Conversations with a lady taxi driver
OMAR RASHID
http://www.thehindu.com/
What happens when there is a reversal of roles within the prescribed male-female public commuting norms?
Even
against the faint orange light — the harbinger of dawn — the contours
of her face were obvious. She looked charming, a little plump, and wore a
pale salwar kameez. A dupatta was neatly draped over her head, just the
way many Indian Muslim women are seen when outdoors.
As
the taxi steered towards the main street, she drew my attention to a
small tea shop around the bend where she had sipped cups of coffee just
before picking me up. “I didn’t want to doze off...,” she said. The
journey had been delayed since she found it difficult to track my
address sooner. She was apologetic about having made me wait.
After
a sleepless night, I thought it best to maintain indifference even as
she persisted with her explanations. However, soon enough, the intrigue
started to get to me — my efforts to nap had also proven futile. It was
barely dawn and I was being driven to the airport by a woman, who was
confident and also eager to make conversation. How many women in our
country are allowed this space? Not many, even by Mumbai’s standards.
And when we compare this to what happened in New Delhi a couple of days
ago, it seems even more extraordinary.
A
young woman was allegedly raped by the driver of the Uber cab she was
travelling in. This crime also drew memories of the horror that took
place in a moving bus in the same city two years ago. Where can a woman
feel safe? Apparently, not even in the ‘safest’ means of transport
(enabled with the latest GPS technology).
Reversal of roles
When
I had booked this cab I hadn’t anticipated a female driver (this wasn’t
even an all-female cab service). But here I was, seated comfortably in a
case of reversal of roles within the prescribed male-female public
commuting norms. If I were the driver and she the passenger, how
different would the mood have been? Would she have been as chirpy? Did
she feel safer in the driver’s seat? Did a steering wheel make all the
difference? I wouldn’t know.
Although
I didn’t want to appear as prying, I asked this woman when she started
driving cabs. “Since he deserted me, my husband,” she said. “I am dead
to my family. I am a Brahmin, he a Muslim. It was bound to get my family
a bad name... How could I feed myself? I had to do something.”
It
was 10 years ago when she eloped with a Muslim man from her hometown,
Vadodara. The boy worked as a mechanic in Mumbai. While it seemed
familiar terrain — the vagaries of inter-religious affairs, elopements
and parental opposition — I was hooked on to her obviously unprompted
narration. Given the “love jihad” myth spread by Hindutva groups, I was
curious to hear this though. The woman told me her original name: it
stood for ‘beautiful’ in Sanskrit; her name post-conversion to Islam was
the Arabic word for ‘sky.’
Her
story, however, hit a deadlock as she abruptly stopped talking —
perhaps, realising she was revealing too much to a stranger (a man) —
and I honestly didn’t know what to ask next. There was silence, the
longest since the cab started. Noticing me fiddle with my phone — I
meant to check the time — she ended the awkward pause: “Are you a
reporter?” If I told her the truth she would not talk anymore so I kept
my reply vague. “I still have relatives in Mumbai. Now if you go and
report this they will say I go around telling my problems to everyone.”
Her
husband divorced her eight years ago and married a Muslim woman. Not
only did he keep their children, all she was left with was Rs. 3,000 as
alimony. Making ends meet proved difficult; she shared space with six
other women in a suburban Mumbai flat. Her flat mates, too, were
‘deserted’ and drove cabs.
“I
was pretty fluent with the Quran as well,” she continued. “But Muslims
have such bad customs, no?” she laughed sarcastically as she claimed
that her ex-husband had already moved on to his third wife.
Her
abrupt shifts in temper occasionally puzzled me. She suddenly turned
her head towards me and said: “Don’t you feel bad when something like
this happens? A Hindu woman is converted to Islam and then ditched...
use and throw?” I would feel bad for anyone who was deserted, regardless
of religion, I responded.
Probably
mistaking this for my sympathy towards her ‘Muslim’ ex-husband, she
stared at me for a short while, and correctly guessed my religion. “It’s
the way you speak. I spent years with one... so I know alright,” she
said.
Elopment, marriage and after
Since
she had eloped, going back to Gujarat was not a viable option. With no
source of living, she worked petty jobs for three years before shifting
to driving cabs. There was little support from her family, which did not
even bother to stay in touch. Her brother, a builder, did not spare her
a penny. Despite the misery, she put on a brave face each time she was
overcome with emotion.
“I
have been single for a long time. But I enjoy life. We (the girls) go
out for coffee sometimes; pull the cabs out for a spin at night,” she
said. “We also go for picnics once in a while; even films. But we share
the costs. Nobody is a burden on anyone.”
Her
love story was typical of inter-religious Indian romances — secretive
in initial phases but with the swords of scandal and heartbreak dangling
dangerously over their heads. In the days before mobile phones hijacked
romance, she would exchange love notes with her lover till her mother
caught hold of one such note on one unfortunate day. Sensing a tragic
end to their tale, she braved the wrath of her family and eloped.
The
two had no clue of what next and started living in his garage till the
landlord, critical of an unmarried couple living together on his
premises, suggested they get married. They tied the knot and she
converted to Islam. “I did not know anything then. Had seen nothing in
life, just followed him. Love is blind...how true,” she murmured.
I
asked for her ex-husband’s name. “Omar,” she replied. Her answer was
prompt, but it left me too embarrassed to respond. She told me she had a
fancy for her Arabic name, but it was also a grim reminder of her
tragic love life. “It also makes me angry... tell me... Isn’t my anger
justified? I can’t forget it.”
For
a moment or two, I was discomfited by my own name. But I also dreaded
how the right-wing Hindutva groups could have manipulated her story to
include it within the template of “love jihad.” The Vishwa Hindu
Parishad’s disregard for individual choices of marriage and
relationships is well known.
The
taxi soon came to a smooth halt at the airport. As I reached out to
grab money from my cargo-shorts, she looked at me and giggled
mischievously. “You are not even ready for the flight.” I smiled, paid
her the promised amount and started to drag my rucksack out of the taxi.
As I was about to shut the car’s door, she asked for my name. Sensing
no escape, I managed to mumble it. Perhaps she didn’t hear me over the
din of the airport announcements and asked me to repeat it. I did. She
was taken aback, then smiled, shook her head as if to revive herself
from the shock, then gave a sigh and laughed. It all happened too fast.
Her focus then shifted to the steering wheel as she prepared to ride
away into the crowd, but not before I caught her stealing a last glance
at me.
