At The Helm!

I was very proud when I got my driving license at the ripe age of eighteen.  I was proud because I got it through the right channels, with a proper test and not by bribing (Like most of my friends did!). Dad’s red Maruti van was my first car (though I learnt on an ambassador car!)  Delhi had beautiful roads and the traffic in those days was disciplined so I had a good time driving for myself and was ready to take anyone out!

Being a girl had its advantages too. I remember I once jumped a red light and the traffic cop caught me. I put on a sad face and spun some story and he let me off without punching my license! Soon after my cousin brother was caught doing the same thing but he had a big punch on the card! How triumphant I had felt that day.

Much later when I got married and we scraped and saved and bought a car, we used to love to go on road trips sharing the driving (I was normally given the nice roads to drive on!). The concept of keeping a driver had never entered our mind. But life changes and the Husband got a great posting with a car and a driver as a perk and we soon came to accept this as a part of our life. (Though I continued to have my own car and we went on road trips without the driver!)

Our first driver – Reddy was very aristocratic- he never got out to open doors for us or gave a smile. He always had a pained expression of putting up with us! He was much richer than us. He owned two houses; we didn’t even have one, neither could we dream of owning one with our bank balance! Soon he left us and after a few forgettable apprentices Srinivasan came into our lives...

He was perfect. Always a smile, a good morning or evening, always ready to open the doors. Never allowed me to get out on a traffic filled road till he got out and opened the door. The seat belt always on; every free time was spent polishing the car; the children were looked after so well that I never worried if he was around. I was spoiled rotten for four years. I loved being driven by him everywhere.

We were transferred to Mumbai- the great city of dreams, only to have each and every dream of mine being shattered! The whole house searching was a terrible nightmare (I could write a whole book on that!) The maid situation was even worse but that’s another tale!

Jay Kumar was the hero who entered our lives. He always “Bhabi this and Bhabi that” to me! Getting used to that from “Madam” was a little difficult but it was OK (anyway there was a lot of adjustments going on). He was a typical immigrant from Bihar;  thin as a beanpole; wore tight jeans; ate gutkha; and put his own Hindi song cassettes (The hubby never liked that!). He wasn’t too bad, only thing was that Srinivasan had spoilt all of us! He drove erratically (Bombay style); he told me all the gossip of Bipasha Basu (She lived in the same apartment as ours) and John Abraham, which I was never interested in anyway. He ultimately drove all of us mad and we decided to change him.

 We had a series of drivers after that – in fact one was just like Srinivasan (in looks that is!) dark and rotund- that’s where all the comparison ended- where was the politeness? Where was the trust? Where was the care??????  He was dirty had all kinds of skin disease and all the time sleeping!  We had three more after this all of them would take some advance and disappear! After the third time this happened we decided not to keep any and thus started a whole series of driving experiences for me. I learnt how to navigate the Mumbai roads (Cursing most of the time!) two years passed by in no time at all and it was time to shift to a new house (Shifting houses is another story!)

The new house was nicely placed with a good, large parking space (Parking spaces are also another story!) Living on the eighteenth floor was heaven. But a driver was required and we got a nice one too almost perfect- almost Srinivasan! But he was star struck and a TV personality who stayed in the same apartment stole him away (I never watched any of his shows after that!) We got the last of our drivers in Mumbai (almost ten in a span of three years- some record!)

Vijay was a typically Marathi driver- thin and small; full of his own importance; well behaved (Not the door opening kinds but beggars cannot be choosers!); helpful (would carry bags if they were heavy). He drove like the Mumbaites – inch his way through at red lights; overtake anyone and everyone; curse the auto-rickshaw drivers; bribe the policemen (with our money!)And stole petrol for his mobike! So he was sacked just before we left the city (he went and complained to the police about this!)

Those three years of excruciating experience has given way to some calm and peace on this front. We now have two wonderful wheel controllers! Who are not only well behaved but are happy with whatever they are doing and never ask for advances!

They are almost like Srinivasan! Only they are neither portly nor dark and they do not share their joys and sorrows. Without an international driving license I am at their mercy......

Girl with the Green Eyes

The small black kitten was purring in happiness on the lap of the young girl. Its eyes were screwed tightly with pleasure. Hearing the thud of my heavy footsteps it opened its eyes to look at me enquiringly. The bright green eyes opened suddenly and in my imagination it was a witch’s cat! I continued on my quest to lose the excess baggage that I had put on in the last year! The sea was thunderous and even with the music in my ears I could still hear the angry but beautiful waves crashing against the concrete piles on the shore.

I reached my target distance and turned back the same way that I had come and paused at the “kitten place” The kitten was nowhere around but the young girl (around thirteen or fourteen maybe) was setting up a corn stall. She was wearing a long frock over a pair of jeans. Her head was covered with a hijab as is normal in this part of the world. Her head was bowed in concentration... setting up the pile of coals to smoulder over which she would roast the corn and offer it to the passerby. Her cart was a rough wooden one – a flat piece of wood balanced on a few rocks. On one side was the pile of corns and the other side held the smouldering coals which she was fanning vigorously. She saw I was looking curiously at her and thinking maybe I was a prospective customer she looked up and I was floored! The beauty of the startling green eyes almost made me stumble- they were clear and bright and what was strange was she had dark skin- normally one does not associate green eyes with dark skin!

Egypt, like India has a mixture of races and you see all kind of colour combinations here and all kinds of features. But there are too many races- you have a mixture of Greek, European, Arabic and African features but normally the colours remain true- that is a fair person may have different coloured eyes and hair and a dark person has the black or brown eyes and hair but this girl was startling. I wish I could have taken a picture and put it up (remember the National Geographic cover of an Afghan girl?) but I didn’t know whether she or her guardian would object so I went on mulling over the strange combination of features and colours.

The next day again she was there. She gave me half a smile of recognition. The smell of roasting corn wafted by and almost tempted me to stop and pick one up from her. What stopped me was the fact that here they do not add salt and lime like they do in India (and of course the calories!) After this I saw her regularly and smiled at her. She was always kneeling down on the rough concrete tending to her cart quietly. I never saw an adult near her or any friends who came to meet her. Her customers were few as they were more sophisticated gleaming stainless steel carts offering more hygienic corns around and naturally people flocked there! In fact I thought I would give her a pound just like that or pretend to buy a corn and then throw it away later on but I never did!

I used to go on this same track for a walk about six months ago and it used to be pristine – the path was always swept clean, there were no vendors allowed here and only people who loved to walk or to exercise could be seen trundling to and fro. But now the path looked like Juhu or Chowpatty in Mumbai. It was filled with people specially couples who hid behind rocks. The vendors were scattered here and there, shouting and advertising there fares. The path was littered with coke cans and chips packets with only a harassed janitor trying to collect the trash as fast as he could! The tea vendors washing the cups from broken plastic buckets and throwing the water on the path (You were lucky if one such throw did not hit you!)

Fortunately the sea here was too rough to swim otherwise it would be filled with families who put up two chairs and an umbrella wherever they felt like and made it their private place! The Corniche extends for about thirty two kilometers – why take away a mile of this beautiful stretch to indulge in commercial activities? I wonder where those young people are who had vowed that they would keep Egypt clean after the revolution (remember they painted the sidewalks and the wall so it would look beautiful)

Coming back to my girl with the green eyes I wondered how much she made each day to make it worth her while to spend hours on this path waiting for a few pounds. Does she go to school? (It is holidays for all the schools now) Is she trying to make pocket money? Giving up her friends and play time. Or is she just trying to survive? Or what...?  Is this what freedom is all about to be able to earn at the cost of childhood? Freedom should be a beautiful and peaceful feeling – maybe this young girl could be used as an icon of freedom- her beauty and serenity is captivating to say the least. I just wish I dared to speak to her and lead her away from what she thinks is right (I am not sure about that) to bring her to what I think is right (But I am not free you see!)

The clock struck one and the mouse ran down...

            The water lay in a stagnant pool on the rough stairway. It was eerily silent except for the faraway noise of a drill being worked. When I looked down the stairwell I felt giddy but irritation and anger made me totter down on my formal heels. I stomped down muttering profanities to myself and at the feminine voice over the telephone who had informed me that the lift would not work for another one hour and I had a meeting to attend in exactly ten minutes!

The day had begun normally – a busy early morning and a lazy late morning heading towards a sleepy afternoon. I had just fallen deep into my nap when the in-house phone woke me up.  A cultured English- speaking feminine voice informed me that the lift would not be working for an hour. I looked at the clock and saw it was two thirty. Even after giving allowance for delays I decided that it should be working by four thirty at the latest when Mickey would be back from school and I would have to leave for my meeting at five fifteen. So I very politely thanked the voice for informing me (although my beautiful sleep was gone now!) and went back to laze on the bed appreciating the beauty of the blue Mediterranean.

Post tea it was a disaster! The daughter phoned to say she would be late as she was editing a project! She was (I believe strongly) supposed to tell the driver to come and pick me up and later bring her back home but she thought I was supposed to do so and hence no message was sent to him! Meanwhile I was ready, dot at five o’clock and gave my usual call to the driver to bring the car up.

“But Madam”, he exclaimed “I am still at school, waiting for Mickey!”

I asked him to wait – called up the volatile teenager and asked for an explanation. Much good it did though! I was stuck! So there I was- back to calling up the driver and wheedling with him to come and pick me up in ten minutes. He very gallantly promised to do so and can you believe it he was here in ten minutes. So what was the problem you may ask? 

I was ready with my purse (I checked to see whether the door keys, money and cell were there and the file with all the relevant papers were there too) I smartly pulled the door close behind me and went up a few steps to access the lift. I saw no lights on the two lifts and I hurried to the service lift which was equally dead! My brain did an about turn I rushed back into the house and called up the reception demanding an explanation- after two false conversations (One said that he would be sending someone in ten minutes! How he would send is a mystery I have yet to solve! The second said the plumber would soon be coming, again why I would need a plumber when I needed to go down unless he would help me shin down a drain pipe is a dark puzzle) Ultimately the feminine voice who believes that she knows English well came on line...

“Madam, I cannot send the plumber now as the lift is not working. “she said soothingly,”I will do so after an hour when the lift has started working.”

It is an understatement to say that I spluttered, I was boiling with rage and only my very good manners stopped me from yelling down the phone. It was five twenty by now. I very quietly reminded her that she had said the lift would be working by three thirty and it was now five thirty. I needed to attend an important meeting.

“Madam”, she continued, “Why don’t you walk down the stairs?”

“Do you realize that I live on the twenty first floor”, I replied with dangerous calm

“Yes I do” was the rejoinder

I burst out then and banged the phone down for good measure and started down the stairs...

It was already five thirty. I phoned to inform the secretary that I would be late. She herself was stuck in a traffic jam ... (The whole world was jammed!)

I started on my expedition...  as I went down I kept looking at the numbers on the floor (all in Arabic, I thanked God I had learnt them) and went on and on. Twenty, nineteen, eighteen...... and so on My anger fueled me and I kept on I reached seven and after that it was worse the steps were very rough , the walls were damp ; after the fifteenth floor I had started holding the railings for support so my hand s were filthy black (as bad as my mood!)  

Then I lost track of time and space; I tried an exit door just to see that it was welded shut- I panicked!  On the next floor I found a door open and I went on to it to find it was under construction, there was a lone guard there but he was offering his evening prayers so I came out and back and down the stairs. The floor numbers had disappeared only the sign “emergency exit” was there. I was worried- what if I never came out, would I have to climb back up? What if I died of suffocation or claustrophobia or whatever? 

At last I pushed open a door to enter the marbled precinct of the first floor lift area and met my lift man who murmured an apology. I did not have the energy to even glare at him; I continued stomping off towards the car and sat down thankfully and cleaned my grimy hands as well as I could. I did not miss the meeting as an unprecedented number of people had been delayed for a various number of reasons. (As if all our stars had got together and schemed to make us late!)

That evening as I nursed my bruised ego ( strangely  my legs were not paining) and related all this to my unsympathetic spouse, I realized that this has happened with me once in all the high rise apartments I have stayed in. First time I lived on the eighteenth floor I had to walk down because Mickey was a little girl and she would be scared to come up or wait down when the lift was not working, the next time was only a month back when we were on the tenth floor and I had again to go down (the tenth floor wasn’t too bad) and now I have conquered the Everest by going down twenty one floors!

But as I write all this down my old muscles are protesting...