Auto... Auto...

Residing in a remote locality on the outskirts of Bangalore city, reaching my house has always been a matter of anxiety every time any of us need to use public transport. The bus stand is one and a half kilometers away and the frequency of buses is not commendable either. Most of the time we are forced to depend on auto rickshaws whose drivers fleece the last penny out of our wallets.

Recently on my return from Madurai at 6 in the morning, I tried to take an auto rickshaw back home. All the auto drivers I approached demanded double or triple fare. I was disappointed, but not intending to give up hope so soon, I trudged all the way to the prepaid auto stand counter. I bought a ticket to "Meenakshi Temple" and promptly got into the auto number 4360 as directed by the man at the counter. The driver asked me, "Where to, madam?"

"Bannerghatta road, Meenakshi Temple," I said as I got in. He frowned. He made no secret of the fact that he was least interested in driving all the way there, for he would not get a sawaari for his return trip. But obviously, he could not ask me to get off, or I would raise a hue and cry.

I felt sorry for him, as most of the auto drivers who got stuck in the prepaid queue had no choice. Nor could they demand extra fare, because if they did they would run the risk of losing their license.

The frustrated driver showed all his anger on the humble auto by driving it at a mind-boggling speed. Fortunately, it was still the wee hours of the morning and the roads were relatively free of traffic. I held on to dear life as I sat, clenching my fists and holding on desperately to my baggage, lest it topple off the seat and land on the road.

I tried to calm myself down by looking around. Just then, my eye fell on a message painted on the rear of the driver's seat, which said, "We are not respansable far you lagij." I was amused at the way English had been annihilated and 'Indianised,' for the message evidently meant, "We are not responsible for your luggage." I sighed. Suddenly, I was jolted forward as the driver applied a sudden brake and the auto came to a screeching halt. My head thudded against the rod across the meter and I flinched with pain.

The driver conspicuously oblivious to my plight continued to make sharp turns and overtook every odd car and bike on the road in his rabidity to reach the destination as fast as possible. In doing so, he encountered quite a few near-hits with other vehicles, and uttered the choicest of Kannada words each time. I was too shocked to even say a word, as I helplessly sat there praying that I should reach home in one piece.

On the way, an enthusiastic Toyota Qualis overtook us, much to the indignation of the auto driver. He called out, "Yo, goobey!" (which in Kannada means "you owl") to the driver of the Qualis, and followed him all the way up to a petrol bunk. Upon reaching there, he swiftly hopped out and got into a scuffle with him. The boys at the bunk had to intervene and calm him down. He finally came back to the auto, still shouting animatedly at the other driver. I meekly requested him to forget the squabble and drive. He gave me a cold stare and started the auto.

A few minutes later, a truck driver tried to jump a signal and whizzed past, missing us by mere inches. At once, our hero was full of vigor, waving his clenched fist threateningly at the truck driver screaming, "Loper, nan magne." He obviously meant "loafer." The abuse literally translates into "loafer, my son!" I have always wondered why Kannada warrants swearing with 'nan magne' meaning "my son," as a suffix every time. Anyway, coming back to the situation, the truck driver sneered at us and drove away, leaving behind the agitated auto driver still shouting a string of swear words at him. Once again, I meekly asked him to drive on as I was getting delayed.

That encouraged him to start off on a monologue covering the carelessness of truck drivers and how irritating it was for him to drive when others were so inconsiderate on the roads. I patiently endured the torturous lecture interjecting a "Hmm," and "Ah, yes," every now and then. I dared not contradict him, for I just wanted to reach home without any further mishap.

Fifteen minutes later, I reached home, and thanked my stars for keeping me alive through the ordeal. I paid the driver Rs. 10 extra voluntarily, not wanting to create yet another unpleasant scene right in front of my house early in the morning. I thanked him profusely, picked up my bag and walked into the house.