A sunny morning is a great start to a wintry day in an otherwise not-so-great pollution-ridden Delhi. A couple of weeks back, I happened to step out on a similar sunny morning. I booked a cab which, surprisingly, arrived in less than a minute with a pinpoint halt at my feet.
Cabs aren’t known for their punctuality where I put up in Delhi. It’s often a painstaking wait and they invariably end up parking away from you which often leads to a lot of pesky to and fro texting and conversations on the phone.
As I boarded, I was welcomed with a dash of sanitiser which has become a part of day to day life in these COVID-19 times.
The driver, Raju, I could guess, was from Bihar. Though he wasn’t too amused by how I could get that so instantly. His adorable accent and charming body language said it all, I explained. He was delighted and started a conversation straight away as we set off.
Playing my playlist
Raju was well versed with regional and national politics. As we kept talking, he was really impressing me with his understanding of the Indian politics. His conversation was peppered with decent English words and I could see that his vocabulary wasn’t too bad for someone who hadn’t gone beyond high school.
I was really enjoying it. The only off-putting element was the music. I asked him to turn it off and see if he liked the playlist on my phone.
The list began with Talat Mahmood in a blue mood. Those conversant with the golden years of the Indian film music know the spell that Talat Mahmood’s velvety, evocative tremolo can cast on the listeners. It is ethereal!
To my surprise, Raju quickly rattled off names of the movie, the music director and the lyricist, not to mention the singer.
He told me his formative years were the early nineties — same as mine. This was the era when radio stations regularly played old songs, sharing details between the intervals.
Our sad, sweet songs
“Sir, sad songs are bliss,” said Raju. He had never heard of Shelly, yet he was echoing his famed quote: Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
We enjoyed half a dozen songs of yore by the time we hit the destination. Raju thanked me generously for the music I played and refused to take any money. Seeing his resolve, I knew there was no point pressing on. “How many kids do you have?” I asked. An eight-year old son, he said.
I took out one of the two chocolates that I had bought for a friend’s daughter whose house I was to visit later and passed it on. He was a little hesitant, but couldn’t say no.
After spending some half an hour in the market, I decided to push off. I booked the cab and to my amusement, it was Raju again.
He welcomed me with a gleeful smile. “The Earth is round.” I took a promise from him that he was going to accept the fare or I was cancelling the booking. He agreed. There was no music playing in the cab and I too preferred to have a chat with him.
Sense of pride
Raju is a cancer survivor and the lone breadwinner with his wife, son and aged parents to take care of. I asked him if I could put him across to some Good Samaritan since he was a cancer survivor and may need some help. He said a firm no and told me that he would keep toiling as long as his body allowed. All I could do was salute him for his sense of pride and fighting spirit.
Just before dropping me, he asked me with an impish smile: “What if I don’t take money?” He would leave a bad impression on me, I said. “I don’t want to remember you as a promise-breaker.”
Before bidding adieu, I asked if I could do anything for him. Say something really nice about Biharis, he chuckled. If there was really a place called heaven, I said, there must be a special niche in it for the Biharis. He was over the moon as he drove away with an ecstatic laughter.
- Shabir Hussain is a journalist based in India
