Mangal. Yes that is my name. In fact it is Mangal Kumar Singh but I say Mangal Kumar. You know Singh can either be a Rajput or a bhumiar, and I am the latter. It does not matter in this city but back at my home state, the surname can put one in big trouble any moment. So, better avoid it.

I knew about Mangal Pandey, the revolutionary freedom fighter, and a planet with this name only when I grew up. However, it has nothing to do with me getting this name. My unschooled parents named me Mangal because I was born on a common Tuesday and they could not think of any better name. There in the village a child is born every year in every house and due to undersupply of names children get such names, all good and meaningful names are already taken. Like, you will find a Sanjay, Rakesh and Bablu in every house, the rest are simply called Babuoa. A well educated friend of mine, he went to school till he became father of two children, told me once that Mangal was the name of a Roman god of war and since then I started liking my name.

I came to this city as a small boy and tugged for years to become what I am today. I am a wanderer, like the clouds. Well, I drive this yellow cab, one of the most red-blooded vehicles that our country ever produced. I feel like a king when I am at the steering, all other puny cars shiver with fear, they are made of husk after all. My uniform though having white sweat stains and mangled at various places, gives me an identity. Back in my village people would die to see themselves in this uniform. 

Once a lady who looked like a rotund jar and smelled as if dipped in a perfume bottle popped in my taxi and exclaimed “You stink like a pig!!!”

I have grown up in indignity, always mistreated, almost like a pig. That was in the village. But this city has changed me. Her crass remark felt like a castrating knife going down my testicles. My face turned black like thunder, I killed the ignition of the vehicle, lit a biri and stared daggers at her, silently. My eyes gleamed like the cherry of my biri. In no time she beat a hasty retreat and trotted away while the earth shook under her pencil heels. And then I laughed and laughed.

You see, respect is a two way street, you owe it.   

Long before I became a cabby I use to pull a rickshaw, in this same city. The owner was a meek man but his ferocious attack dog wife actually ran the show. Every evening she snatched all my earnings like a vulture which seizes even the last piece of flesh from the dead animal. I was always half-starved but pulled over nourished people the whole day under the blazing sun. And then, one day when the water crossed my head, I rode the rickshaw towards the highway, waved at a truck bearing the number of my home state, made a deal and disappeared with the Rickshaw. Sold the rickshaw for one thousand rupees and made merry with the money. 

See, people of our caste are ill-famed for their slyness; I always practice “Sanp mare lathi na tute”.

Talking of snakes, I was once bitten by a snake in my village. People dying of snake bite are common there but I survived. The snake was non-poisonous or maybe I had more poison in me. You have snakes here as well, in this city. They don’t crawl but jump in front of taxis for even minor mistakes and mostly for no mistakes. They appear in white uniform with long black boots. When dealing with direct encounters it is best to remain silent and motionless, well I practice the same with these creatures. Simply hand over a hundred rupee note and drive away slowly and cautiously. These snakes can rob you of your day’s earning if you argue.

See I have also got “NO REFUSAL” painted on my taxi but I refuse passengers unashamedly. Your destination need not be my destination. Do you share your good life with me then why do you expect me to have the same destination? I always choose lucrative destinations where passengers jostle for a taxi and I always demand extra fare. My pocket always jiggles with change but I mostly pocket the extra fare on the pretext of “No Change”.

One day some passenger left his mobile phone in my taxi. I knew about it only when it rang.

“Hey there, this is my phone, tell me where you are or else I will report to the police” snorted someone at the other end. He must be educated, from a good family and earning well, I assumed. The phone was a light, sleek and shining one.

I thought for a moment and announced “Buy a new phone”

Police, my foot!!!

I drove for a while and parked the taxi strategically away from a mobile phone shop, strode into it, made a deal, sold it for one thousand rupees. Again, respect is a two way street, you owe it! 

I have more tales to narrate but some other day. Tomorrow is a dry day and I need to buy some “Desi Daru”, in the shop one need to clash like stallions to buy it especially before a dry day. 

By the way, why are flags being sold, another India-Pak match or what?