Throng

February 21, 2006

One of the worst weeks with our driver Dubey was a couple of weeks ago when we had several major incidents during the span of several days. I won’t bother detailing the daily altercations with or on good days the angry looks we get from offended autorickshaw drivers or passerbys on the roads since these have become routine.

Dubey, Nikhitita and I had just arrived at a store I had heard about and wanted to explore. Our driver was looking for a spot to park and had just pulled the car up onto the curb when we heard a thud and felt the front left side of the car drop. All of his efforts to rev the engine and reverse were in vain. Apparently he had driven us into a drainage ditch, which was not covered. Dubey merely berated the state government for not doing their jobs while I was quietly wondering why he didn’t notice the gaping trench that stretched the entire length of the roadway. Within a minute of two, around 10 schoolboys mysteriously appeared in front of our car. Another man also emerged and instructed the boys to lift up the car while Dubey sat on the driver’s side and steered. Nikhitita and I were also in the car. Of course as soon as we were lifted out of the ditch it was clear that the gathering of helpers were waiting for our thanks. Afraid that the crowd would transform into a mob, I feverishly searched my bag worried only to find large notes, which would definitely have caused a frenzy had I only given it to one of the young boys. Looking around, I wasn’t sure what to do as more kids seemed to be peering through the car window when Dubey said, “I’ll take care of it,” and pointed me to the store we had come for and said, “You go.” I grabbed Nikhitita out of her car seat and rushed across the street to the store from which I could see the driver taking some money out of his wallet and the horde of kids swarming around him.

After I came out of the store we headed home. We had pulled into the carport. I was keeping Nikhitita company as usual in the backseat and saw that she was fast asleep in the carseat after our adventure earlier that morning. I took off her belt buckle leaving only her arms in the straps and opened my door to go around to take her out from her side. I wanted to carry her upstairs without waking her from her deep sleep. I shut my door. All of a sudden, Dubey shouted, “Don’t shut the door.” I looked up startled. It was too late. The door shut with a final metallic thud. Dubey had left his keys in the ignition with the car running and the AC on. I tried not to panic as we checked all the doors. They were all locked and my one-year old was fast asleep in the backseat. The two security guards who watch our building came towards the car. I saw Dubey walk under the carport. I assumed he was going to get something to open the car door. We did not hear from or see him for the next 45 minutes.

The driver of the car next to ours was waiting idly in his car. He immediately came out, found a wire, and tried to jostle the lock on the driver’s side. No luck. 5 minutes passed. Still no Dubey. Where was he? The security guards and some of the other staff that maintain our building started bringing different things (metal pieces, wood planks, etc.) to try to open any of the doors. 10 minutes passed. I was starting to sweat. I remember watching Nikhitita intently to make sure that the rise and fall of her small chest remained steady. Once 15 minutes had passed I desperately asked any of the 10 or so men around our car to break the window. None of them spoke English so I made gestures of breaking the glass. I could make out that there was a general reluctance to break any part of this vehicle, especially when the driver was no where to be seen. As the seconds continued to tick by a locksmith arrived. Apparently someone had run for him in the ensuing melee. I was encouraged at seeing the locksmith, but began to grow more and more anxious as we approached 30 minutes and neither the locksmith applying his craft to the driver’s door or the men trying to pry open the passenger front and rear windows were successful. I was pacing around the car alternatively watching the men fervently working and Nikhitita’s calmly breathing. Finally I could handle it no longer and insisted that someone break a window or at least give me something so that I could do it. As I was attempting to communicate what I wanted in a mixture of gestures and English Saurav the cable operator for our building made an appearance. I knew that he spoke English so immediately enlisted his aid. He told me that everyone was scared to break into the car without the driver around and also afraid that the shattering glass could hurt the baby. Later I remembered that we owed the cable operator money for cable and wondered whether he had been there to seek payment. If that was the case he was a smart man not to bring that up! I told Saurav that I wanted to break either the front passenger side which was diagonally opposite to where Nikhitita slept in her car seat or the small triangle window directly across from her so as to minimize glass falling on her. Suddenly I noticed that Nikhitita’s eyelids were fluttering. I was horrified remembering that her belt was unfastened. Suddenly my fear shifted from lack of oxygen to fear that she would fall from the carseat. Nikhitita started writhing and the security guard who was next to her window frantically motioned her to stop. He called me over to her side of the car. But I immediately retreated as Nikhitita moved towards me sliding down several inches. I was frightened and shouted that we have to break the door now or my baby will fall. Saurav asked me whether I would take responsibility for the damage to which I immediately nodded yes and he started to gently chistle at the front passenger window using a hammer with the pointed side towards the glass. The locksmith had been working away and so had the men trying to pry the rear triangle window across from Nikhitita. It all happened one after another. The men working on the triangular window slab shouted that it had been removed. Saurav stopped hammering and then seconds later the locksmith opened his door. The security guard reached in, unlocked the opened the door trough the triangular window, dove in, scooped Nikhitita up and handed her to me. I remember showering her with kisses while fighting back tears from welling in my eyes. Although Nikhitita happily accepted my show of affection, she did not see it as unusual. Thank you God! She was okay. Strange thing is that the tears only came when I knew she was safe in my arms. They were tears of happiness and relief.

Suddenly everyone was asking about the driver. I tried to call him a couple of times but no one picked up. And then general chaos ensued as a Toyota Qualis SUV raced through the carport gate. I looked up surprised to see our first driver Rahyl at the wheel and then Dubey hopped out of the back pulling a bicycle out with him. I had assumed that he had left the scene never to be seen again. It had been 45 minutes since the ordeal started and it was only now that he was showing up. Later I found out from him that he had hopped on a bicycle and pedaled all the way to a locksmith he knew in Santa Cruz who charged 50 rupees to open car doors (or so he told me). Apparently the locksmith was not there and so he went to his car company office to pick up a second set of keys. Rahul who was there drove him and his borrowed bicycle back. I was stunned and could not speak for a while. I looked at him disbelievingly and admonished him that he should have told someone what he was planning on doing and that I would have gladly lent him a phone to call his office (most drivers have phones that only accept incoming calls). He then admitted that he had gotten frazzled but that his intent had been to do the right thing and in fact it all started because he had left the AC on (and hence the keys in the ignition) for Nikhitita’s comfort. I believe him but also have seen him leave his keys in the ignition on numerous occasions. Sadly since this incident Nikhitita does not like to sit in her carseat. After all the activity trying to break into the car, the front door locks on the driver and passenger sides were not functional and window sealing had been displaced around most of the windows with the exception of the one next to Nikhitita’s carseat. Dubey fumed out loud about all the damage to a foreign car. He kept saying, “This is not an Indian car” and he berated the locksmith for having made a new key to get into the car saying, “We already have a key. It was in the ignition.” I called Bob and told him that Nikhitita had been locked in the car but that she was out and okay now. I had intentionally waited to call him when she was out knowing that he would worry and that he was too far away to physically do anything. I paid the locksmith for the key after talking to Saurav and calling Bob on the phone. I suppose that it is only natural that he would hike up his standard rates in such times of need. Taking Bob’s advice Nikhitita and I slowly disappeared upstairs leaving everyone to continue arguing below.

A couple of days later there was another incident. We had spent the day with Bob’s sister and family in South Bombay and then dropped Bob off at a work function on Marine Drive. The driver was taking the two kids and myself back to Bandra. We were on a busy street made even busier since several lanes were blocked up ahead. A motorbike was riding very close to our car splitting traffic. The motorbike then went ahead of us but a little bit diagonally such that if there were lanes he would have slightly encroached our space. Dubey moved ahead and as he did I heard the displeasing sound of grating metal. The so far staid motorbike driver who had been keeping pace with us for some time now began to bludgeon Dubey’s mirror with his bare hands shouting obscenities. Of course Dubey, who was never one to keep his mouth closed, opened his window and shouted back at him. Suddenly space opened up directly ahead of us and the motorbike drive still looking infuriated revved directly ahead of our car. I breathed a sigh of relief thinking that a bad situation had been averted. But it was too premature for that thought. The motorcyclist blocked our car with his bike, took off his helmet, and came around to the front passenger side door and opened it! I sucked in my breath and wished that Dubey would lock all the doors, as I have many times asked him to do. The agitated motorbike rider proceeded to shower Dubey with a series of blows to his left arm. Dubey’s face morphed from one of anger to one of fear. I thought that Dubey was going to be dragged out of the car when all of a sudden the motorbike rider looked into the back seat. He saw a scared woman covering a baby’s eyes and a 4 year old just waking up. He stopped what he was doing and walked away leaving the car door open. Someone else on the street shut the door.

Of course knowing that his life had been spared was not enough for Dubey who was talking back to another motorbike rider who had been riding alongside the other one. There were also a few schoolboys who mysteriously appeared around our car. They began to hit our car. Where do these guys come? I was perplexed. It was in the middle of traffic and at 9 pm at night. Suddenly the other man on the motorbike look inflamed and I heard a clicking as Dubey locked all the doors with the master switch. I remember thinking why doesn’t Dubey stop talking..is this man crazy? Later, as I narrated this to Bobby I remember telling him that most of the other cars ignored what was going on. The only person who could have helped us out was this other motorcyclist and Dubey was angering him as well with whatever he was saying. I didn’t understand the specifics of the shouting which was in Hindi but one did not have to be overly perceptive to know that it was not pleasant conversation. Thankfully, traffic began to move and we did not see either of the motorbikes again.

As I look back at all three situations that week, it struck me that a throng of people appeared in each. When we were stuck in the ditch, they appeared to help but a price was expected for the help. When Nikhitita was trapped in the car, a throng of people appeared, but with the exception of the locksmith (and he was doing his job) no one was looking for payment. During the motorbike incident a throng also appeared but this time it was in the hope of seeing a fight. I suppose it is only human nature to be curious about an unusual situation. But I am certainly grateful that the majority of time it is also human nature to be helpful.

Terror

February 11, 2006

A couple of weeks after arriving in India we changed drivers. Rahul our first driver was affable and competent but I had a tough time communicating with him since he didn’t speak English. Having just begun our one year stay in India, I felt more comfortable traveling around unfamiliar streets with two young children in the hands of a driver who knew what I was saying. Our new driver Dubey is equally affable, speaks English, but frankly is not competent. I used to think that to drive in India you just need to have courage and not much more. However the stark contrast between these two drivers has shown me that driving in India is truly an art.

In our month or so with Rahul at the helm there was only a singular occasion where I had a fleeting suspicion that our car may have bumped an autorickshaw. But I was never sure and there was no reaction from the other driver. Rahul also had an uncanny knowledge of the streets of Mumbai. I would only have to name a destination (and that is often times all I could do) and he would nod his head knowingly and we would navigate the busy roadways and arrive unscathed. He also had several paths he would take to Sandrine’s school and depending on how how late I was, would take the appropriate path to get us there on time. There was one time when we had a flat tire and I got out of the car wondering how I could help and he just told me, “Wait in car Madam. No problem.” He changed the tire by himself in the hot sun with two kids, a maid, and myself inside with the AC on.

Dubey…ah yes Dubey is an entirely different story. He speaks Hindi, Malayalam (spoken in Kerala), and English so communication isn’t an issue other than the fact that sometimes he chooses to hear what he wants to hear. Early on he told me that he used to work as a driver in the Gulf. He had also mentioned to my husband Bob that he used to drive very large vehicles. He probably didn’t need to explicitly tell us this since he drives like he is in the biggest vehicle on the road, not reality since we are in a 4 door sedan. He steers our car in the path of oncoming vehicles as though it is an Army tank. And he could definitely use a refresher on the rules of the road, especially the one that states that busses have right of way. We have even drag raced with a bus, during the adrenaline pumping 30 secondsI just closed my eyes and sucked in my breath, far too stunned to speak. I am happy to report that we won by a hair. Dubey floored the accelerator and succeeded in narrowly passing the bus just in time to make a left turn at the next intersection. Of course, Dubey muttered “idiot” after we had passed the bus as if it had been the bus driver’s fault. It wasn’t as I can attest along with the gaping passengers in the bus who were probably wondering what idiots were in the white sedan that raced below it like Jerry to it's Tom.

There was another time I was on the phone with Bob, who was on the way home with Dubey, and we were in mid conversation when all of a sudden I heard an intake of breath and a sharp, “Watch out!” followed by a dial tone. I looked at the phone and immediated phoned Bob back. “Are you okay?” I asked sucking in my breath. “We hit another car,” said the calm voice back at me. Later I found out that Dubey had hit a car while trying to turn left. Mind you that the car he hit was in the lane left to him and was going straight. Dubey clearly believed he was in the right saying only, “I gave my turn signal. He should have known I was going to turn left.”

We have on several occasions bumped pedestrians’ arms as they walk innocently down the roads oblivious to this new terror roaming Mumbai streets. I have grown accustomed to scrunching my shoulders together as we approach pedestrians who walk too close to the path of our vehicle in a futile effort to will our car to narrow. We have even bumped a woman holding a baby. When Bob accosted him about this Dubey just said that if the mirror had hit them then it would have been his fault but since it was the side of the car it must have been their fault. They seemed okay. The worst incident to date occurred once when I leaning towards Nikhitita, who was in her car seat. I heard a woman shriek. I jerked toward the sound, glancing out my window just in time to see a woman pick herself up off the ground. Thankfully she was alright but both she and her irate male companion proceeded to rap on the front passenger side window of our vehicle screaming in anger at our driver. Dubey shouted out that she should face the road next time. A fair point, but if inattention meant asking for a nudge from a car there would be bodies stewn all over Mumbai. After a heated exchange we were thankfully waved on our way ready to wreak havoc on the next unsuspecting pedestrian, autorickhaw, car, or maybe even bus?

Billboards

January 31, 2006

Women Empowerment. I see those two words nearly every day as I take my daughter Sandrine to school. And I see them in a most unusual place. These two words are printed across the back of quite a few autorickshaws. There are usually other printed words in Hindi but since I don’t understand them it is these two words that stand out in my mind.

My daily weekday routine involves going with Nikhitita and our driver Dubey in the morning to drop off Sandrine at school and the ritual repeats again in the afternoon when I pick her up. There are several points along out route where the traffic is unbelievably congested. We find ourselves bumper to bumper with rickshaws, two-wheelers and other cars and for a brief moment we enter other people’s lives as we pass each other with oftentimes only a foot or so to separate us of which a quarter of an inch is taken up by the window pane in front of me. Some days it’s a rickshaw with 5 school children all squeezed together with their backpacks on the bench that seats 3 comfortably an on other days it may be a single woman clutching a plastic shopping bag and speaking into ther mobile phone. And the air is as congested as the roads with the honking of horns and the rough words of drivers who motion each other to move here and there in the hopes of moving traffic any which direction. Every day as soon as we enter one of these junctions, I know right away whether Sandrine will be late to school or not that morning.

Our previous driver Rahul had a knack of getting us to school on time regardless of what time I came down with the kids. Depending on whether I was on time or 5 minutes late or 10 minutes late he would take different shortcuts. One such shortcut (reserved for when we were 10 minutes late) took us through an unpaved road and right past a colony of shanties, which like our subdivision in the South Bay suburbs were separated into different tiers, There were those families who lived out in the open, families who had contructed tents of tarp and those who were fortunate to have used corrugated metal to make a more weatherproof and permanent dwelling. Of course in our subdivision the dichotomy was less severe as the diffences had to do with square footage of the homes and sizes of the lawns. I also noticed that many of these “homes” had auto-rickshaws parked outside of them. Sadly, a day’s work ferrying people around only afforded them a meager place to call home.

One day as we were slowly making our way through one of those slow points along our route and I was staring at the words, “Women Empowerment” it struck me that it was very easy to read things on the backs of auto-rickshaws since the heavy congestion in Mumbai limits the speed of vehicles.

Suddenly it hit me that these rickshaw drivers should sell the space on the back of their rickshaws…why not have Nestle or Amul or Reliance or other corporations buy advertising space on the back of auto-rickshaws? I wonder if there is any restriction on this type of activity. I think that it would serve the autorickshaw drivers better if there was a marketing organization to serve their collective interests. Sure the organization would probably have to take a percentage but it would have the direct relationship to corporations and negotiate favorable terms for its member rickshaw driver/owners.

Transporting passengers back and forth may not be enough to earn a livelihood so why not supplement by selling roving billboard space? It’s not a new idea. One of the teams did something similar on the fourth season of Donald Trump’s The Apprentice but using banners on the back of horse drawn carriages in New York City. The banners, which were meant for flat surfaces didn’t fit well and if I remember correctly the team lost. In any case, I am not suggesting banners but rather a simple call to action. I would imagine that a colorful stream of moving banners over Mumbai could be aesthetically displeasing if not downright dangerous.

A few days after having this breakthrough I did notice a stall completely painted bright yellow and red and boasting the Lays Potato chips logo. It was Nitin’s Pan Bidi Shop. Pan is a mildly intoxicating ground mixture of betel nuts and spices while a bidi is a particular type of unfiltered Indian cigarette made of tobacco and wrapped in a leaf. Neither have anything to do with potato chips but quite a few vehicles with potential consumers passed the corner that the bidi shop was positioned on and as a result saw the corporate messaging. Why shouldn’t something similar work on autorickshaws? Another couple of weeks later I did come across a rickshaw with mouthshut.com printed in the top center in lieu of women empowerment. Maybe moving billboards have already hit Mumbai?

Effort

January 26, 2006

A week ago was my husband Bob’s birthday. I won’t say how old he is but suffice it to say that he is well past the age when you can count the candles on the cake but young enough that when you invert the two digits that make up his age the resulting number is well within normal life expectancy.

Finding Bob a thoughtful gift has been difficult for years partly because he doesn’t ask for much so there is no singular “must have” for him. There are only four things that he revels in: family, food, cricket, and Hindi films/music. My initial thought was to get him tickets to see a live cricket match (preferably in Mumbai) or maybe tickets to a Bollywood entertainment extravaganza, which keeps many of these actors and actresses busy when they are not filming. But given that at the time we had not setup internet access (which I use for researching these types of things) in our flat I decided to save these for another occasion and focus on food and family. First was the birthday cake of course. I knew that he liked chocolate but he wasn’t too fond of the typical chocolate cakes sold in most bakeries here. I asked my sister-in-law, the veteran Mumbaiker, for advice on bakeries. She gave me a few names but then suggested that rather than go through a bakery I might want to call a woman named Roshini who lived in Bandra (as did we) who apparently made only one type of cake, but it was a very special chocolate cake. Her only caveat was that she had never tried this woman personally but had heard rave reviews about her cakes from others who had. I leapt on this knowing that Bob wasn’t too fond of the standard chocolate fare found in Indian bakeries. Now on to family. Unfortunately Bob’s sister and family live in South Bombay, which from Bandra (on the Northern side of Mumbai) could take up to 1.5 hours one way on a busy workday. And as it was, Bob’s birthday fell on a Thursday. We decided that the logical course was to go with the cake to South Bombay on Saturday and do the cake-cutting then. I proceeded to call up Roshini and place the order for a Saturday morning cake pick-up.

I also wanted to plan a special dinner for Bob on his actual birthday. I knew that one of his favorite dishes was chicken biriyani. We had not purchased meat or poultry in Mumbai as of yet so I inquired about shopping options from our maid. My maid suggested a cold storage place and told me that there was a good place in Pali Hill (part of Bandra). The day before Bob’s birthday I took the maid and Nikhitita, who anyway always came with me to pick up Sandrine from school (she gets done at 2:45 pm) and then we all went to Pali Hill. As we drove past, I was dismayed to find that the place she knew of was closed. She said that she knew of another. That establishment and yet another one we passed were closed. I was perplexed. Why on a Wednesday afternoon? Were they all closed on Wednesdays? Finally we stopped at another cold storage place (the last one that she knew of) and the maid got out to see why it was shuttered down. She came back and said that the sign stated that it was closed from 1 to 4 pm. “Why is that?” I inquired. “It must be their nap time,” she replied. I pointed to all the other open shops around us and said, “Apparently only cold storage guys need to take naps.” She laughed. Since it was already 10 minutes to 4 pm after all of our running around, we decided to wait. Nikhitita was getting agitated in her car seat so the maid, two kids, and I got out to position ourselves in front of the shop, while the driver looked for parking. Another woman was already queued up and tapping her foot impatiently as she waited. With an exasperated look on her face, she quipped, “They are always very late but I put up with it because their meat is very good.” She was right. The cold storage owner and his staff only returned a quarter of an hour past the posted return time. But we finally had the chicken which we needed for the biriyani.

As I think back on other of Bob’s birthdays, I won’t lie. There were many where I gave up trying to figure out what he wanted and simply made a trip to the local mall and picked up some mundane gift. But there were also times when I made chicken biriyani or chocolate cake for him from scratch. And it is strange but that effort was different than the effort here. I planned what to do, found the recipes, bought the ingredients, and actually made the biriyani and chocolate cake with my own two hands. This year the maid prepared the biriyani and as it turned out the driver picked up the cake on Saturday morning. In past years it had been my solo effort to get things ready for his birthday. Although the end result was similar this year it took the effort of many more people. Of course I had decided what to do for that day and then there was my cold storage adventure with the maid, driver, and two kids from which I learned that cold storage purveyors need to nap in the afternoons.

On Saturday the day we were to cut his cake, it turned out that Bob had an opportunity to play cricket for half the day with his colleagues from work. So in a way I was able to give Bob a little bit of family, food, and cricket for his birthday. What about Hindi films or music? Well, our anniversary is coming up…