by P.R.Viswanathan
[box]Many a time, car drivers have played a crucial role in the lives of their masters and vice-versa. Here is one such story – of a driver and his master, penned by P.R.Viswanathan.[/box]Hamid was reminiscing. He was the eldest son and the third child of his parents, who hailed from the Dharwar district of Karnataka. He was brought up in the slums of Bhandup in Bombay and later Mumbra on the outskirts. Small, wiry and energetic, he had cultivated a surprisingly progressive outlook for a man belonging to his strata of society. He thought it natural to be dancing at the local Janmashtami and Ganesh Chaturti celebrations. He had studied up to the eighth standard and then dropped out to earn a living. The riots of 1992/93 dismayed him and like most people of his community, he blamed squarely the so-called communal forces and of course, thought highly of the Congress as a secular party. But notwithstanding the riots, his liberal outlook remained intact. When it came to education, not for him the local madrasa; his children went to English medium schools. And he had dreams.
He had led a tough life, driven trucks, pick-up vans and tourist taxis, staying away from home and the family he loved dearly, for days together. All this, till he had met Vishnu Mohan, a bank executive, who was on the last leg of his career! Hamid was just 33 then.
Hamid loved to recount to his family (and almost as often to Vishnu himself) of how it was by sheer chance that he came into Vishnu Sir’s employment. Vishnu’s previous driver had left all of a sudden and a relative had lent him the services of Nilesh, Hamid’s friend, for a few days. When Nilesh fell sick during this brief period, he had asked Hamid to stand in for him. Hamid did so and within a month, was appointed permanently. No more the uncertain timings and the separation from family! He could eat home food every day, a luxury that only someone with his nomadic past could appreciate. And then, there was the big bonus – Saturdays and Sundays off.
Hamid thought of the daily long drives between Bombay and Panvel, where Vishnu lived. Vishnu would read newspapers, eat, drink beer and sleep in the car. But above all, Hamid remembered their long chats on so many subjects – movies, religion and of course the state of the roads and the incorrigible political class. Both thought highly of Aamir Khan. Hamid would tell Vishnu about his rough life as a truck and tourist driver at great length, the interesting and undesirable characters he had met and so forth.
In fact, Vishnu would introduce Hamid to all as his “Sarathy” and in the three years that they were together, had compiled a stock of Hamidisims. If the ride back from Bandra to Panvel was smooth, they would invariably find the railway level crossing that was just hundred yards short of Vishnu’s home, closed, and Hamid would immediately say “Aasman se tapke; Kajoor pe latke” (a free fall from the skies and then left dangling from a date palm).
During his time with Vishnu, the latter toured a good deal. Hamid recalled how he used to love those drives to and from the airport as they were mostly early in the morning or late in the night and he could step on the gas without worry. Hamid had an insatiable curiosity about places and people and most of the time, Vishnu would oblige him with details. Thus, Vishnu had told Hamid of the statue of Christ the Redeemer in Rio de Janeiro, the size of Mustafa’s Supermarket in Singapore and the huge congregations of the faithful after Roza in Jakarta.
Hamid remembered how he once asked Vishnu what the inside of the plane was like and what the cost of the journey was. Vishnu had then told him of the pretty stewardesses, the TV screens, the food, the drinks and the feeling one experienced at take-off, the fear at landings and when one hit an air-pocket. Then he had said, “Hamid, one day, you too will go abroad to visit your daughter. Singapore, Hong Kong, London, which one do you prefer?” Hamid had laughed.
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It was a warm humid morning 20 years from the time Hamid had met Vishnu. Hamid walked briskly towards the Toyota Corolla parked a few feet away, as always, jingling the keys lovingly in his hands. At 53, he was as wiry and energetic as ever and was looking forward to driving. He reached the car and was just turning the door handle, when his daughter cried “No, no! Not there”, snatched the keys and pushed him roughly towards the rear seat. Tears welled up in his eyes as he saw his daughter hand over the keys to a uniformed figure.
In a few seconds, the car was cruising along noiselessly and Hamid took in the whole scene. His wife Farzana was seated on one side, face wreathed in smiles, while on the other, was his daughter Fatima. Son Arif was in the front staring straight ahead. Hamid’s eyes then rested on the figure at the wheel. He went down memory lane and saw his life as a whole. “Those ere the days,” he thought.
He heard his wife asking as if from a distance “Where were you lost this last half-hour?” and he heard himself tell the driver “stop the car”. In a few moments, with not a word said, Arif and he had changed places.
“You see, Vishnu Sir always sat beside me in the front seat” was all he offered by way of explanation.
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