The Taxi Ride

At 4.30 pm on a Friday afternoon, Kesavnanda found himself pacing from one end of 52nd street and 6th avenue to another. He knew that taxicabs at that time of the day in Manhattan are difficult to come by. Also, it being Friday, people were looking to beat the train traffic for the weekend. Anytime a cab pulled over, there would be impromptu negotiations between vying passengers “If you are headed to Upper East side, I will split the fare with you,” and all Kesavnanda would be left with was the faint glow of the tail lights as the taxi disappeared in the horizon of a NY city avenue. The day had gone well for Kesavnanda; he had learnt that he would be getting promoted to be the head of purchasing at the chemical company he worked for in Buffalo. But on the streets of NY, Kesavnanda was having no such luck. He was not finding a cab. It was a long weekend and he wanted to get home to his family.

It was a pitiful sight. With his left hand, Kesavnanda was dragging the garment bag as its wheels took the brunt of the bumpy sidewalk. The computer case was slinging on his right shoulder and kept slipping off after every few steps. To add to the misery, the smell of roasted chestnuts which he hated was overwhelming. To top all this, it was a rainy spring day and Kesavnanda, as always, was caught this day without an umbrella. He was wearing a suit and new shoes that felt a half size too small. He had found a good deal on them at the local factory outlet but after a day of wearing those shoes, the money saved did not seem worth it. His toes felt strangulated, claustrophobic within the dark confined cemented interiors of the new shoes. He thought to himself that as soon as he boards the plane, the first thing he will do is take the shoes off and let the toes stretch from the day long ordeal. Oh, the mere thought of it was comforting.

“La Guardia, go to La Guardia?,” Kesavnanda yelled peeping through the passenger side window only to realize that someone else had already snuck in to the back seat from the other side. They wouldn’t even show courtesy—those NY women dressed in black and the men with their ears to the mobile, oblivious to everything else around them.

Kesavnanda shifted his thoughts to the task at hand, raised his right hand and started yelling “Taxi, taxi…goddamnit taaaaaxxxxxxiiiiiiiiiiiiiii.”

Just when the rain had picked up he saw the hopeful flashing lights of a cab pulling towards him. As soon as the taxi stopped in front of him, he opened the door and shoved himself inside and pulled on to the garment bag bringing it in with one flying swoop from the sidewalk. Goodbye chestnuts, he said to himself, at least for a month. A sigh of relief and then “Let’s go to La Guardia, my flight is at 6.30 pm, let’s go.” The recorded voice of a NY icon came on and asked him to fasten his seat belt. Kesavnanda ignored the warning. The cab driver nodded and slowly put the car in drive. “Sections of Midtown are closed and traffic is heavy sir” said the cab driver in a familiar accent. His diction conveyed a well educated man, Kesavnanda thought perhaps someone like himself, but due to some eventuality had ended up driving a cab. Kesavnanda became curious.

The cab driver had lowered the volume on the CD player. He was listening to Indian vocal classical. There was an amateur aspect to the recording and the sound. Kesavnanda thought it must have been a home recording project. It definitely did not sound like a professional singer’s recording, but still very pleasing to the ears. He shifted his garment bag to the left and moved to his right so that he could see the cab driver’s profile. The man in the front seat had an unkempt beard but had a dignified look. A clean collared shirt, briefly graying temples, a somber look on the face and eyes that were alert—although, eyes that had a certain sadness to them. The cab driver also did not have bags of potato chips or bottles of water lying on the seat next to him, like one would typically find in a NY city cab. Kesavnanda decided to start a dialogue. It was an old habit of his, something that his wife disliked. On their honeymoon, he had spent the hour long ride from Panjim airport to the hotel talking to the shuttle driver about everything from the medicinal values of cashew Feni to whether the love story about Donna Paula was for real or just folklore.

Kesavnanda (leaning over to the glass partition): Bhai, increase the volume, I like Indian vocal. (Pause) It looks like you are from my part of the world?

The cab driver nodded, increasing the volume and softly said “and what world would that be, sir?”

Kesavnanda: Oh, you know India, Pakistan, Bangladesh? It’s all the same my friend; it’s all the same, isn’t it? They call it South Asia these days, but when I came to the country we called it the Indian sub-continent. Ha Ha, maybe due to the latent desire to somehow hold on to what was lost in 47.

Yes, came the reply from the front seat.

Kesavnanda: So?

Cab Driver: India, sir. I am from India.

Kesavnanda: Ah, I thought so. Where in India?

Cab Driver: Gujarat.

Kesavnanda: Kem Cho, bhai. Ha Ha, that’s all the Gujarati I know. So, where in Gujarat?

Cab Driver (softly muttering): Godhra.

Kesavnanda: Oh, yes, I had a friend in college from Godhra. He lived in our hostel. He used to bring back the best kebobs and mutton from Godhra, the best; we used to finish them off the moment he stepped in to the hostel. He used to be baffled watching us devour everything. (With a slight laughter) In those days, there was no Ayodhya and no Hindu-Muslim rivalry like today, just good food to eat, Halal or Jhatka, it was all the same yaar, all the same! His name was Fakhruddin. We called him Fakhri. (Laughing again.) He had a girlfriend in Karachi and another in Kuwait. I remember once when the Karachi girl called in the middle of the night and he picked up the phone and called her by the Kuwaiti girl’s name. That was the end of the Karachi fling. (Pause) I wonder where he is now, maybe right here on 6th and 42nd, maybe! (Voice trailing away with a sigh.)

There was a muffle of acknowledgement from the front of the cab.

Kesavnanda: So, who is singing…this Indian classical? It’s pretty good you know. I like vocal, I listen to Jasraj. Even saw a concert last year in Long Island where Pandit Jasraj sang. (Pause, as the cab driver attempts to change lanes.) You know Pandit Jasraj is better on CD then in a live concert, he really is. Have you been to his concert?

The cabdriver shook his head in denial from the front seat and said “I don’t listen to music.”

Kesavnanda: Come on, you were listening to this CD before I got in the cab. You didn’t answer, so who is singing?

Cab Driver (passively, hoping to end the conversation): A young boy.

Kesavnanda: Who? What’s his name?

Cab Driver: A 17 year old boy I used to know. His name is…(pause)…was Rahim.

Kesavnanda: Does he still sing? He is pretty good you know. You said you used to know him, where is he now? Circling Bollywood for a singing role or on Sa Re Ga Ma.....you know, that show that is driving everybody crazy? (Slight laughter again.)

Cab Driver (sighing with polite impatience): Far, very far.

Kesavnanda: They are all far, my friend, they are all very far. Does he still sing? He should do a recording, this Rahim guy. I can see it on a CD “Rahim Khan accompanied by PK Sharma on Tabla. Live at Royal Albert Hall.” (Laughs and then pauses when there is no response from the driver.) I know some people in Bombay who could help. That’s where the money is mannn, that’s where it is. Not in this schlepping back and forth that you and I are doing. I will give you the name of a friend of mine in Bombay. This guy is connected.

Cab Driver: Thanks, but I do not need it.

Kesavnanda: Why not? It is never too late to make a vocation your profession, never too late my friend. You should encourage him.

Cab Driver: The boy Rahim….(Pause)…..he is dead.

Kesavnanda: Oh….I am sorry…(long silence)…how?

Cab Driver: He was killed.

Kesavnanda: Oh my. Who killed him? How?

Cab Driver: After the train incident in Gujarat, they killed him. (Briefly pausing, and looking at Kesavnanda in the rear view mirror) Sir, why do you want to hear this? Why are you interested? Why are you asking me so many questions? Could you please leave it alone?

Kesavnanda (in shock): I want to know. It was a terrible turn of events. I am sorry to hear that you know this boy who was killed. I have only read about the riots in the papers, never met anyone who….what else do you know?

Cab Driver: His father had a business of dry fruits, a family business they had had since the 19th century. He had gone to Fort….I mean the father had gone to Bombay for business when the incident happened, he could not travel back, was advised not to…..(pause)…..held back by everyone. It happened when he was gone….he could have saved him. They murdered him. (His voice rose briefly but then subsided.) They murdered his son, the crowds murdered his son.

The traffic was moving at a good pace. It had started to become dark outside. Kesavnanda was in shock and in some discomfort from the story and the awkwardness of it, but felt relieved that they were approaching the airport. And he thought to himself, you never know, the cab driver may be lying, may be trying to make a political point, may even be a Pakistani trying to provoke him. To close the conversation, Kesavnanda apologized for his inquisitiveness. There was silence as the cab pulled over to the curbside at the terminal. Kesavnanda started shuffling to find his wallet. He got down, pulled out two bills of $20, leaned over and handed it through the driver side window.

Hesitatingly, Kesavnanda asked, so, what else do you know about the boy?

Cab Driver (looking down, shuffling through a wad of dollar bills): Nothing more, sir. (Pause) Just that his father used to call him “Mukesh” playfully, teasingly, since he sang well. The boy didn’t mind it. He was a thinker, not loud like others his age. (Long silence.) He had deep penetrating eyes.

Kesavnanda: What about his mother? How is she doing? (Pause) Oh what a question. I am sure she is shattered, what a tragedy!

For the first time, the cab driver looked engaged, gave a loud laugh and sounded cheerful, somewhat excited like a child, his mood changing to mild elation. “Oh sir, as we talk, she—the mother is listening to him sing Raag Bhairavi, she is clapping softly, deliberately, rhythmically, with a slight smile on her face. She is paying attention to him but inattentively her right toe is fiddling with the chappal. Rahim is standing upright looking at her with his brown penetrating eyes, with a flock of hair falling on his forehead, he is hopeful that she is approving. Right now, both of them are immersed with themselves as they always were. Both of them are happy…(pause)…. ahh they are together.”

Kesavnanda: What? (Voice rising) You mean she….

Cab Driver: Yes they killed her too. The mob came running with swords, daggers and lathis.....she watched them pounce on Rahim who was crossing the street to his friend’s house, she ran down to save him but……..

Kesavnanda: Oh my god, oh my god, (goosebumps running through his body). I am so sorry to have asked. I am really sorry for what happened. You know, I am a Hindu…(pausing to say something)….

Cab Driver (with a weak smile): So was his mother. She was a temple going Hindu married to a Muslim. I…..(pause)….everyone used to tell her to wear the bindi, but she didn’t…(pause)….she should have, she really should have. (The cab driver's voice had become soft barely comprehensible; he was looking away.)

Through the window Kesavnanda leans over to put his hand on the cab driver’s shoulder. He sees a smallish black and white photograph hidden behind the wheel on the dashboard. He leans over and sees a man, woman and a teenage boy all smiling in the photograph. They are standing in front of a shop. The name of the shop on top of the photograph is cut-off, but the line below it reads “Purveyors of Dry Fruits. Est. 1885.”

Kesavnanda: Who is that man? That looks like….(looking at the cab driver in his face) that beard on your face, is that new? Oh my god, it’s you. He was your son, Rahim was your son. And his mother….oh my gaawwd!

Just then a black limo closed in and its driver yelled for Kesavnanda to move or else risk getting knocked over. In a hurry, the taxicab-driver started pulling out. Kesavnanda raised his left hand and started speaking incoherently at the cab driver. The limo driver smiled at Kesavnanda and made a comment about the rudeness and audacity of NY taxi drivers, and walked over to hand him his business card for future trips.

Kesavnanda stood frozen where the cab had briefly parked, other cars cautiously drove around him and his garment bag. Airport announcements could be heard in the background through the swinging doors. Planes thundered overhead. The security line could be seen slowly snaking through the check-in area. The rain had stopped. An early evening chill had taken over. Kesavnanada pulled out his mobile and pressed 1 on the dial pad. The answering machine on the other side kicked in after three rings and he could hear the cheerful message alternating between a woman and a young teenage boy. He hung up just when the beep came on.