fingertips in the water and went round the auto splashing drops. Then his mother fed Tochi a spoonful of the buttery yoghurt. Tochi touched her feet and she asked God to bless her son with success.
He drove into Pankaj Flats Colony, joining the squiggle of autos already parked by the gated compound, and climbed out into the hot afternoon. He’d never been to this quiet corner of the city before. A chowkidar sat dozing in his chair, thumbs hooked into his belt-loops, and on the other side of the gate, where the sun burst across the apartment blocks, Tochi could hear children playing. The other drivers were hunkered down in the shade of the wall, reading a paper or listening to the cricket. Tochi crouched down too, on the flats of his feet, rounding his back closely over his knees and threading fingers together tight across his shins, curling himself up into as small a target as possible for the sun. He wasn’t sure when the woman was going to come out. Any time between two and three, the list had said. Someone offered him a beedi, which he declined.
‘So you’ve taken Ashok Bhai’s auto?’
‘Bought.’
The man smiled. ‘That’s what I meant.’
His name was Susheel, he said. From Jannat. That was his auto over there, the one with the lucky red ribbons tied to the grille. He seemed younger than Tochi – the softness of his beard, a certain confidence.
‘If you need anything, just ask for me. Everyone knows who I am.’
Tochi nodded, thanked him, but perhaps he hadn’t seemed sufficiently impressed.
‘Ask anyone. Susheel. That’s me.’
There was a loud banging on the metal gate and a call for it to be opened. The chowkidar rolled up onto his feet, leisurely, stretching. He said he was coming, madam, coming. The drivers all stood up too, but when the gate flushed open to reveal the woman, most of them sat back down. She stepped forward, her hand a shield against the sun. Tochi didn’t know if this was her, and he didn’t want to approach and ask – it might look like he was in the business of stealing someone else’s pick-up. But then Susheel confirmed that this was his ride, or one of Ashok Bhai’s old ones, at least. Tochi walked to the woman, salaamed, and explained that he’d bought Ashok Bhai’s auto and if she would permit him to lead her to his vehicle he’d take her wherever she needed to go. There was a sudden silence, and Tochi could feel the drivers staring at him. The woman nodded and said, ‘Of course. Please, after you.’
He waited for her to be seated before rousing the engine and reversing out of the compound. ‘You should have brought the auto to me,’ the woman said.
Tochi nodded. He’d worked out as much already. ‘Sorry, madam.’
She laughed. ‘No matter.’
Twenty minutes later he parked outside a modern-looking building with ‘Sheetal’s’ embossed across the window in a spiky green diagonal.
‘Wow, that was fast,’ the woman said, throwing aside her magazine.
She gathered up the pleats of her crimson sari and stepped gracefully onto the lumpy tarmac. A sliver of her nut-brown midriff was briefly exposed.
‘Two hours, acha?’
Tochi nodded, and watched as the peon beamed and opened the door, and she swished up the marble steps and hurried inside, away from the heat.
Tochi drove to Kumhrar Road, where he caught a couple of fares: two white-saried widows carrying trays of unlit dia lamps to the Radha Krishna Mandir, and then a father and son who wanted to fly their kites on the ghats. When he got back to Sheetal’s, he still had to wait a full fat hour before the peon opened the door and the woman came down the steps, talking over her shoulder to a friend who followed. They stopped beside the auto, still talking. Something about someone’s kitty party. Tochi couldn’t be sure: their tongue was half English. He wanted to try for a few more fares before the evening grew too thick and he had to go home. He looked at the glassy timer in the centre of his
He drove into Pankaj Flats Colony, joining the squiggle of autos already parked by the gated compound, and climbed out into the hot afternoon. He’d never been to this quiet corner of the city before. A chowkidar sat dozing in his chair, thumbs hooked into his belt-loops, and on the other side of the gate, where the sun burst across the apartment blocks, Tochi could hear children playing. The other drivers were hunkered down in the shade of the wall, reading a paper or listening to the cricket. Tochi crouched down too, on the flats of his feet, rounding his back closely over his knees and threading fingers together tight across his shins, curling himself up into as small a target as possible for the sun. He wasn’t sure when the woman was going to come out. Any time between two and three, the list had said. Someone offered him a beedi, which he declined.
‘So you’ve taken Ashok Bhai’s auto?’
‘Bought.’
The man smiled. ‘That’s what I meant.’
His name was Susheel, he said. From Jannat. That was his auto over there, the one with the lucky red ribbons tied to the grille. He seemed younger than Tochi – the softness of his beard, a certain confidence.
‘If you need anything, just ask for me. Everyone knows who I am.’
Tochi nodded, thanked him, but perhaps he hadn’t seemed sufficiently impressed.
‘Ask anyone. Susheel. That’s me.’
There was a loud banging on the metal gate and a call for it to be opened. The chowkidar rolled up onto his feet, leisurely, stretching. He said he was coming, madam, coming. The drivers all stood up too, but when the gate flushed open to reveal the woman, most of them sat back down. She stepped forward, her hand a shield against the sun. Tochi didn’t know if this was her, and he didn’t want to approach and ask – it might look like he was in the business of stealing someone else’s pick-up. But then Susheel confirmed that this was his ride, or one of Ashok Bhai’s old ones, at least. Tochi walked to the woman, salaamed, and explained that he’d bought Ashok Bhai’s auto and if she would permit him to lead her to his vehicle he’d take her wherever she needed to go. There was a sudden silence, and Tochi could feel the drivers staring at him. The woman nodded and said, ‘Of course. Please, after you.’
He waited for her to be seated before rousing the engine and reversing out of the compound. ‘You should have brought the auto to me,’ the woman said.
Tochi nodded. He’d worked out as much already. ‘Sorry, madam.’
She laughed. ‘No matter.’
Twenty minutes later he parked outside a modern-looking building with ‘Sheetal’s’ embossed across the window in a spiky green diagonal.
‘Wow, that was fast,’ the woman said, throwing aside her magazine.
She gathered up the pleats of her crimson sari and stepped gracefully onto the lumpy tarmac. A sliver of her nut-brown midriff was briefly exposed.
‘Two hours, acha?’
Tochi nodded, and watched as the peon beamed and opened the door, and she swished up the marble steps and hurried inside, away from the heat.
Tochi drove to Kumhrar Road, where he caught a couple of fares: two white-saried widows carrying trays of unlit dia lamps to the Radha Krishna Mandir, and then a father and son who wanted to fly their kites on the ghats. When he got back to Sheetal’s, he still had to wait a full fat hour before the peon opened the door and the woman came down the steps, talking over her shoulder to a friend who followed. They stopped beside the auto, still talking. Something about someone’s kitty party. Tochi couldn’t be sure: their tongue was half English. He wanted to try for a few more fares before the evening grew too thick and he had to go home. He looked at the glassy timer in the centre of his
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