Prozac on Wheels
August 4, 2009
I often complain about using autorickshaws. It is backbreaking. Beggars can touch you. It is hot and dusty and all in all a frankly unpleasant experience – especially if, like me, autorickshaws have been your modus transportanti for the last four years.
Autorickshaw drivers don’t help. I have written about them at length, and most of them are total douches, although there are a few glorious exceptions. One in particular, as you may remember, beat up my aggressors and earned my eternal adoration.
My regular autorickshaw driver, Shashir, doesn’t behave with such panache. He is not very bright and certainly not remotely good-looking.
However, I do like him. He is devoted, patient, protecting and very very sweet. Every evening when he drops me home after yet another day of madness, dust and sweat, when I feel so worn off and dirty I would probably scare street dogs, my hair totally dishevelled, wearing some shapeless all-covering outfit, just when, numb from exhaustion, I just want to crawl in bed and forget everything, every day at this very moment, Shashir when I get out of his autorickshaw looks at me, his eyes wet with emotion, and tells me, in Hindi:
“You are beautiful.”