Taxi Wallah’s in London

London’s taxi is a sight to behold…spacious, comfortable and beautiful; but awfully costly. An automobile (accident of course) forced me to use this beauty. But taxi drivers can be so funny I never knew. I, with a ruptured duodenum, was struggling my way to hotel, hospital, hotel then again to hospital…and taxi drivers were becoming funnier by the minute.

After the doctor at St. Thomas’ said don’t squeak too much, it’s just a spasm nothing wrong with your tummy. I came out of the hospital slightly surprised but not pleasantly that nothing was wrong. I hired a taxi for St. Ermins Hotel, Caxton street. The taxi driver in his 50s was a quiet man. Through out the way, I was digging a gaping divide between the driver and myself by conversing in Hindi with my colleague.

The colleague who was dragging me to different places was visibly cursing me. He was trying to avoid me or pretending that it’s just an ill fate that he accompanied me. I had all my sympathies going for him. And it was actually very funny that reluctant helper was putting forth all kind of fake generosity. The taxi-wallah tried to drop us on the main road which was good 50 meters away from the hotel entrance. And with an undetected and unidentified ruptured duodenum, I was sure about being assertive. I said, “Please drop me inside as I am in pain.” The response was, “don’t say…I’m in pain, say I’m lazy.”

Then I had cheap thrill out his reluctance I said “you got it very right please drop me inside.” And he was left with no other option but to drop me where I wanted him to. After waiting for a full night in my hotel room, I was trying to get into a hospital. Again that reluctant attendant was there to help me reach an NHS centre. I asked him to bring the wheel chair as I couldn’t walk. He came with a blank expression in the room and said I had enquired the hotel had no wheel chair. I rebuffed, “No…I enquired they have one.”

Tragedy was becoming funny with me. I got a wheel chair but the lift was not big enough to accommodate the wheel chair available with the hotel. My colleague was finding it difficult to hide is happiness. I was disgusted beyond explanation. I walked into the lift and then towards the main entrance of the hotel. Some body from hotel got me a taxi. The taxi driver was a gentle looking white lady hell bent towards cleanliness. I can say this because what followed when she saw me.

The driver refused to get me into the taxi. As I had my hand on my tummy she was alarmed. She said he will puke in my taxi. I said, “No…I won’t.” She said, No you will.” I said, “I would put hand on mouth but please take me.” It’s a strange argument – isn’t it? But she bought the argument. I kept the promise I had made. One hand on belly and the other on mouth; I entered the taxi and headed towards the NHS.

Let me put in black and white: the lady driver was just hygiene conscious…neither rude nor racist. When we reached the NHS centre, my colleague was busy pulling out bugs from his pocket and the driver was pulling me out of the cab. Both were extremely concerned, one was waiting that if could manage to go inside on my own and the other was busy ensuring that I wouldn’t puke in her cab.