Setting a Tune to the Wrong Meter

(Published in Zeitgeist, The New Indian Express, dated 28th February 2009)

Sometimes, you know you have the kind of face that begs to be taken advantage of by autodrivers. I approach autos with all the docility of the proverbial sacrificial goat. Across the country, I have been witness to their eyes lighting up in anticipation of an easy bargain, and have had several out-of-body experiences, watching myself put forth futile arguments as they launched into stories of their starving wives, malnutrition-afflicted children, homes with walls falling apart, and the rising fuel prices. A few years ago, a friend taught me the "look here, I'm a journalist; I know the prices, I know the police" line. I might be the only journalist in history who hasn't been able to carry that off. Fellow-members of the fourth estate have compared my predicament to that of a rapper who can't say "brotha". Sometimes, the lack of a particular quality in oneself makes one admire the same quality in others. There are four stalwarts in the field of bargaining with autos, whom I think deserve mention in these troubled times, when despite the fuel price cuts, I find myself unable to make a ten kilometre journey for less than a hundred and twenty rupees.

One is a friend of mine with a penchant for walking on medians and manipulating the world with a puppy face. Perhaps it is a combination of these qualities that have penetrated the defences of autodrivers. But she made history by travelling six kilometres for thirty rupees. The story goes like this – once upon a time, as Velachery basked under the gloaming of a summer's evening, an isolated auto came into contact with this four-foot-eleven-inch matador. Sighting what he misperceived as easy prey, the autodriver demanded a hundred rupees. The matador laughed, told him she had been born and raised in Chennai, a statement she managed to carry off despite her Anglicised accent and assortment of jewellery from various parts of the world. The autodriver was then subjected to a thirty-second bulletin, in the course of which she managed to convey she was from the press, had relatives in the crime branch and the metre rates had recently been revised. Half an hour later, she joined us at a coffee shop, gloating over her hitherto unparalleled feat.

The second of these stalwarts was born and raised in the Gulf, and came with the part-American, part-Malayali twang characteristic of a student of the Indian schools in the Gulf. And yet, he taught me what I consider an invaluable technique for bargaining when there is no short supply of autos. Standing outside a mall, he accosted an auto and said, "West Mambalam. Forty rupees." It was a seven-kilometre distance, and I laughed. The autodriver made the pleading face that would precede an account of his impoverishment, and the stalwart coolly said, "next!" Five dazed autos passed by, till finally, he said, "go, go. The next autodriver's in the line." The introduction of colleague rivalry into the argument had its effect ,and waving at me, the stalwart was on his way to his destination (which, much to my surprise, he went on to reach safely).

The third stalwart was famous for his neutral accent. He spoke English, Hindi, Bengali and Tamil without a flicker of a change in cadence. His grip on each of the languages, though, was an impressive cross-section of enlightenment. His technique was simple. In a voice that could rival the pathos of the most appealing train-singer, he would say, "saar, student, saar. Kaasu illey." He usually paid half what I did to travel a couple of kilometres more than I did.

But the Most Valuable Bargainer award must go to a friend of mine from Rajasthan who doesn't speak a word of Tamil. He would bark out the location, hold up three fingers (this rate never varied, irrespective of distance) and keep laughing till the autodriver did all the bargaining himself and agreed to thirty rupees.