NOT for him the pompous prescriptions of two liters of water and a five-mile walk a day, as a route to longevity of life. If that made sense, the Arabian Sea would dry up, and a walk on it to shop in Dubai’s duty-free, would no longer be labeled stupid.
So he gulped a glass of water, then slothfully trudged a few yards mornings and evenings, which, he argued, would pass for a tailored walk for men of his age. He was already long on life and had no company, except a stick to avoid a tumble. When an out-of-town chore became inescapable, a taxi cab was called to help fill in the task.
The cab-man was a familiar face. His name was Raju. He combed every street of the town regularly, hoping to catch a client in need and thus, keep his income-stream on the flow. While on it, he also dropped in at the road-side eateries, to keep his belly full and fuelled for long drives each day.
Xashti (south) Goa was where he came from, and spoke in Konkani the way the locals did. There was a variance in dialects though, but he could fine-tune them all, with the proficiency of a polyglot.
When navigating perilous potholes on narrow village lanes, he would sigh, “Saiba tum pau” (help me, Lord). His puzzled clients wondered what religious faith he belonged to, but he drove home a point in a typical, Goa-centric spirit: “A drowning man clutches at the same last straw, irrespective of his religious affinity. Doesn’t he?”
Raju was also a kind-hearted, tolerant creature. Plump, as a pumpkin and lovable as a labrador. No matter how big or small his clients, or how many pieces of their luggage, he utilised every inch of space in the boot or the roof of his cab to fit it all, in or on. He even compressed his mid-riff to accommodate an extra passenger by his side. Such odd times arose when the Gulfies came in with bits and pieces of black-gold; or, when the Afrikanders fired off, supposedly English phrases, which do not exist even in the present day “Tharoorpedia.”
His car’s rear-view mirror could detect whether a couple romancing on the hind seat was a pair of fly-by-night operators, or hard-core lovers. This time the die fell on the latter. Nevertheless, they all loved Raju for being a good Samaritan when things fell through. Here’s one incident relevant to that narrative and deserving of a mention.
Lawrie had a lover, but his “helicopter-parenting” father was an obstacle on his way. He got his only son, to be married to his best friend’s daughter, Josephine. Mother toed the line and so did the in-laws.
On the day of their nuptial ceremony, Josephine was all decked up at the altar, ecstatic and waiting for her fiancé’s ring to wrap around her finger. But Lawrie was nowhere in sight. His father turned red with fury and the guests, blue with the untoward delay.
“Lawrie” is a Scottish name which means “crafty,” and rightly enough, so was the reluctant groom-to-be. He was once again on Raju’s hind seat, in an embrace with his lover, and heading to Dabolim airport to catch a flight to heaven.