Sunday, 11th March 2007
The rick-stand outside Spencer's Plaza, Mount Road, Madras

Here we go. Yours truly is a visitor from Bangalore (read: non-tamilian, hence, foreigner). The intent? Return to my aunt's home on a hostile Sunday Madras afternoon.

The subject walks towards the parked three-wheelers. Inevitably, four rickshaw drivers gang up, questions ranging from "where going, sir (pronounced: sa-aa-r)?" to "yengay", and phrases in every other language except for the 'national' preference, Hindi.

And I respond, "T. Nagar"

The rickshaw drivers look at each other. Eyes do the talking here, rather, more like an auction. What seemed liked the person who could extract the highest bid came forward, and jerked his head towards the seat. Great. So he's finally accepted to give a lift to Robinson Crusoe in Madras. What about the charge, you street-life dacoit?

And I ask, in English, crusted with a hint of Tamil impurity into pronunciation. "How much?"

"Two hundred rupees, sir"

Perhaps I heard incorrectly. "What?"

"TWO HUNDRED RUPEES, sir", he replied, matter-of-factly, as the gap between "rupees" and "sir" closed in to a length negligible, sounding like "rupeesir".

Aloud, I quipped "Thanks".

Silently, I cursed. I can't recall the exact details, but it revolved around an object being transported, with some force, into a particular orifice.

I walked ahead and found another chap who settled for fifty bucks. Way too much, but I had no choice. I gave it a good shot, anyhow, and asked for forty. It triggerred a sudden change from a position of strength to that of self-poty, as he moaned about the length of the road, the U-turn being distant, the government not being helpful (read: gangraping the rickshaw-waalas) and a host of other stuff I decided to ignore. He'd lost me by then, and I was only hearing to his horseshit, not listening.

When he was done, he shot an inquiring look, accompanied with hope, fishing for pity. He got none of it.

"Forty".

He cursed, and asked me to take the ride ahead. I was only too glad, and before I had taken a full step forward, he sat into the auto and started the engine. Maybe that was his way of telling me to get in and get over with it. I did't comprehend.

"Sir!" and for the third time in as many minutes, he jerked his head towards the passenger seat of the rickshaw. I wasn't sitting yet, though.

"Forty?"

What followed was the most reluctant affirmative I have ever encountered. I jumped into the rickshaw, satisfied. It felt like a warrior who survived the battle, and won it too. The spraying of triumph over relief.

Meanwhile, the mumbling continued. "the government, sir, very bad ..."

"Put the goddamn meters then, anyway, you've tampered with it"

"No sir, the meters are not calibrated yet, and ... "

"That's your fault."

"But we have so many problems, and ... "

We finally arrived, and I got out of the God-forsaken vehicle. I gave him a fifty-rupee note, possibly the ugliest one in the world, selectively picking one that looked like it had been through the mill.

And the son-of-a-female-dog goes "Thank you!"

I screamed, jumped, and nearly spat into his face. Didn't work. He was still showing all thirty-f**king-two teeth, grinning at me.

And then, I had to do what I hated doing - take out my mobile and key in his number plate. Hey, I work hard for my bread too, you know!

The transformation was shell-shocking - from authority, to doubt, to fear, and finally, acceptance. I got back a ten-rupee note, undoubtedly the ugliest note in the world. I asked him to carry his ass back to wherever he came from. In upper-crust American English. It went over his head, thankfully. 

Make that two battles won - in a war that we're certain to lose. For crying out loud, why can't Madras be like the rest of India and just use meters?

You ought to read this link - http://www.hindu.com/2007/03/03/stories/2007030319430300.htm - and I quote from this text, "officials say tough action is just round the corner."

I'd love to believe in that, but for now, I'll hope against hope that those words are translated into ground action. Heaven knows that the city needs it.