Indian road trip (part 1)

We´re in a taxi. It´s a small thing. This white Suzuki. And we´re rolling down these sluice roads, and we´re down by the side of the Gangees – destination Delhi. It´s hotter than the devil´s arse in there. In the back of there. And we´ve got all the windows down and this hair dryer air is flooding in. And we´re listening to the Indian cricket commentary - half English, half Hindi. And it glides in an out of transmission. We bump and bustle and watch the herons fly and glisten in the burning sunlight that rickochets off the river and into our faces. And the driver up front is sweating.
- If you want A.C., 300 rupees more.
But me and Dan are too tight to pay. We´re skint and we´d rather sweat than worry about when the next meal’s coming.
- No, we´re ok. You just keep goin.
And the car bumping along, swirving past the on-coming lorries, vans, tractors, cows.
And over there the Gangees and kids swimming and splashing and buffaloes tossing there heads around and women washing their colours and old men washing away their sins or whatever.
He changes the channel and we are in a Bollywood movie. Only more realist. And he´s jigging about and singing bits here and there in out of tune Hindi. And his japa mala dangling down. And the Ganesh statue. And the Durga statuette.
- Has the trip been worth it? I look at him. I don´t know for me. I´m too fucked to know for me.
All those days sat in the ashram room staring out the walls. Talking to those walls, Watching the walls. Watching the mosquitoes zig zag over walls. And my facial hair growing to a beard and my toe nails growing out.
The taxi driver pulls the car over. The heat breaks over you and you fry. One minute, he says and steps out. Opens the boot. I step out. Drink my warm water. It doesn´t refresh. It can´t refresh. It won´t refresh me now. He starts taking off his clothes. Why is he taking off his clothes? I watch him. He´s down to his underpants. Reckon he´s so hot he´s going to drive in his undercrackers. But no. He pulls out this uniform. Must be his taxi driver uniform. Has to look official for Delhi. If the cops see him he’s got to look the part.
We get back in. He washes his face. Clearly tired. Sweating himself away.
- Close the windows.
He looks back at us clicking at the radio, and playing with the air cooler. We have won. The A.C. is on, and we aren´t paying extra.


D. Anderson 2008