They each do it in their own style too, which of course, I will highlight for you.
The Emperor: This gentleman will refuse to make eye contact. He will look six inches above your left shoulder and wait for you to make the request. He will then look down and scratch his chin while he contemplates this complicated information. He will lift a hand, make a dismissive gesture with three fingers, and look away. This style is most confusing purely due to the absence of a clear no. It takes you a few seconds to realize that he was not flicking a fly off his shoulder - he was flicking you off his vehicle. For some reason, it makes you hang your head in shame while you walk past his chariot, not wanting to offend his highness.
The Diva: This style is almost as embarrassing as the last one - except that the driver does not witness your shame. Here's how it goes - you approach, stoop low to speak out your destination, and wait for a response. In a second, the driver looks you up and down, then looks straight ahead. Lifts his stubbled chin seventeen degrees above horizontal and drives off. Drives right off, leaving you wondering if you disgraced his aura by your mere presence.
The Housefly: This one belongs to the driver who is always in a hurry. He refuses to stop. He barely slows down, aiming for your knees as he approaches you, only to turn the front wheel a microsecond before you consider jumping out of the way. He excitedly sticks his neck out asking with his eyebrows where you would like to go. Before you enounce the first syllable of your two-word destination, he has decided he does not want to take you so he accelerates away. Before you blink, he is already aiming for the knees of the next prospective passenger.
The Vajpayee: This one takes his time. He hears you out and sincerely considers the effort involved in accepting your fare. Slowly but surely, the wheels in his brain start to turn. You can hear them turn. You wait for a reaction, but all you see is a grimace on his face. Time goes by, as he contemplates every little thing - The route. The traffic. The average speed. The top speed. The mileage. Your weight. Your worth. Everything! You stand there, counting two lines across his forehead turn into three, watching his lip slowly curl, realizing that he is not liking the data being processed. The sun goes behind a cloud. The leaves turn yellow, then fall off. The neighbor's seven-year-old kid now has a moustache. His father has started to stoop. RaGa is no longer a youth leader. Rishabh Pant has announced retirement. Taimur Ali Khan has won a Filmfare. The spell is broken when you hear a grunt and look at the driver. His eyes are closed, and he slowly, deliberately, disappointedly shakes his head to indicate that you are not welcome in his autorickshaw today.
The Apologist: He is the politest of the lot. You tell him where you want to go, and the first thing he says is "vahan?". You confirm - "haan, vahin". He tells you he does not have enough CNG. He admits he would not take you even if he did, because he wants to go in the opposite direction. He apologizes for the inconvenience and tells you he wants to go in the other direction because that's where is wife is. He needs to pick her up at a certain time so that they can then buy fresh vegetables at the market for tomorrow. They need the vegetables to be extra fresh because his daughter has invited her classmates for dinner. As it happens, the daughter actually has a thing with one of her friends and is discreetly introducing him to the family. At least that is what his wife says, and she is happy about it too - after all, she is not getting any younger. Which explains the need to get fresh vegetables - not all markets have the best spinach now, do they?
He apologizes again and gives you a sheepish smile. You cannot do much to change his mind, but you still make a pleading gesture as you request him to reconsider explaining that you are already late. He smiles and says "Bambai hai saab, kaun time pe hai idhar". You walk away, defeated.
Despite how difficult it is to get a ride, the humble autorickshaw does remain the most efficient means of private transport. Which means that the system works, somehow. Having spent a few years in the city dealing with this nonsense, I have developed a technique. It is not the best, but it works. It still ruins the rest of your day, but to a lesser extent than merely waiting endlessly.
The idea is to initially be yourself - ask nicely, be polite. Get refused. Do it with the next rickshaw too and feel yourself getting irritated. Do it one more time, get refused, and feel the anger. Now focus on the anger. Build it up. Let your blood boil. Let your pulse rise, let your blood pressure peak. Now you are all set for the next step.
Flag down the next autorickshaw that approaches. Don't say a word, and as soon as he slows down enough, hop on and take a seat. The driver will look at you questioningly in the rear-view mirror. Say one word. "Chal". He will ask where exactly, but you all you say is "Aage". He looks at you questioningly, but this is the moment where you will need all the frustration you have built up. This is the moment your face is scrunched in authentic anger. Use it well. You pick two of the choicest Marathi curse words and use them as punctuation marks in every sentence you will say from here on. And you tell him, as menacingly as you can, that he will drive straight as long as he can. He will turn left when you tell him to, right when you tell him to. He will stop when you tell him to.
If he is half as smart as he looks, he will comply. You win. If he isn't smart, even better. Then you lean back and make yourself as comfortable as you can, and then make yourself smile. The more sinister you can look, the better it is. Make him an offer he cannot refuse. Tell him that you have all the time in the world and will not get off his vehicle unless it is at your destination. So he can either drive, or spend the rest of the day waiting for you to accept defeat. Trust me, he will drive. And just like that, you win.
The little click you hear as his wrist turns the gear shift from neutral to first, will feel better than your first kiss. The sun will be out again, the leaves will be green again. Jagdish bhaiya is walking upright, and his son Pratik has gotten rid of his moustache. Rishabh Pant is still falling over hitting reverse sweeps and Taimur is in the news for starting primary school.
Full of tickles! Every line! Would need some more dose of humour often 👍🏽
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