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The Taxi Driver Who Kissed Me

By Prakash Subbarao

It must have been the end of 2003. I was working in the United Arab Emirates and had a business meeting at the Sheraton, next to the creek, on the Deira side of Dubai.

It wasn’t much of a meeting really – Sheraton had agreed to sponsor a children’s event that we were organizing and I had to meet someone there in that connection and collect their offering.

The Sheraton Dubai Creek Hotel & Towers is located on the banks of the Dubai creek. It has valet parking but that day there was a parking slot in the horseshoe shaped driveway, very close to the road. It was a short walk to the hotel but I didn’t mind. The weather was fine and I was in a very relaxed mood. If I could sing, I would have sung the Daniel Boone’s “It’s a beautiful Sunday”. It may even have been a Sunday! (Holidays in the Middle East are on Friday).

Whistling a merry tune under my breath I went to my meeting.

My car, I must add, was new silver colored Honda Civic. A company car, I had recently taken delivery at the showroom its insides still smelled the way a new car does. I loved driving that car!

When I returned to the car after my meeting I was still in a cheerful mood. The meeting had gone well. I opened the door, tossed my attaché case onto the passenger seat and got in.

Though I had driven in India for over twenty years, one must take a tough driving test in the UAE before one gets a UAE license.

Some people have been trying to get a license for years and failed! I had enrolled at the Emirates Driving School where a Pakistani Pathan instructor smoothly made me unlearn what I knew and made me learn what I needed to know to drive in the UAE. The system there is very different.

It is drilled into your head that as soon as you get into the car, you check whether your seat is in the correct and comfortable position. You then check all the driving mirrors – the rear view mirror and the left and the right wing mirrors. Then you look back over your left shoulder before you start the car. By now you have the left indicator on. You again take a look backwards just to check that there is no traffic and then pull into the road.

I did all this. The road was clear. I pulled into the driveway.

In that split second, a Dubai Transport taxi Camry driving at high speed entered the driveway. There was a loud crunch as the taxi hit my car. The impact was almost exactly at the front left wheel position. Because my front left tyre was protruding out of the body (since I was taking a left turn) it apparently took all the impact. There were scratches to the bodywork but thankfully no dents.

I got out of the car as did the taxi driver. He was a short plump Bangladeshi with close cropped hair. He was about 5’6” (168 cm) tall.

I was a little shaken by the episode and was trying to collect my wits. However, in true sub-continent style he immediately started haranguing me and shouted that it was my fault that the accident had occurred etc.

By then a small crowd of onlookers collected around the two cars. In the crowd were several Indians and Pakistanis present who had witnessed the accident. They had seen me follow proper procedure and so they started berating the taxi driver for having rushed headlong into the hotel driveway without first checking if there was a car pulling out.

In the meanwhile I took out my cell phone to call the police.

The procedure in the UAE is that as soon as there has been an accident, one must call the cops. This is required for two reasons. (1) to process the insurance claim, and (2) to get a police accident clearance based on which garages will repair damaged cars. If one does not have these documents the car, most garages will refuse to accept the car for repair.

The moment the taxi driver saw me trying to call the cops a complete change came over him. “Hold on a sec! Don’t call the cops just now” he said.

“Why not?” I asked. This was baffling.

“We can settle this amongst ourselves. There is no need to call the police” he said.

This was sounding very fishy so I refused. “I am going to call the police” I told him.

“No, no! Please wait a moment! Let me explain” he said. “If you call the police, I will lose my job. I have been involved in two accidents already and as per Dubai Transport rules, a third offence will result in my automatic dismissal. I am a poor man. I came here to earn some money. I don’t want to go back to Bangladesh!”

I looked at him closely. His eyes told me that he was speaking the truth.

“But if I don’t register a police complaint, I won’t be able to repair my car!” I told him. Not only is it a company car, it is also brand new and under warranty. I don’t even know what is damaged!”

“Please give me a few minutes” he begged. “I know someone who owns a garage. I will go and get him here in my taxi. It will take only a few minutes. He will examine the car and tell you what the extent of damage is. Here! Take my cell phone and keep it as security. I will be back in a few minutes”. Saying this he jumped into the taxi, started it and sped away leaving me holding his cell phone and staring foolishly after him!

The crowd had been listening to all this and it seemed to me that their sympathies lay with the taxi driver!

Feeling extremely foolish, I waited for the driver to return.

Fifteen minutes later his cell phone rang. “I am calling to tell you that I will be there in ten minutes” he said. Fifteen minutes later it again rang. “My friend is in Sharjah. I will go to pick him up. I will be back as fast as I can” said the by-now familiar voice of the taxi driver. Since he had presented me with a fait accompli, there was nothing I could do but wait.

Ten minutes later his cell phone again rang. Before I could take the call, the ringing ceased. Seconds later a short, swarthy Filipino approached me. “I am the taxi driver’s brother” he told me. The statement wasn’t as strange as it sounded. In country’s like the UAE, everyone looks out for everyone else and strong brotherly bonds form which are irrespective of caste, creed, colour or religion. One needs all the support one can get in Dubai in case something goes wrong. “He is a good chap. Do you know that he has just returned from Bangladesh after performing his sister’s marriage?” the stranger asked me. I nodded, vaguely, not interested in being drawn into a discussion with a perfect stranger. For the next ten minutes he eulogized the missing cab driver. He sang high praise of him. His purpose of visiting me and talking to me was apparently to “soften” me and to put me in a forgiving frame of mind. As soon as he saw that I had ‘thawed’, he suddenly remembered a forgotten assignment and hurriedly left.

Ten minutes later the cab driver called to tell me that he had located his friend, the mechanic, and that they would be arriving soonest but traffic was heavy on the Sharjah-Dubai Highway and so it may take about half an hour for him to get there.

By now I had spent a considerable time at the hotel. The doormen, and bellboys and the waiting taxi drivers had all become good pals. “Come and sit in the lobby” a bell boy invited me. “I will let you know as soon as the taxi driver returns”. Short of offering me a drink, everyone was extremely hospitable. I must confess that waiting for an errant taxi driver while sitting in a plush hotel is not at all that bad. I was soon enjoying myself.

Time flew in my comfortable surroundings and very soon I found the Bangladeshi babu in front of me, wringing his hands to apologize for the delay and introducing his mechanic friend, all in one breath.

The friend did nothing to inspire my confidence. I suspected that he wasn’t really a mechanic but another of the Bangladeshi’s cronies who had been hastily inducted to lend a hand in extricating the taxi driver from a situation where he could potentially lose his job and be repatriated to Bangladesh.

After having circled the car twice and pointed out the obvious – that there were no dents, and no plastic broken – he opined that the car was as good as new and that there was nothing wrong with it! That’s when I blew my fuse. I pulled out my cell phone and dialled the police. “To hell with this charade” I thought to myself.” I owe this guy nothing! He has already wasted a lot of my time”.

“What are you doing?” the Bangladeshi fearfully asked.

“Calling the cops” I replied. “This has gone far enough”.

With a flick of his head that is truly sub-continental in body language, he immediately conveyed to his friend that he must leave without uttering a further word. The ‘accomplice’ speedily left the scene.

“Don’t call the police” he said. This time there was an edge in his voice.

“Then what shall I do?” I asked him, nonplussed.

“Let’s settle this matter between us. I can see no apparent damage to the car. I am a taxi driver and I know vehicles. This car has suffered a damage of Dirhams 200 at most” he said. “Maybe you would need to align and balance the tyres. That would be about it”.

“I am a mechanical engineer” I told him. “What if the blow has damaged the bearing? What if it has affected the chassis? I see no point in taking the risk. This is a new car and covered by insurance. Let me call the police!”

“No!” he almost shouted. “If you call the police I will be in deep trouble. I will lose my job. Please have pity on me. Don’t call the cops!”

I looked deep into his eyes.

He was telling me the truth.

For some unfathomable reason I started thinking of excluding the police and settling this matter amicably with him. It seemed the right thing to do under the circumstances.

“Give me Dirhams 500 and I will have the car checked up and repaired and we can close this matter” I told him.

“Dirhams 500!” he exclaimed, aghast. “That’s too much!”

“Nothing less. Take it or leave it”. I told him. I figured Dirhams 500 (the equivalent of Indian Rupees 7000) would cover the damage. It also seemed logical to double his original estimate as being closer to the correct value of damage.

After a lengthy session of bargaining, much of which was increasingly getting on my nerves, we had neither gained nor lost ground.

“I don’t have Dirhams 500 on me” he finally concluded. “I will have to go home and get it. I stay nearby. Will you wait? I will be back in ten minutes”.

OK, I nodded.

He was as good as his word. In less than ten minutes he was back.

He parked his taxi in the driveway, a smiling bell boy having held a vacant slot for him in the busy parking area. He hurried towards me. I was standing just inside the lobby and emerged when I saw him.

“Get into the car!” he ordered. His tone was gruff.

I was taken aback but I decided to maintain my composure. I got into my car. He hurried around to the passenger’s end and got in.

“Here is your Dirhams 500” he said and thrust a red banknote into my hand. I looked down surprised. It was a Dirham 500 note. It was a brand new bank note, probably just removed from an ATM; it felt crisp and authentic.

“Now, please give me a minute and listen to what I have to say” he said.

There was a tone of desperation in his voice. He seemed to be pleading.

OK, I nodded.

He started telling me about his life as a taxi driver in Dubai, about the squalid living conditions, how he had left a newly wedded wife back in Bangladesh, how he had pined for his wife and had managed to purchase a domestic worker’s visa on the black market from a greedy Arab; how he had struggled to survive; how he had had several financial setbacks and now this final accident that could ruin everything that he had worked for.

“That Dirhams 500 is what my wife had saved with great difficulty for a rainy day. Now I have taken it from her and given it to you. The money is yours to do with as you please but if you believe me, if you would like to help a person who is in deep trouble, please try and reduce the amount that you have taken. If you do not agree, I will understand but I appeal to your better senses and judgement” he said.

He had struck a very sensitive nerve deep within me.

Dubai is a place where everyone is your friend as long as you have money. It is a city with no heart when it encounters people in need. Having been there for many years, I had myself experienced the sheer callousness of people here.

There was a pregnant silence in the car as I pondered the situation. What should I do? Should I take the money and have car repaired without informing my company? Should I tell him to get out of the car and leave me alone?

Finally, after a lot of thought during which process he kept absolutely silent, I came to a decision.

“I don’t want this money” I told him. “It won’t be right for me to take it from you in view of what you have told me”. I thrust the note into his hand.

He looked stunned. He had probably not expected this.

What he did next took me completely by surprise. He half turned, lunged violently towards me, grabbed with me with both hands in a hug and gave me a resounding kiss on my cheeks.

It seemed so natural.

Without a word he took out is cell phone and dialled a number. He spoke fast, in Bengali. He thrust the mobile towards me. “My wife” was all he said.

I took the phone uncertainly and put it to my ear. I could hear a woman at the other end. She was screaming. “Thank you, thank you, thank you”.

There was no denying the sincerity in her voice.

Everything he had told me had been true.

I was completely shaken and speechless. I didn’t trust my voice or my emotions. I gestured to him to get out of the car.

“I cannot let you leave without some compensation” he told me. “This would be un-Islamic. Here! Please accept Dirhams Two Hundred from me with which to repair your car”. I dumbly nodded as he thrust two bank notes into my hand. I didn’t even check what denomination they were. My eyes were brimming with unshed tears. I looked at him. He was similarly struggling with his emotions.

“Thank you” he finally said. “Khuda Hafez. May Allah bless you and your family”

I just nodded.

He got out of his car and walked to his taxi. All the hotel staff was smiling at him.

He got into his taxi and started it. As he reached my car he slowed. We looked deeply into each other’s eyes, he gave me a final wave and a nod and he was gone.

All this happened quite some time ago. However, each time I recall this story, something deep inside me gives way. I can hear his wife screaming “Thank you, thank you, thank you”.

It is a sound I will never forget.

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