The Last Cab Ride

Delhi is a city of extremes. Be it the weather, lifestyle or emotions – everything is found in contrasts. I have been living a moderate life in this city for the last five years. A close examination of the daily life here makes you numb, moved and angry – all at the same time. This is a story about my last ride in a cab in Delhi in the violent context of existence and identity.

It was raining heavily and after spending a few minutes in dilemma, I took a cab from Connaught Place to Jamia. I had been out all day for film shooting; meanwhile, the sky had turned dusky – a sign for me to pack my paraphernalia and move towards home.

As an extension to my course work at Mass Communication Research Centre (MCRC), Jamia, I am making a documentary film on the politics of urbanisation and communal marginalisation in urban cities of India. Starting with Delhi – a rapidly growing metropolis that well exhibits a large Muslim ghetto in areas like Jamia Nagar, I intend to move to other cities to document the urban lives of the largest minority of a ‘vibrant’ democracy like India.

While the eventual culmination of this project will take time as the course work at the University is rigorous and intensive, I, nevertheless, thought of engaging with the idea in order to divert attention from the crisis back home in Kashmir.

Hailing from the Anantnag District of South Kashmir, I, like other fellow Kashmiris living in Delhi, carry memories of violence and prejudice.  The violence in Delhi may not necessarily be physical, but psychological.

There is a particular kind of treatment that the people from the Valley are given by the Indian middle-class landowners and traders. This treatment at their hands, according to my experience, has been hostile, until I availed that cab ride.

The cab driver was a former army soldier in Srinagar who had been on leave because of a leg injury, and the fellow rider was a serving army doctor stationed in Kashmir. No sooner did I board the cab that the driver, after taking a glimpse of me, asked if I was a foreigner. I quickly responded in the affirmative and said, “Yes, I belong to Kashmir.” He smiled and asked me to wear the seat belt. The smile was an exception. Generally, such a reply invites scorn, raised eyebrows or a clearing of the throat. This time, it was different.

After driving for two minutes on a straight wide boulevard, the driver said, “Sir, I am a former Indian army soldier and have served in Kashmir for the last twenty years. I am driving the cab because I have been on medical leave for the past two years because of the bullet injuries in my left leg.” I looked at him and gave a crisp response, “Okay.” He smiled again and said, “I am going back again. I have put in several applications in the past one year for a recall. And in the coming months I will go to Srinagar. It is a beautiful place, just like the people of that place.” This sounded strange to me.

I had usually heard Indians calling Kashmir “a paradise – on earth” but nobody from this part of the world had ever said that Kashmir is as beautiful as its people.

Instead, for most Indians, Kashmir was a paradise, but Kashmiris are suspected to be terrorists, and on jingoistic note, “pro-Pakistani” traitors.

This intrigued me. It was coming from a soldier, serving in the Indian army. Out of curiosity, I got engaged in a conversation with this driver and enquired, “What do you think of the current situation in Kashmir?” The doctor sitting behind us on the back seat interrupted, “I was there a few days ago. And as a doctor in India I feel that this has been the most challenging task for me. I am an army doctor, but seeing the injuries and casualties on the other side of the crossfire numbs me. With all objectivity I can only say that the protesters were an angry bunch of people, not terrorists. But, unfortunately, the state has treated them like enemies.” I looked behind and introduced myself. We exchanged empathetic glances. As he de-boarded the cab upon reaching his destination, shook hands with me and said, “Stay safe.”

This compassion was unusual for one of the most aggressive streets of the world.

Driving further towards my destination, the driver picked up the conversation from where the doctor left. “To kill somebody in their sleep is inhuman,” he said, referring to Burhan Wani, the Hizb commander who had been killed by the Indian army this year, on July 6. Humming an old Bollywood song, “Zindagi ke safar me in guzar jaate hain jo makaam woh phir nahi aate” he continued, “Nevertheless, I am waiting to go back to the Valley. Sir, I tell you, the value of a place is because of its people, and not because of the land. I fondly remember my years in Kashmir. I started as a young soldier and have made deep impressions about the people. The warmth of locals is unmatchable. On frozen winter evenings, they would specially prepare kehwa (traditional tea with dry fruit and saffron) for the entire battalion.

I have lived there as a soldier of the Indian army, but honestly speaking, I feel stronger sense of affinity with the people of the Valley.”

I replied, “True bhaiya,” and kept quiet for the rest of the two minutes that were left for the ride to get over. His statement, “Jagah kak ya kar nahai, jagah toh logo se hot ihai (There is nothing to do with a place, every place is defined by its people. And it is the people who matter)” resonated in my mind.

He dropped me at my destination. I picked up my bag, thanked him and moved towards my one room accommodation that I had recently acquired after rigmarole with the landowner, who took time to convince himself that I am a ‘good’ Kashmiri. After a background check he learnt that I have spent some three years in JNU. This too made him jittery, and while signing the rent agreement, he categorically advised me, “I do not want any political meetings in the house.” I smirked and agreed to the ‘terms and conditions’ exclusively necessary for a person of my identity.

While making sense of my personal struggle in this world of violence and the need to belong, I see India’s Kashmir dilemma to be originating from the streets of the national capital.

My last ride in the cab and my efforts to find a new accommodation encapsulate the Indian quandary about a ‘good’ and a ‘bad’ Kashmiri – that is – of unusual empathy and the usual ‘othering’.