The missing number plate

I am a Bombay person. Negotiating my way with cab drivers, flat agents, tenants. The moment I step out of airport, I am braced to handle what the Mumbai airport Taxi circus has to offer. The taxi driver is equally prepared to handle the toll booth person, pick a fight with the next in line, intensely explain why a route is better when I interrupt and so on.

Basically “Haan, is Seher mein sab pareshan se hain” and we are all prepared for it.

So when I found myself in Lucknow on a hot afternoon with a lunch box, a hungry stomach and delayed for my flight, I was ready to pick a fight if it takes one.

The cab arrives, but I can’t read the number plate because it doesn’t exist. I open the door confused and see this person in Orange gamcha, aviators and a big talak stare in to my eyes. “Kya number hai gaadi ka”

He verifies it’s the right cab. Skeptical but also hungry and late, I decide to get in.

Somewhere between the second and third signal, I asked “Can I eat my lunch in the car”

I was ready for the response and prepared to negotiate my way.

He looked at me in the rear view mirror.

“ Arey madam, bikul, ismein poochna kya hai, Paani ke liye kahin rok dein?”

I wasn’t prepared for this. I had brought a knife to a place where nobody was fighting. He had not only given me permission, he had offered me comfort.

Shocked, I ate my lunch. He drove. I packed the empty boxes and sat there, the Bombay expert negotiator, disarmed by a man who had simply decided to be generous.

I didn’t tip him. I think about that sometimes.