I share a love-hate relationship with cab drivers. Love, because I have to rely on these radio cabbies to get me to my destination in due time. Hate, because they are always late when I am short on time and also when I am attending an important occasion. I hated my cabbie when he didn't turn up when there was an early morning flight to catch and hated him even more when he arrived 30 mins late to take me for my anniversary dinner.
Well, off late it has been more love than hate, seems the services have improved. And there was particular love(????) for one cabbie who picked me and took me to Panchsheel on 15th March 2009. With a big 6 feet frame and anywhere between 200 and 250 pounds to boast off, he seemed anything but tender. As he started driving, I screamed for him to slow down. He nodded and slowed, but only for the next 300 metres. Soon the bumps were invisible to him and after my third shout, he looked at me with soft eyes and smiled. Finally, he slowed down after I had added 4-5 sentences of plain truth.
As he slowed around Naraina, his phone rang. Looking at the display, the giant turned to a puppy and said sheepishly. " Haan, Mamma." I almost burst out laughing. He told her he was driving and would call back, but the 'Mamma' was in no mood of listening to that. She had some instructions to give and he followed all of them up with a series of " Haan Mamma's".
He hung up and smiled at me in the mirror. I suddenly felt bad at eavesdropping. He didn't seem to bother and suddenly started doling out his "Haan Mamma' story to me. That was my mother from the village, he told me. She calls me at all meals to ask if I had eaten, he added. Very sweet, I said and thought it would end there.
But the big man was emotional and kept going. I live alone in the city and she is alone in the village and we both really miss each other, he said. I nodded. "Today she had cooked my fav baingan bharta and had called to say so. She wanted to know if I get good bharta in Delhi or no. I told her yes. But she doesn't know I cook myself and I don't know how to make baingan ka bharta." He smiled and kept quiet. I wondered what that meant.
All of a sudden he started speaking. "She thinks that I have someone to cook for me since I drive a car, little does she know that I cook dal chawal and paranthas for myself everyday." All of a sudden it seemed to be turning into a movie story with the son in the city lying about his monetary status to the mom in the village.
Before more thoughts could jump in my mind, he started talking again, "what more can I do Madam, we are poor people? Cook once and then eat here and there! Who will cook Baingan ka bharta for me in big, mean Delhi? Sigh....."
Long Silence......
"Baingan Ka bharta is very easy to make. I can tell you how to make it and then you can tell your mother you ate it. She will be happy." I don't know from where that came.
"Nahi, Madam, hum garib kaha baingan khareedege."
"Baingan is cheap, no big deal. You can make it easily, maybe on a sunday or a day off." I was still talking I realised.
"I think Sunday should be good, Madam. Tell me how to make?"
"Do you have a paper?" I asked.
From nowhere, a paper and pen appeared and I felt myself scribble the recipe of baingan bharta on that crumpled piece. He seemed to be very interested and insisted I write in English as that would help in honing his english skills as well.
Between naraina and Panchsheel, I had shared a secret with this big guy who looked so hard on the exterior yet so tender on the interior. And during the same time, the mean looker had disclosed that he was a softie and that cabbie's can be good guys too.
So much for my love-hate relationship with them!
This one seemed all Love!!!
