Sir, Do You Need A House Maid?

I wasn’t walking. Rather I had broken into a mild jog while pushing my way through the morning crowd at the Abu Dhabi bus station. Having alighted the early morning Dubai – Abu Dhabi bus my immediate destination was the row of taxis at the entrance of the station.

The bus had arrived late. The watch showed 10:40. The meeting with a very important Government client was at 11. Twenty minutes to go. A taxi within the next minute may help me make it just on time.

That’s when I saw him.

Slim and wiry, he was rather short for an African and he was deep into an argument with a fellow taxi driver who had cut ahead of him to the front of the taxi queue. To add insult to injury the other driver had snatched the passenger who should have been rightfully his.

I guess destiny had marked me as his next ride.

For a moment, I ignored my rush and observed him in action. The animated movement of hands, the rolling of the eyes and the desperate shaking of the head. There is always a bit of theatre when people from the African continent communicate. They speak with their mouth and their bodies. It oozes passion, involvement and depth. A lovely spectacle to behold.

Observing that I had reached the front passenger door of the taxi, he quit arguing and rushed to serve me. While buckling up, I politely asked;

“Did he cut ahead of you?”

With desperation, communicated with the expected throwing up of hands, he replied,

“He doesn’t understand!”.

Yes, the high volume, the deep intonation, the sweet accent and glass-like clarity. It was all there, as per script. African to the “A”. A bit like Michael Holding in the commentary booth.

Clad in a grey shirt and black trousers, that held perfectly against his flat tucked-in tummy, he was smart. I feel a pang of jealousy when I see flat, tucked-in tummies. These gentlemen do not need a belt to hold their trousers in place. It just stays, as if attached to a magnet. Hmmm…

Now, I spend a lot of time in taxis, especially when in the UAE. The schedule usually goes like this – Exit hotel, taxi ride, first meeting, taxi ride, second meeting, taxi ride, third meeting, taxi ride, lunch, taxi ride, fourth meeting, taxi ride back to the hotel. By the end of the day, I would have hailed anywhere between four to 10 taxis.

Each of these rides offers a great opportunity to gather a quick glimpse into another life, another country, another culture. Taxi drivers in Dubai are mostly Pathans and Bangladeshis with a smattering of Nepalis and Ethiopians. Whereas drivers in Abu Dhabi are mostly from Africa. They usually hail from Botswana, Nigeria, Uganda and Ethiopia with the occasional outlier from Benin, Kenya or Cameroon.

My usual ice-breaker at the beginning of the ride is a guess of their country of origin. The name and picture of the driver are displayed on the small LED information screen on the dashboard.

Guessing by his surname, I asked,

“Are you from Nigeria?”

“Uganda”

1-0

1 to him.

My next attempt is at capitals. I pride myself on knowing the names of countries and their capitals rather well.

So, your capital is Kinshasa?

2-0

2 to him.

This wasn’t going to plan.

Now, seeing that I had got it wrong both times, he broke into a smile. A wide smile, displaying perfectly aligned teeth. Encouraged by his smile and suddenly remembering Meera Nair’s Mississippi Masala, which is partly set in Uganda, I ventured forth.

“Many Indians in Uganda?”

He answered in that deep voice.

“Yes, many. Mostly business people”.

That set the tone. Navigating through the well-manicured roads of Abu Dhabi, we gently eased into a conversation that flowed through familiar territories. Territories that are familiar to Africans and Indians. Corruption, bureaucracy and government inefficiency.

In essence, we both were the same. Two men, seeking our fortunes in a foreign land. One was driving. The other was riding. But, the destinations were the same.

As the car stopped for a while at a signal, my drop-off point less than a few hundred metres away, he popped a question.

“Sir, do you need a housemaid?”

I took a moment to answer.

“Well, no. I don’t live here. I live in India”

“What about your Indian friends here?”

I mentioned that I did not have an immediate answer. But, the question that he had asked was quite uncommon. Intrigued, I asked him.

“Who is the housemaid?”

“My wife. She’s in Uganda. I want to bring her here.”

It took a moment to register and my first reaction was anger. How could a man consider his wife a housemaid?

But, that reaction just lasted a fraction of a second because it hit me and hit me hard.

I had absolutely no bloody right to be angry at him. Sitting in that passenger seat, being driven, I had no right to be angry at the one driving. That was the reality of his life. For him, just being able to bring his wife over was a luxury, a dream.

There were a few more seconds to go before the lights turned green.

“You have kids?”

“Yes. Two children. They will stay with my mother.”

That explained everything.

Everything.

The lights turned green. I reached my destination. Paid the fare. Bid him a great day and rushed for the meeting.

But, over the course of the day and over the course of subsequent days and weeks, his face and his question kept coming back.

Though, in essence, we were the same, seeking our fortunes, in a foreign land, for our families, he was closer to the raw essence of life, more than me. Working without a break, 9 months at a stretch, not a single day off, he was tasting the salt of life every day.

Then it became easy for me to see. Here was a warrior, clad in the grey and black uniform of a Taxi driver. That was his battle dress. The one he wore to battle every day.

And, if he wanted to bring his wife to fight that battle with him, for their children, it was their right. And, if she had to go to battle with him, in the garb of a house-maid, then so be it. That was their choice.

Here were two warriors. A lion and lioness from Africa.

But that wasn’t the end of my mind’s wandering. Again and again, my mind went back to his Taxi. I pondered. What would happen if she came? Where would she stay?

For all I know from my conversations with numerous taxi drivers, over the past 9 years, they usually stay in what they call a “bed-space”. A bed-space is nothing but a cot, in a bunk bed, in a room shared by 4-8 taxi drivers.

She couldn’t stay with him. Of that I am sure. At least not immediately. She may stay in a small room at the house where she would be serving.

But, what aches my mind is, where and when would they meet? Taxi drivers never get an off-day. They ride day-after-day for 9 months. They usually get a long vacation, with no pay, for 3 months. The remaining 9 months, they work continuously and get paid a commission from the fare they collect. They are employed on contract, with minimal benefits.

She may get an off-day, maybe once a week. On that day, maybe he would steal an hour to be with her. They may go on a sunset ride through the corniche of Abu Dhabi. Maybe park the car and watch the sunset together. Later, have a delicious meal together over loud peals of laughter, animated gestures and rolled eyes.

But, beyond that, I wanted to know, where would they find time to become man and woman? Where would they make love like the lions and lionesses of Africa? Where could they hold each other and sweat together? Where would he find time to nuzzle his nose behind her soft earlobes and inhale her? Inhale her deeply and hold her scent inside, until the next time?

Because, by then, the command centre of the taxi company would notice that his taxi is not moving and will beep him. He will have to get back to his rides. She will have to return to the house she is serving.

I did pay the fare and exit the Taxi on that day. But, really, did I?

I think a part of me is even now inside that taxi, riding the streets of Abu Dhabi with him. I can see the smile of his children and feel the heat of Africa.

If I were to meet him again, I would shake his hand, hold it a moment longer and quietly tell him – “Good luck”

And in my mind I would tell him – “You are a warrior, tasting the salt of life, better than I ever can”

3-0.

3 to him.