Nandi Durga Road — The Meter Clicked

As I left home I considered ordering an Uber. It would have been around the same low fare, and I could soften the blow of horns and pollution. But then again, I would have missed out on the fun. I wouldn’t have to roam the streets to find the willing driver to go in my desired direction, to slap down the meter, and offer me a fare price.

Most importantly, I would miss the negotiating.

“150!” Some passing auto drivers would demand.

“Meter!” I would reply.

“100.”

“Kyo?! Rat nahi hai aur yeh meter 50 hai!” (Why? It is not night, and the meter is fifty).

Sometimes they would drive away, finding the drive not worth their time, or unwilling to deal with a ruthless foreigner. But sometimes they would laugh. Either at the shock of me attempting to speak Hindi, or the complete absurdly of demanding formality and legality in an environment that clearly didn’t function that way.

And sometimes, they would succumb. After a few back and forth negotiations, and a wobble of their head, they would pull the meter handle down and it let it click green, beginning the treacherous journey.

On this cool and relaxing morning, I went through little struggle. The rarity of it made me hopeful for the day. As we sat at a traffic signal on the way to my destination, I could see a nearby auto driver peering into my vehicle. I thought maybe he was looking at my white skin or red hair.

But like most of my initial assumptions I’ve had about my recent experiences, I was wrong.

He wasn’t looking at me, rather my notebook, my words.

When I finally turned to him, he yelled with an enormous grin, raise of the arm, and an iconic flick of the wrist, “She’s learning Hindi!”

“Ahhh Hindi! Arrey!” My auto driver and few others yelled, joining in resounding arrreys.

The light turned green and the moment of relaxation and joy ended. The auto drivers restarted their engines and speed forward. The fleet of yellow disbanded and dispersed into the streets of Bangalore.