A confession...

As I step on Kennedy Bridge to hail a cab, I notice one parked right in front of me. Four tough looking youngsters in their mid-twenties step out of it, so does the driver. The driver seems to be arguing with them about something, I walk nearby to know more. The meter fare converts to fifty rupees, but one of the ruffians’ hands over a ten rupee note to him and starts walking away. The driver, angered with the injustice of it, asks for the balance to be paid off. No sooner than he says this, trouble starts brewing. The four men stop dead in their tracks, turn around and walk towards the taxi driver, watching him steadily with fierce looks. One of them opens his wallet and says “Yeh le tere pachaas rupaiye, bhenchod.”(Take back your fifty rupees, you sisterfucker) Shivering, the driver takes his money silently, knowing that something dark is about to happen. The guy shoves the wallet back in his pocket and leaves. One of the roughnecks casually walks over and faces the taxi driver. Violently, he frisks the driver away from the vehicle. He has noticed that I am waiting for all the commotion to get over. In an authoritative tone, his bloodshot eyes meet mine as he says, “Tu iske sath hi jayega, lekin do minute ruk.” (You will go with him, but wait for two minutes).

Turning back to the driver, he continues to stare at him. The driver tries to go back towards his vehicle, but the guy stops him. As the driver opens his mouth to protest, he receives a stunningly powerful blow right across his face. He is literally thrown back with the force of it. The sound of it thunders across the entire area, further amplified by the early morning hours. I am in a helpless situation, since interfering with these men does not look wise though it is ethically right. My watchman hunts for another taxi and escorts me quickly into it. But I am horrified, witnessing the whole scene. I notice the guys laughing and chatting in Marathi as they walk away, leaving the driver standing alone in the middle of the street with tears in his eyes. They are the tears of injustice, the tears of agony. Tears that roll down the cheek of thousands of lower class, struggling Indians every day as they fight heat and nights earning their family’s daily bread. They never grab any media coverage or newspaper headlines; simply buried as they are beneath the countless sights and sounds of this city. It’s not the physical pain of the blow or losing another customer that hurts him as much as the pain of un-acceptance by his own society; the pain of being different. The brave Marathi manoos has done it yet again; proving his prowess and dominance over the North Indian bhaiyyas. It’s been sixty one years since India’s independence. The innocent face of the taxi driver with glistening red eyes lowers my head down in shame. India: A country of unity amidst diversity of religions and cultures. What about their followers, what about her citizens?

This is the voice of an ordinary, middle class Marathi manoos who is even today sporadically refused a ride by cabbies in his own town, after 23 years of living.