“Bandra,” I told the auto driver.
He looked at me suspiciously.
“Bandra?” he repeated.
“Yes, Bandra.”
“East or West?”
“West.”
And with that, our highly complicated linguistic exchange was successfully completed. No interpreter was summoned. No dictionary was opened. No government officer stood between us translating my desperate request into an officially approved language.
Unfortunately, we still did not reach Bandra.
A pothole stopped us.
It was not an ordinary pothole. It was a magnificent municipal achievement, wide enough to have its own pin code and deep enough to qualify for submarine exercises.
The driver braked.
“Big pothole, sir,” he said.
I understood him immediately. Strangely, the pothole also understood us, because it remained exactly where the government had left it.
Mumbai’s auto and taxi drivers are now being asked to undergo compulsory Marathi language training. I have nothing against Marathi. It is a beautiful language, rich in literature, culture and history. Anyone living and working in Maharashtra would benefit from learning it.
But I wonder how many passengers have stood helplessly beside an autorickshaw crying, “If only this driver and I possessed a common language, I could reach my destination!”
The passenger usually manages perfectly well.
“Station?”
The driver nods.
“Hospital?”
He nods.
“Airport?”
He refuses, but that is not a language problem.
The true difficulty begins after the passenger gets into the vehicle. The road disappears, the potholes appear, traffic stands still and the meter continues moving with extraordinary confidence.
Perhaps the government believes the driver should now describe the disaster in Marathi.
“Sir, the road ahead has vanished.”
“Could you please say that in Marathi?”
“Certainly. The road ahead has vanished.”
“Excellent. You are now officially qualified to remain stuck.”
Governments enjoy concentrating on such matters because teaching a driver a language is much easier than teaching a municipal contractor honesty. A classroom can be arranged, attendance taken and certificates distributed. But filling potholes requires supervision, responsibility and the dangerous possibility that somebody may ask where the money went.
The auto driver is an easy target. He works long hours, fights traffic, breathes pollution and somehow carries millions of Mumbai residents to work every day. Instead of making his life easier, we burden him with another rule.
Let us respect Marathi. Let us encourage everyone to learn it. But let us also respect the driver and the passenger.
Before teaching the driver how to say “pothole” in Marathi, perhaps the government should teach itself how to fill one.
That is a language every Mumbaikar will understand..!