Nostalgia & the Three-Wheeled Monster

By Kavita Chandran

Here’s one from a loser. Get a crash course in Hindian Math, or something as gibberish as that, before you get hold of a calculator and a fare chart.

 

Three years ago, as a reporter commuting in the contaminated capital a.k.a New Delhi, a daily pillion ride in an auto-rickshaw to work and back, was by no means a pleasant drive. But it was, for the most part, the swiftest and quickest way of getting to work. I would be bewildered by the incredible reflexes of the auto-rickshaw driver, twisting and turning his steering at the speed of light just so he could overtake the jammed, crammed and slanted Red Line ahead. Needless to say, his moves would be accompanied by the humming of a latest Govinda number, and boy, would he miss an opportunity to adjust his rear view mirror for a good glimpse of his packsaddle rider behind. Or for that matter, a good glimpse of the packsaddle rider in the rickshaw behind his.

Three years later, there I was on a one-month assignment to New Delhi from New York. And nothing seemed New. After a brief transpose with black-body-yellow-hood ambassadors (an extinct domestic vehicle now called a taxi), that resulted in hours wasted in traffic jams, I decided a bumpy but zippy ride in an auto-rickshaw was a better option. Deja-vu it was, as I latched on with both hands on the fissured rim connecting either side of the ripping rooftop, shouting "Bhaiya, thoda dheere," and the scarf placed meticulously to cover hair, nostrils and mouth flew to the winds, my head hitting a gratuitous iron rod above. "Ouch."

To make matters worse, the mehendi-moustached, tattered-vest clad monster-of-a-driver leaped out at the destination point, squirmed his red-and-white noisy meter and called out a charge as staggering as his driving ability. For a 10-km ride from Ramakrishna Puram to Gol Dak-khana, the man’s meter scanned a fare of Rs. 75. Obviously, with a head that was now hyperbolic with lumps, I lashed out.

Bad Idea. In minutes, there were nearly ten other demons that leaped out from parked vehicles, to display bhai-chaara. I was confronting a mordant mob of auto-rickshaw drivers; some lectured me on petrol hikes, some on the long distance traveled, some stared spitting paan randomly, while others resorted to blatant leching. Whatever happened to the Damsel in Distress? This was new.

Things have changed, I corrected myself.

"What has changed," explained a friend, "is the difference between ‘the Haves and the Have-Nots’ in Delhi." An auto-rickshaw driver has spent years on the same roads, watching pollution, money, corruption and the fleet of cars grow, as the condition of his little automobile worsened. There is anger and frustration as each Nirula-goer with an ascot to protect against pollution confronts a gummy and sweaty father-of-four who hasn’t had his vehicle serviced for three years.

What bothered me, though, was not just the manually revised fare-hike on rickshaw meters, which of course, was appalling enough. It was the nonchalant attitude of my energetic chauffeurs. The enraged, but defeated, tone of a humor-less auto-rickshaw driver still disturbs me. Three years ago, I remember being able to negotiate a bizarre and lofty fare calculation with a smile and a shrug. Not any longer. In the two weeks to come, I realized how best it was to carry a fare chart and to check the meter before commencing my journey, than face an ugly scene after a craggy ride. Why, I still ask, is it easier to read a cab meter in Delhi than an auto-meter?

"Aap hum jaise logon se tameez ki umeed rakhti kyun hain?," questioned an irritated, 20-something Salman Khan lookalike, with a Reebok imprinted T-shirt, when I confronted his discord with a "Tameez se baat kijiye." Educate me, how can you negotiate with politeness when the other party is lounging on prearranged hostility?

In three years, the starting fare for an auto-rickshaw ride in Delhi has moved to Rs. 3.50 from Rs. 1.25. Moreover, the total fare is calculated by multiplying the meter fare 2 times and adding another half fare to it. Makes sense? So, if math is a formidable subject and you are without a fare chart and a calculator trapped inside an auto-rickshaw in Delhi, be assured of spending a generation calculating 2 1/2 times of Rs. 18.13. Not to mention, the obvious intimidation from the next wayfarer, who with a foot already inside, is impatiently waiting to get in.

There are more than 40,000 overcharged auto-rickshaw drivers in the capital alone, according to an estimate by a member of the Auto-rickshaw Union of New Delhi, a coalition that can paralyze Delhi commute when it joins hands with its equally unfriendly bus force for a strike.

"It’s best to stay away from arguments," said Preeti Shah, who prefers taking the White Line from her residence in Alaknanda, South Delhi, to I.T.O, where she works for a leading Newswire service. Shah said she would rather devour the dusty mess through the window of a slow bus than get fleeced everyday by an uncouth hound, who once took her on a detour via a lonely muddy route on a winter night. "I was lucky I had a cell-phone, so I pretended to call the police."

Shah is one of the many young women in Delhi these days, who is escorted by chivalrous male colleagues to her bus-stand or auto-stand, most of whom also note down the number of the vehicle she boards. "You can never know who is Ram or Ravana these days," said Shah.

But it’s wasn’t Lanka all the way for me. I was once surprised when my ready-for-confrontation disposition was put to rest by a particularly obliging auto-driver. Having calculated an average daily fare of between Rs. 60-70 for a one-way commute, I retaliated when this smiley swindler dilated his pupils into his mini-meter and announced, "threpan rupey."

"What, 73 rupees?," exclaimed yours truly, not wanting to admit her sketchy knowledge, or lack thereof, to count in Hindi. With a confidence that comes from having read a "How to be smarter than your auto-driver," volume, I said coolly, "nahin, chowsath," emphasizing the figure "64" with a feigned Punjabi accent. He conceded defeat immediately with a grin. This must be Ram himself I though, after paying him what I thought was a well-negotiated fare.

Barely three months later in New York, while narrating the story to a group of friends, did I discover that I had been fleeced again. And even now, as I pen this faux pas, I can visualize Mr. Smiley Satan entertaining his comrades with his experience with a halfwit.

So, here’s one from a loser. Get a crash course in Hindian Math, or something as gibberish as that, before you get hold of a calculator and a fare chart.

Better still, take the cab.