If you live in the southern part of the city or the sprawls beyond, where the languid marshlands are rapidly usurped by boxes made of mortar and concrete, and take auto rickshaws for commuting daily, you must have sat in my auto-rickshaw. I drive an auto-rickshaw to earn my living; like thousands of young men of the city, who left their school, midway. I ply between two important squares of south Kolkata. If you are curious to know which one is mine, I`d suggest to take a note of the catchphrases written on the hind screen of the autos. Most of them are littered with cheap and clichéd slogans; but the one with “Love is a quivering happiness” is mine. It`s the only auto rickshaw in the city to bear such a beautiful quote. I doubt if any auto driver has even heard it. Whenever I read the line, a strange sensation rises in my heart; a pleasant but perilous feeling as if I were standing on the edge of a precipice and watching a descending cascade tumbling down into a great depth, which will eventually take me along, crashing into a whirlpool of scattering silvery flakes, the droplets catching the resplendent splinters of the setting sun. 

I don`t know why love doesn’t connote a fairytale to me; maybe it is something to do with my lonely, fatherless childhood; growing up watching my mother`s cheerless and miserable life. Or maybe it’s for my obsession of reading sad stories and novels, where love always remained unrequited.

  I began reading novels quite early; in the beginning it was novels written in Bengali that introduced me to the fascinating world of stories. One of the early books I read was Bimal Kar’ Asomoy. It was a poignant story and I fell in love with Mohona, a brave woman, who had walked out of her miserable marriage. Her forlorn life, which began in a fraud and ended in a void, had a great impact on me and since then I fell in love on numerous occasions with the heroines of the books I had read. I felt unbound joy when love bloomed, suffered miserably when the love perished. On many occasions, I used to lose sleep fretting over the gloom and despair of the characters that seemed so real to me. My mother laughed when she found me upset while reading some book. She found it strange when I reacted to the fictional incidents as if those were real, and she sneered when tried to share those with her. By the way, I think you know the quote is by Kahlil Gibran, the famous Lebanese-American poet.

But don`t take me for a poet by any mistake. I am not. I am just an ordinary boy, twenty years old, who quit his school after class ten. I have been driving auto since then. It`s a different matter that I didn’t stop my studies and passed my twelve last year in private. I love reading books, any book for that matter. Printed words excite me. Poems, novels, I savour whatever I can lay my hands on. I used to read books written in Bengali, my mother tongue; but now I have switched over to English novels. I have, quite painfully, discovered that it`s only English which can open up endless possibilities, like Aladdin’s magic lamp, to anybody, who wants to learn and climb up in life. It`s not easy to learn a new language; you have to read a lot and there are no shortcuts. I was held back by my poor vocabulary; it seemed a pain in the ass to go back to the dictionary on every word I stumbled at. But my hard work has paid off. I am now able to grasp the general meaning and also can read between the lines, but it`s an altogether different matter when it comes to speaking in English.

 Many a times, I listen to the boys and girls seated on the back seat of my auto speaking in fluent English between them. Only rarely they speak in Bengali, though I know, Bengali is their mother tongue. From the uniform, I can tell which school they go to; Don Bosco, St Xavier’s, Modern High, all these schools have their own distinctive uniforms. While driving, though my eyes are focused on the road, my ears are glued on to their conversation; how they speak, their diction, their style of framing sentences and the slang words they use. Sometimes, I can`t figure out what they are talking about, especially when they use slangs and short forms; but it thrills me when I catch some word that I have recently learnt. I wish if I could speak English like them!

 I went to a government school that teaches its students in Bengali medium. Most of the government schools of the city do so, but all the private schools, especially the famous ones, teach their students in English. Now, having discovered the advantages of studying in English medium, I have come to suspect that it was a conspiracy, hatched long ago, by the people in power, who were farsighted to identify the alchemic power of English which could flatten the great divide between the rich and the poor. The poor, having no means to pay the high fees of the private schools, went to government schools, and ended up becoming lowly employees. Surprisingly, this phenomenon escaped the notice of the middle class Bengalis, who, living in an illusion of learning in mother tongue, have missed the bus.

In my case, the school, run by government, waved my fees, for my mother had produced a BPL certificate. So, I had no choice. But those are old stories; I’ll come back to them later.

Right now I am waiting in a queue for an interview.

A couple of years ago a gigantic structure came up at Prince Mansur Alam Khan Road at the site of a crumbling factory that had closed decades ago. It was going to be a mall; my friends said. They said it was going to be the biggest mall in the city. How did it matter to me if it was the biggest or not?  I didn’t have money to shop there. Jadavpur Station Road market is good enough for my needs. You get everything cheaper, and my mother loves the market because there can bargain at her heart`s content. She is never happy, even if the seller gives her a discount. For her, the victory lies in quoting a ridiculous price on her first bid, and then raising it in small increments, like they do in auctions, to tire him out of his patience and wit.

But finally when the mall came into being, it`s swanky facade, that had multiple billboards of classy brands like Adidas, Nike and Gucci, gave it an international look. Soon it became one of the must-see places of the city. For a few weeks, all the people of the city thronged to the mall, to watch the latest and trendiest stuff, displayed in glitzy showrooms. All of my friends came in a group, watched the giant screen in the foyer that showed live cricket match in the cool comfort of air conditioning.

  My friends say that you get quality stuff in the mall, but they are a bit pricey; those are not for people like us. I have checked myself a couple of times; especially during the sale when all the different stores declare war with each other offering crazy rebates. During those sales you will notice serpentine queues at the entrance gate, even the police has to work extra time to manage the crowd. Whatever that may be, it`s definitely has turned out to be one of the most popular hangouts for both young and the old alike.

In summer, when the heat becomes unbearable, and there is hardly any passenger, I go to the mall and sneak into Bookmark, the bookshop. That is, in my opinion, the best part of the mall. Where else will you get to read so many books for free? One day, when I decided to switch over to English, I asked one of the stuffs, which one he thought was the right novel for somebody, who doesn’t know much English. He gave me a derisive look.

“What do you mean?” he said.

“Suggest me a good English novel which is easy to understand.”  I said.

“Why do you want to rake your brain? Go to the Bengali section. Pick up a Feluda book by Satyajit Ray or a Byomkesh Bakshi by Saradindu Gangopadhyay. Those are in great demand nowadays. Lots of films are being made on Byomkesh Bakshi,” he said.

“No, I want to read English novels,” I said.

He gave out an exasperated grunt, “Go to the children section and pick up any book by Enid Blyton. If you ought to read English novel, I think you should start with one of the Famous Five books.”

The first book I read was “The Mystery of The Strange messages.” It was the story of Fatty and his gang playing prank on Mr Goon, the portly dimwit policeman. I liked it, more because I didn’t have to look up the dictionary often. But I found Enid Blyton, he or she I don`t know, was a gourmet; because every time the gang was hungry, sumptuous food was laid on the dining table. Well, the food was different; they didn’t eat rice and fish curry like us.

I am straying away from the main story.

Presently, since half an hour, I am waiting in a queue for an interview. Since I have passed my twelve, I have begun hunting for a better job. An office job which doesn’t require to be on the road for the whole day, and inhale the dusty smoky air, jostle with cars and buses on the narrow roads and come back home, exhausted.  

Recently a few vacancies came up at Cavenders, one of the best known retail chains of the country, which has taken up the entire basement of the city mall. I submitted my application for the post of floor attendant. Today they have called me for interview. If I get through, I will be inducted into the army of uniform clad boys and girls, who watch over the display areas and assist the customers. At times, it`s difficult to spot the particular stuff you need in the huge cabinet. The floor attendants come handy in those tricky situations.

They probation period is one year. It`s sad that during probation, a floor attendant is paid peanuts in the name of stipend, but after a year, when one becomes a regular employee, the salary seems reasonably good.

 Cavenders hyper mart sells everything under one roof. From grocery items to electronic goods, the list is mind-boggling. I heard, in abroad they have bigger malls; I watched a few of those in English movie channels. Everything was so clean and uppish which made me feel low about my own country. But those are old stories; I reckon, our country is also catching up. This mall, arguably the biggest in our city, is no less than those I saw in the movies.

  Though it is too early to think where they will put me, in case I am selected; I wish I get to man one of the counters that sells computers and laptops. The world has come under reach of finger tips and it is all because of computers. I have, so far, only a vague idea how so many complicated works are done by flick of fingers. I want to learn them, explore the hitherto unknown areas. I hate to drive the auto rickshaw along the dusty roads of the city. It’s not for me, because I can`t see myself spending rest of my life on the road, haggle with people and march in road rallies along with fellow drivers with flags aloft whenever political leaders ask for it.

Since I have begun driving the auto, I have got this cough. What else will one get if you inhale polluted air for twelve hours in a day? I have read in newspapers that this city`s air is one of the worst polluted in the world. But who cares? I heard in many big cities bus and taxis run on CNG, a cleaner fuel. Why something can’t be done for this busted city! Two years ago, when I started driving, government changed the rule and made us to switch into LPG. I am probably one of the first batch who had begun driving the greener car, that don`t pollute the air like the adulterated petrol did before. The smoke, significantly less, has a fruity smell. I don`t know if you get it while you are seated, but I like the smell very much.

“Biplab Naskar.” I hear somebody calling my name and suddenly become aware of the interview. A man in a morose blue uniform, eyes me in disgust. As I stand up, he points his finger towards a closed door.

“Go in. It’s your turn.”

I get onto my feet, and feel trepidations inside; my chest tightens and my tongue dries up. I haven’t faced any interview in my life. Neither have I known what they ask in the interview. I curse myself when I realise that I haven’t considered these points before and just walked in. I should have prepared, taken advice from somebody who knew. As I pad up towards the closed door, I feel my feet have suddenly become heavy as if they are tied with ten kilo stone apiece.

“What`s the hell with you? Why aren’t you going in?” The peon yells.

I feel like punching him on his nose, but I have a tougher challenge ahead. I close my eyes, recall my mother’s worried face, and go in.

It is just another room, nothing special. There is a long table with four men seated across it. There are four laptops, one for each of them, which I presume are open, for when I enter, four pairs of eyes withdraw to take a look at me. The man, who appears to be the chief, is a kind looking fellow. He smiles at me and asks me to sit down. All four pairs of eyes leave me for a couple of seconds and turn to the computer screen to have a quick look of my CV. One of them leans sideways and whispers something to the chief. I can read his lips. He finds it weird why a boy, who got good grades in his tenth, wrote his twelfth in private.

 “You got good marks in your tenth board, but why you didn’t attend a proper school?” He asks me, his brows two question marks.

“I started working.” I say.

“What kind of work?”

“Driving auto rickshaw.”

 “You drive auto rickshaw?”

“Yes sir.” I say, frightened and confused, unsure about if driving an auto is a crime in the eyes of these gentlemen.

“But why?” One of them wants to know.

“Poverty sir. No money.” I say in English.

“Great!” Another man says. “Look gentlemen! Heard about lotus growing in a heap of cow dung, but never seen one.  He is one burning example.” The man smiles indulgently at me. I can make out he is impressed.

“Why do you want this job then?” The chief asks. “Aren’t you already working?”

“Yes Sir, I am working. But I don’t like my job,” I say.

All four pairs of eyes now focus on my face like the way, during a play, the spotlight freezes on the actor, when he delivers a smashing monologue. I know, all of them are impressed, though from their faces I can`t make out how much; but I don’t care. I concentrate on the chairman`s reaction.

“How much do you earn in a month?” He asks.

“Seven thousand rupees,” I say.

“Isn’t it too less for an auto wallah. Tell us the truth.”

“I earn around fourteen/ fifteen. But I have to share 50 percent of my income with the owner.”

“The auto is not yours?”

“No sir. It`s Jagadishbabu’s”.

“Isn’t seven thousand enough for you?”

“It`s not the money. I don’t like driving auto-rickshaw throughout the day. It`s too much for me. I have no energy left when I reach home.”

“What kind of work you want to do?”

 I want some spare time to study, to learn computer, after my work is over. The work shouldn’t consume all my waking hours, like the present one. I know it`s not possible to pursue a regular full-time course while working, but I can enrol in some correspondence courses. IGNOU and Annamalai University offer a great many correspondence courses. BA in English is the one I want to pursue. I want to get out of this vicious cycle of wretchedness, indigence and slummy life that this drudgery is forcing me into. I hate myself for being born into such a poor and miserable family. But I didn’t plan my birth. Someone else did. I want to rise above this, redeem my soul. But if I continue to drive auto all day, I won`t have time for anything else.

“Fixed hour duty and some time for myself,” I say.

The chairman smiles. I guess, he was expecting this kind of answer. He shifts in his chair, cups his chin and then asks me why I need time for myself.

“I want to study Sir.”

I notice all four men, with bemused eyes, turn towards me. For them, my answers are so unusual that they keep nodding and mouthing appreciations long after I stop. It`s not that I have tried to impress them deliberately. It`s just that they are liking my straight answers. My hunch says I am going to get this job. One of them asks me, “Why did you drop out after class ten?”

“Because my family couldn’t support me.” I answer promptly.

“What does your father do?” The chairman asks.

I don`t want to tell him that my father ran away when I was a kid. I don’t even know if this is true because all I heard about my father was from older neighbours, who had met him for a brief period, two decades back. I never asked my mother about him unless she volunteered to share information. I guess, the couple of years they had stayed together, weren’t worth remembering, for hardly ever, she speaks about him. As if it were a forgotten chapter, which has nothing to do with our present life; but I have known, with bitterness, all my life, how painful it is to contrive stories about him when people ask me about my father. He, even in his absence, had tied us down to a gloomy world of despair.

 Since I can remember, I have had always seen two of us living in this slum beside the railway line. The mother and the son, and a host of helpful neighbours, poor but golden at heart – that’s how I have known them from my childhood. A couple of elderly men, who knew my father, said my father went to Bombay in search of work. They said, he was a skilled mason, but had a sick mind. What kind of man leaves his wife and son alone? A selfish rascal, I often thought. But why should I tell all these to them? I look at them; they are waiting eagerly for my reply. I instantly decide to tell a lie.

“He is long dead,” I say.

I hear all of them sigh in great empathy to console me, as if I were really bereaved. No harm done, I tell myself. After all, if a father isn’t around when his son is growing up, it’s worse than being dead. Because when I was young, every year during Durga Puja, I used to expect him to show up with lot of gifts making up for his long absence. But he never came. When I became older, able to understand that he wasn’t going to come back ever, I sometimes imagined wistfully that he might one day suddenly appear with a broad smile, apologetic and embarrassed, nonetheless happy, finding his family alive.  It was foolish, because the image, which was hidden in my heart, brought tears into my eyes when I saw other boys playing with their dad. Though I hardly ever asked my mother, but at times, when I pestered her for something too long, she would threaten me telling that my father, who was a grouchy person, would rake me over the coals, when he comes back, if I nag her further. So, I have a concealed hatred against the person whom I haven’t seen even. Now, with all four of them mellowed down a bit, because I have played this emotional angle quite cleverly, I am pretty sure about my selection. I know I have edged out other applicants with this trump card.

“That`s unfortunate,” The chairman says, while the rest three nod in agreement.

I hope none of them asks me how my father died. It`s tiresome to tell a string of lies. I look around their faces and then concentrate on my battered nails, which I have nibbled away like a rat that has to bite something or other, to keep the teeth from growing too fast and pierce its own brain.

“So, who paid your for you school education and books?”

“My mother.” I say.

“Where does she work?”

I feel too low and embarrassed to tell them that she works as a maid in a couple of households of the locality. I am ashamed to tell them that I live in a slum by the railway line. We have no house of our own; we are kind of squatters, who came from unknown hinterland and had erected shelters on government land illegally. Every household of the slum have similar stories to tell. But it’s painful to admit that I have a mother who is an illiterate, unskilled and gauche woman. So, I come up with another lie.

“She is a seamstress.” I say.

I have lied almost everywhere about my mother`s profession because I can’t accept her to be a maid, who cleans up other people`s home, wipe their marbled floor, scrub their utensils that smell of one day old roasted chicken or fish curry.  I hate imagining her squatting over the pile of cooking pans and scour the bottom of the blackened pots, smeared with oils and spices. When I started working, I wished she`d stop her grind, but she hasn’t stopped it totally. She still cooks for one family at Jodhpur Park. One day, when I confronted her, she said that they had helped her during her bad times. Now, with the old lady living alone, because her husband died and son went abroad, it would be inhuman to leave her.

Four of them look at each other. I know this is the sign of approval. They speak in low voice so that I can`t catch their words. Then all of them go back to their files, write something simultaneously. Then the chief greets me.

“Congratulations! You are selected. The formal letter will reach your home within a week. How early can you join?”

“Tomorrow.”

All of them smile.

“We know, you are excited, but you have to wait until you get the selection letter. It will come from Bangalore, our head office.” One of them says.

“Do you have all necessary documents like voter ID and ration card?”

I had none of them a couple of years ago, I wasn’t eligible either. In this country you aren’t considered adult until you are eighteen. Neither are you allowed to vote. For me, voting right has no meaning as I have no interest in politics. My mother has a ration card in her name with me mentioned as dependent son; but that is all, I have to prove that I exist in this world. But two years back, when I started driving auto, Bapi, a neighbourhood senior, the Man Friday of the councillor of our ward, helped me to get all the documents I needed. In fact Bapi was the main reason why I became an auto driver. He came to our house when the tenth board result was declared two years ago with a box of sweets. I still remember the day.

It was a chilly morning. My mother had left for her work. Under the blanket, curled up in my most favourite position, I was dreaming. Then somebody knocked at the door. The sharp raps, came too fast, in a manner that said the person was in a hurry. I yelled, “who`s that?”

“Hey idle boy, you are still sleeping? Don’t you know your results are out?” I heard Bapi’s cheerful voice.

I jumped out off the bed.

Bapi had already come inside. The mild morning light filtered into the dark room and he looked like a ghost against the bright flare outside.

“Where is the light switch?” Bapi shouted, groping his way.

“On your left.” I said.

He switched on the yellow bulb hanging on the rafter. The room returned to its gloomy yellow impoverished look. I saw, he was dangling a paper in his hand. His face smiling, all teeth out.

“Biplab! You lazy bone! Get up. You scored eighty five percent in your board. Here is your mark sheet.”

It took some time for me to become aware of the reality. Still groggy eyed, I got up and took the piece of paper from him. It was really my mark sheet. It had my role number at the top. I scanned the marks. Most of them were according to my expectation, only the Maths was a pleasant surprise. I got 94 out of hundred; my best ever performance in Maths.

Bapi said, “I met your mother on the way. She is very happy.”

I smiled. He hugged me and shoved a rasogolla into my mouth.

“ Come on! let`s celebrate! You have made us proud!” He said.

I was about to ask him how he managed my get my mark sheet. But he said that he came last night and took my roll number from my mother. Amiyo’s cyber cafe cum photocopy shop opened up in the early morning just only for this. At least half a dozen students of the slum wrote their board this time; Amiyo was gracious enough to let all of them to check their results free. He even printed the mark sheets without charge.

But it didn’t take more than a few minutes for the glory to sink in and a gloom rising in its place, for I knew, my mother wouldn’t be able to pay for my studies any further. This was the end. What`s next? I didn’t know, neither my mother knew.

Bapi said, “I have thought something about you. I was just waiting to tell you. I had a talk with your mother also.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Why don`t you start driving auto like me?”

“I haven’t driven any. I don`t have a driving license. And we don`t have money to buy an auto rickshaw.” I said.

Bapi laughed.

“Who said you need a license? And neither you have to buy your own auto! It`s already there. You just have to sit and drive!”

“Is that so easy?”

“Come on Biplab! Speak like a man! How long your mother will break her back to feed you? You are already eighteen. Aren’t you?”

I nodded.

“It’s high time to start working.”

“But license?”

“It’s my headache. Leave it on me. Will you?” He said.

Next week he took me to the councillor’s office. It was small room, white washed with blow up of half a dozen political leaders hung on the wall. A few of them didn’t look Indian; one looked like Chinese and another European with a goatee.  A third had a royal moustache like a full grown caterpillar. Rest of them were Indian, two of them seemed quite familiar. In the room there were a few wooden chairs, a carom board on a tripod and a small TV on a wooden stand. A few men were sitting, chatting and smoking cigarettes. Half a dozen empty glasses, with a thin brown crust stuck at the bottom lay on an empty bench. There were few rolled up red flags, embellished with a star, a sickle and a hammer drawn in it. I recognised it belonged a political party in power.

“This is Biplab.” Bapi said. “He is interested to join our party.”

I was flabbergasted. What is this! I thought. It seemed like the office of the political party. Bapi had brought me here to enrol me to a political party about which I didn`t have much idea except that they came to power before I was born. I thought I`d protest, “No I am not interested in joining any political party. I want to study. I `d be happy if you enrol me in a good college, and pay my college fees.” I mumbled to myself.

 The crowd cheered me.

“We want fresh blood! Welcome young man!” One of them said.

“Welcome comrade!” said another.

“He is a very good student .” Bapi said to the crowd. “He got 85 percent marks in the board exams.”

“Great! Congrats!” all of them said together. “Which college  are you planning to go?” One of them asked.

I looked at their faces. Bapi came into my rescue.

“No, he isn’t going to any college. He is the only male member of the house. His father passed away. They have fallen into bad times. He has to start earning now. Actually this is the reason why I have brought him here.” Bapi said. I noticed the faces suddenly froze in a strange expression of pity. Then one of them said, “Bapi, why don`t you teach him how to drive an auto rickshaw?”

“I will. I have suggested him to start this.”

“Yes, this is how you should start being a part of our family.” One of them said.

“ Yes, I am ready. But he needs a license and an auto too. He doesn’t have funds to buy one.” Bapi said.

“Write down your details, address and father`s name.” A man took out a note book and gave it to me. “Next week come with an attested copy of your board mark sheet. Your license will be ready. In the meantime learn how to drive. It`s not difficult to drive an auto. You must have ridden bicycles.”

I nodded.

“Then it’s easy. You have to learn how to use the clutch and the gears. Bapi will teach you.” He said.

I was wondering why these people were interested to arrange a job for me. Maybe in that case they would get a devoted worker who would remain obliged to them for life. But I didn’t like to be a political worker. I didn’t know anything about politics. A communist party conglomerate has been running the government of our state while the country is being run by a coalition led by Congress. I don’t want to know more about this. My world is different; am I too selfish? I thought.

Bapi spoke about certain other things, about which I had no clue. Then we came back home. Next week I got my driving licence. Voter ID followed within a month. I metamorphosed into a law-abiding legitimate citizen from a clueless boy.

On the first month when I got my salary, half of what I actually had earned in the month, I enrolled in a coaching institute. I chose the evening shift that started at six. On many days, I became late, but my teachers were very supporting; they supplied me with the notes, took special classes for me on several evenings. It was a crazy, punishing schedule, but I pushed myself. I knew this is the only way I can rise above this lowliness, the abstemious hand to mouth existence that is holding me back. Ma was worried; though she was proud that her son wasn’t wasting his time and money after booze and grass that boys my age did when they started earning themselves but the hard work, in addition to the gruelling duty, made her fret about my health. I was never well built, and the dust and pollution took its toll on my lung. I started having nagging cough. She took me to a doctor. He suggested to use a mask and prescribed some tablets and inhalers. A fortnight`s abstinence from the road, brought me back in the pink. I knew, it was more important to score good marks in the twelfth`s exam for my future was depending on this. When the result was declared, the coaching institute gave a half page advertisement in the local newspaper with my photo, narrating I fought against all odds. I became a poster boy of perseverance.

“Yes sir, I have all of them.” I answer the chairman, coming back from my reflection.

“Good.” The chairman says. Then he rises and shakes my hand. I stand up and feel awkward. This is my first formal handshake with somebody who is an important person.

“So, come and join when you get your appointment letter. We will provide you two sets of uniforms. The day you join, don’t forget to meet Mr Pranab Sarkar for your dress. We always have some standard samples, a couple of them might be a good fit.” He says and waves me goodbye.

As I come out of the room, I feel, I am a different person now. I am not a wretched poor slum boy any more. Down a week, I will have a good job. I will have enough free time to pursue my studies. The life suddenly turns pleasant, worth living. I think I deserve this break. I have worked towards it. In the last two years I drove around the city all day through the heat and dust, and at night, when my gang either gulped down cheap whisky or chased grass, though my whole body ached, I poured over my books and studied. On some days, I went to sleep at cockcrow, and later in the day the grind felt terrible. But I survived, and the labour of love now seems so much gratifying. I haven’t told my mother about it. I know she will be very happy, excited when she will hear this.

I kick an empty trash can lying on the footpath. It goes off flying and lands on a sleeping mangy dog. It jumps off from its siesta and snarls at me baring its teeth. A small girl walking alongside her mother gets scared and starts crying. The walkers look over their shoulders as if I have committed some heinous crime. Hell! I am just happy for myself. I wish I could shout and tell the world, Hey! Look at me! I have landed on a decent job. I am not a broke autowallah any more!