In the Driver’s seat

Who is the modern Indian Woman?

On a recent trip to Mumbai with my family, my father persisted on booking me a cab with a female driver for our destinations were different. It was twelve noon, the sun was out and bright, and the humidity made me perspire. Before I could argue with my father that there honestly was no need, he thrust a paper receipt with my name misspelt and my designated driver’s name, Gita.

Muttering to myself, I followed to the signage to the taxi stand. Here I was, an independent woman fully capable of taking care of herself taking a “Ladies” Cab. I was flustered.

On reaching the taxi stand, I saw a few women, each in a blue striped shirt and blue pants, some with their hair in plaits, and some with a boy cut, talking. Their shirts were half tucked out, almost with a sense of rebel. One tall woman with long hair in a plait, spun a set of keys on her finger. She even had a bindi and some gold bangles on.

“Haanji, madam?”

Snapping out of my daze, I replied, “Gita ji?”

The woman with the long hair and keys got up, dusting her palms on her pants, her bangles clinking.

“Kidhar ka hai ticket?”

“Bandstand,” I said with a small smile, handing her the crinkled receipt. She didn’t smile back.

“Chalo, didi.”

I followed her to a Maruti Suzuki Dezire. She opened the boot, and I began to lift my bag. She gently patted my hand and gestured that she’ll take care of it. With a single swift motion, my rather heavy bag was settled comfortably in the trunk. Despite my familiarity with strong women, I was surprised.

Once in the car, it began like any other ride. No words exchanged, the only conversation I was having was with my friends back home. Suddenly, the car braked and Gita ji honked loudly. I looked up startled, to see what the commotion was about. Two men on a motorbike coming from the wrong side were grumbling and pointing at us. Gita ji rolled the window down and gave them a piece of her mind. I was enthralled. She turned the steering wheel and we were on our way again.

“Ye gents log ka na ye hi problem hai,” I heard her mumble.

“Kya problem hai?” I was quickly interested in hearing what she had to say.

“Bas ye hi na, Ladies log ko gaadi nahi deni chahiye. Unko Chalana nahi aata. Wrong mein woh aate hai, aur phir humko sunate hai.”

Her rant didn’t sound alien to me, it was something I heard every time I drove, from my own male friends and family. Sometimes even the women made fun of women’s driving.

“Aap dekho, har jaga ka problem hai ye. Mere saath bhi yahi hota hai.” I said light heartedly.

“Jabse maine gaadi chalana chalu kiya hai, tabse bas mein sunti aa rahi hoon ki gaadi chalana ladkiyoon ka kaam nahi hai,” she continued, shaking her head.

After a few minutes of mentally debating on whether to ask her or not, I asked, “aap ko darr nahi lagta?”

“Darr kiss baat ka? Gaadi apni hai, steering ke peeche mein hoon. Kabhi zaroorat nahin padi, par ek bat bhi rakhti hoon,” she laughed.

“Aap kaunse area mein rehte ho?”

“Vaashi, didi.”

“Itna door? Raat ko vaapis jaane mein dikkat nahin hoti?”

“Nahin didi, bilkul nahin. Vaashi tak ka ride mil hi jaata hai.”

Here I was, a supposed modern, educated and independent woman, and then there was Gitaji. Our short ride together had told me a lot about who she was. Something that seemed to me as basic as driving a car gave her the liberty to go where she wanted, to earn a respectable income and live life on her own terms. With keys to a car that was until recently advertised as a masculine car, in a shirt-pant styled uniform, with her long hair in a plait and a bindi on her forehead, she defined a fresh facet to the modern Indian woman. Her golden bangle-d wrists rested on the steering wheel, and she was in control of not only the car, but her life.