Talk to her
We had the first bout of rain last night. Once upon a time, I’m told the monsoon used to come to Mumbai on June 10 with the regularity of a cuckoo clock. It’s become less punctual over the years and his lack of punctuality has given rise to what is rumoured to be a $2.5 billion betting market (but since I read this in the Times of India, I’d say it’s probably a couple of million dollars; still huge). I don’t know who made real money yesterday with the rains coming a week before schedule but I reached home feeling like I’d won the lottery. And all because of sex.
(I pondered about whether to use the s-word in this blog, fearing an onslaught of spam powered by Viagra. Then I looked at the admin page of this blog which tells me that most people seem to inexplicably reach my blog by putting phrases like “wet sari” and “mallu aunty” in Google so why be coy?)
So, it was a dark and stormy night. The roads were wet. The sky was red with clouds. I walked out of work at the wee-ish hour of the night with a male colleague. There’s a gaggle of taxis that stand outside our office who have become familiars since most of us have no life and stay at work for obscenely long hours. When we stagger out, they drop us home. It’s generally a silent ride (though there have been occasions when the taxi driver has chatted with me. This is how I know two ex-colleagues were dating and used to have furious fights in the back of the taxis; and that all the drivers think my boss, with his pitiful grasp over Hindi, is an Arab from Dubai who is using a fake Hindu name rather than being a Bandra boy with his feet deeply rooted in the cracked pavements of this city).
Yesterday, until I dropped my colleague, it was quiet enough. Once I had dropped him, I was about to put on my ipod but never got beyond sticking in one earphone because a) I realised his right hand has stumps for fingers which basically means he drives with one hand, and b) the following conversation ensued:
Cabbie: Are you from Delhi?
Me: Er, yes. (I’m not really but I was born there and at that point, I was more interested in “Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa” than conversation with Cabbie.)
Cabbie: So where does your man live? (In Hindi, there is a phrase “aapka aadmi” which literally translates to “your man” and means your significant male other.)
Me: Umm, with me. A little bit further down the road.
Cabbie: Then why did he get off?
(Insert sputtering noises as I realise the Cabbie thought colleague was boyfriend.)
Me: No, no. He’s not my boyfriend. He’s like my brother. We work together.
Cabbie: I’m sorry, I didn’t understand. So do you live here as well or are you visiting your man?
Me: I’m married. We live here.
Cabbie: That’s nice! How long have you been married?
Me: Almost three years.
Cabbie: Do you have children?
Me: No.
Cabbie: There’s no rush, is there? We tend to rush things, you know, because it just, well. It just ends up happening.
Me: Do you have children?
Cabbie: I have a son. I’d like a daughter but not right now. (Pause) Can I ask you something, if you don’t mind? It’s rather delicate.
Me: Er, sure.
Cabbie: So I’m going to be going to my village soon. I have family there, you know. My wife is there. So I was wondering what medication there is to not, you know, have a child.
Me: Oh. Well, yes, of course there is.
Cabbie: It won’t do anything bad to her?
Me: No, no. There’s Mala-D. It’s easily available and not too expensive. It’s very good. (Mala-D is the contraceptive that the government has been advertising for years now and it’s supposed to be distributed at medical centres all over the country. Not generally used by those of us in the higher-earning bracket)
Cabbie: What do you use?
Me: Er, the same. (That urban marriage is the best contraceptive is something that I didn’t quite want to get into.)
Cabbie: You use it, right? It’s not a matter of cost.
Me: It’s totally safe.
Cabbie: And it works?
Me: Yes.
Cabbie: It’s just that I’m going to the village and, well, there’s going to be some josh. (Josh is a Hindi word that means vigorous gusto, spirited enthusiasm… you get the idea.)
Me: Er, yes.
Cabbie: But I don’t want there to be news a couple of months down the line. You know, because for the next few years, I just want things how they are. Raise my son and then hopefully, we’ll have a daughter. So I want to be sure.
Me: Well, the best way to make sure is for you to use a condom.
Cabbie: I know. But it just doesn’t work as well with a condom. (What he said in Hindi was, “Par condom-se thik jamta nahin hain” which literally translates to “It doesn’t stick properly with a condom.” Genius phrase, “jamta nahin hain”). You know what I’m saying.
Me: Actually I don’t since I’m not the one who’s ever worn a condom.
Cabbie: That’s true. But it just doesn’t feel as good and I’ve tried the expensive ones also. Doesn’t it feel different for you? My wife says it does.
We reached my home at this point. The neon lights atop the gates to my apartment building shone on his face and suddenly he was very bashful. I aimed at normalcy and asked how much the fare was. He said I could give him whatever I wanted; it was the least he could do for having bored me with all this embarrassing talk. I didn’t know how to tell him how touched I was that he had picked me as confidante (was it because I’d said I was from Delhi?). Every other person I meet talks about the divide between rich and poor India, about how the poor are illiterate, unthinking and riddled with superstition and conservatism. Most of these people sip Bellinis at posh bars and their knowledge of “the real India” is what the media reports to them. They haven’t been outside the cities; they only notice the people who make for good anecdotes or who belong to the same familiar, rarified strata of posh India. But they’ve decided that this country is going to the dogs because the bulk of the country is supposedly in the dark ages.
My cab driver is proof that this country isn’t riddled with idiots at whom those with foreign accents and education can sneer. That despite all that is wrong in this country, there are some things that are right or at least getting there. Plus, he gave me a warm fuzzy feeling. Despite my cigarettes, tattoo, rage at the Indian politics, sense of despairing alienation every time I turn on the TV and my fragile grasp over the country’s national language, he made me feel like I belong.
on Wednesday, June 4th, 2008, 6:32 pm in India, Mumbai, Random › 
Email this
› 
Facebook this
› 
Reddit this
› Link
› Reader links
This guy’s polling passengers about stickin’ and jell-o, and it made your chest swell with patriotism? You really are the interpreter of Mala-D’s :)
I’ve been living in the US for 6 years now.Everytime I go back to Bombay I see bigger shinier malls and luxurious cars and high rises.
My news of India is Times of India and I see bomb blasts and murders and news about the “film stars”.
Your article touched a nerve.This is the India that I love and want to come back to.
God, that “jamta nahin hai” phrase is genius. This dude also sounds like a real birth-control ad, with his ham-do-hamare-do ideas ;)
It’s funny (and telling) that the cabbie probably felt you, as an “elite” outsider woman, was someone he could talk to and who wouldn’t judge him about such matters. Reminds me of a story an American friend who has lived in Cairo for decades tells about going to renew his residence permit and the one English-speaking woman behind the counter started a conversation with him about sex and AIDS, assuming that a White Man was the ultimate authority on such matters ;)
And I really miss Bombay in the rain, especially the way the dull yellow lights on Marine Drive reflect on the road. Sigh.
You must live somewhere with drainage. I miss Bombay in the Alphonso season.
There used to be one big flood a year when I was growing up, with small Marutis floating, and we always had school cancelled then so didn’t make much difference to us ;) I believe flooding has got worse now. I have every friend visiting from Bombay bring a box of Alphonsos, ha! I believe they cost several arms and legs in the States though, ugh, dreading going back.
You’ve arrived on the (blog-) writing scene, anon. Proof? Witness how flustered some people can get.
so much
bettermore accurate than its english counterpart. i love that about hindi (or all languages, really).great story, anon. i love conversations in cab rides - it’s interesting how much you learn about perfect strangers over the span of 15 or 20 minutes. i’ve also realised it’s a great place to practise my hindi.
more like hum do, hamara ek (ya shayad do)
as a guy, i know what he is saying and it’s nothing to do with adhesion. he meant something like “it’s not the same thing” or “it doesnt do it for me”.
:0) Agreed. i just had a wonderful chat with a guy who shared his life all the way from vietnam to his childhood sweetheart to his muggings and the shotgun blast that left tracks in his hair. then we talked about shoveling snow and running and diets and on and on.
BTW, it’s probably old-timer/urban legend that the monsoon used to arrive exactly on June 10 - I remember the tyre company MRF had ads in the ToI in late May asking people to guess what day the monsoon would arrive, this was back in the mid 80s. It was usually between June 5 and June 15.
shabaaash! (i was a hindi tutor in college :))
are you sure that the monsoon is a man?
i loved this story, anon. and for mr. cabbie’s sake, i do hope he gets some joshila village action with wifey dearest.
i think “jamta nahin hai” means i don’t like it, or it doesn’t agree with me. like, “yeh baat kuchh jami nahin.” i don’t like [whatever just transpired: conversation, event]. people in bombay (amazing city, bad hindi) will say, “apne ko nahi jamaa.” one didn’t like it.
I think our cabbie buddy is pretty naive if he wifey’s khet is not getting irrigated while he is away. on the other hand, she’s probably already familir with contraception, (and hopefully the sheathed kind).
I do have a minor quibble with vous anon! I thot your advice was a little off. if wifey is going to start with mala-d, she probably needs some time before it starts doing the hormonal shift. i dont think our buddy will keep his raging ‘ardor down that long. and technically, i think the general oral is supposed to be 87% or so effective, no?
thanks, boss. my south indian roots plus american background make for an unlikely knowledge of hindi, so the encouragement is much appreciated.
that’s more than a handful. but clearly, one of those that will stay with you for a while :)
Is it that rare that cabbie discuss his private life? Could it be that they normally don’t do so w/females? If so, I can understand why you’d be proud…but you should be more proud of him than yourself, no?
I find they prattle endlessly about their personal lives (esp their politics!) the world over, and it’s terribly annoying. Maybe I’m just antisocial, but I’m really only interested in transport.
you have a very fertile imagination. No Mala D there.