Mumbai Noir by Altaf Tyrewala

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    He didn’t trust the people who climbed into the rear passenger seat every day. Most never even noticed him. He could be a mere machine. They could slide money into a slot in the back of his head and he would drive them to wherever they wanted to go. The few who acknowledged him did so only to haggle about the meter being tampered with and pay him less. To these people he was Rahim, hence mute. All he could do was glower at them, hoping his stern silence would make them cough up what was his due. But silence in this city is an alien commodity. Not only is it painful in its near-total absence, but exhibiting it seems to connote to people a capitulation so complete that they step on you like you are a foot-pedal brake.
    Afraid that if he ever blew a fuse a verbal projectile might launch itself out of his mouth without warning, Rahman decided to keep his passenger interactions to a bare minimum. To aid which he had recently bought a small slate and some chalk. Since the old meters never showed the actual fare, which had to be read off a small chart kept tucked above the windscreen, he had started writing the fare on the slate and holding it up for the passenger in the back. This small but determined action seemed to deter some of them from an impulsive haggle. The habitual hagglers needed to be fed the chalk, thought Rahman, copious amounts of it! But he banished any violent thoughts as soon as they entered his head. He might be pretending to be Rahim, but he didn’t want to become him. Not yet.
    Also, Rahman could never figure why Rahim would need a box full of chalk every second night when Rahman could manage a whole week on a solitary stick.
    The first time Rahman had been picked up by the pandus for interrogation was when bombs had ripped through the local trains. He remembered spending all evening ferrying the injured from Khar Station to Lilavati Hospital. He remembered not charging anyone a single paisa. He remembered telling the cops all of that, answering their long violent verbal questionnaire with countless humble nods and shakes of the head. And he remembered the subinspector—Doglekar was his name—saying in Marathi that all you Muslims are loose-tongued liars. And anyway, how could the police take his word for it when he didn’t even have a tongue to give his word with? Rahman was let off with a warning that time. The cops kept his license with them, the one that referred to him as Rahim. He remembered returning at two a.m. to see a panicked Rahim waiting for him beside two cold plates of food. Rahman had walked in silently, sat down, and they had eaten. One rice plate. By two. Like they always did. No fuss. No regret. No anger. Just fear. And a prayer. That tomorrow might bring a little more rehmat than today.
    In exchange for a week’s earnings Rahim collected their license the next evening.
    Sometimes, when Rahman feared for them, his nostrils would fill with the stench of dead flesh. The same smell from his father’s meat shop. The smell that Rahim reveled in, but Rahman couldn’t stand. It made all the fluids in his gut rise up together to his throat. Every last drop. Sweet. Salty. Bitter. Cold. Hot. Sharp. Bubbling. And his head would swim. It was the stench of death. And in those precise moments what he’d regret most of all was this plan of Rahim’s.
    To help himself through such times he’d gotten into the habit of keeping a small swab of cotton soaked in ittar behind his left ear. He’d scoop it out and slam it to his nose. And he’d be able to breathe again. But the ittar lingered on his whiskers, and Rahim, sharp fellow that he is, would catch a whiff the minute Rahman walked in at night. And then he’d rib him about having a woman stashed away in Juhu and keeping it secret from his dumb twin. Rahman was never amused by such talk, and earnestly defended himself, saying firstly he’d never do such things outside of marriage, and more importantly he’d never ever hide it from his