I’m a 63-year old woman. I’ve lived nearly all my life in Delhi. I’m familiar with much of the city, especially the areas I frequent. By and large, I've felt reasonably ‘safe’ in a city that’s often called ‘the rape capital of India’.

Some of this comes, I’m sure, from age. Some from class. Some from familiarity with the city and its roads. And I guess some comes from habit; you live in a city, and you negotiate your way around it.

Last night, I took a taxi home from the airport, choosing to go with Meru. I was tired and hungry and wanted to get home.

The Meru cab manager at the airport took my name and destination, and allotted me cab number 8184. I tapped on the door of the cab and let myself in. The driver half turned his head, seeming a bit surprised, and then turned on the meter. I noticed that he only had a banyan on, but thought nothing much of it although by law drivers are required to wear their uniforms.

He skipped the taxi line where taxis are required to give the name of the passenger and the destination. I sort of half noticed but did not give it much attention.

He drove off, a bit jerkily, speeding and braking. Once again, I did not think much of this — so many Delhi taxi drivers use similar methods. Once the taxi moved into smoother traffic, he drove along, very, very slowly. I noticed, but thought — better slow than fast. I was quiet and could have dozed off but didn’t.

At some point, he pulled over to a corner of the otherwise crowded Ring Road, adjacent to a desolate spot near Anand Niketan. He stopped the cab and went round to the back. I was surprised, most drivers indicate or ask. He hadn’t bothered with either. He was away for some three or four minutes. I did not look back, thinking he was doing that ‘man thing’ — using the side of the road as a toilet.

A few minutes later, he was back. Before getting in the door, he peered through the passenger door, then got into the driver’s seat, turned around and stared at me for nearly a minute. When I — refusing to be cowed down — told him sternly to get a move on, he said to me in Hindi, ‘where do you want to go?’

I repeated my destination. He crawled along the edge of the road, slowing down near desolate spots, and pretended to speak to someone on the mobile, saying things like, ‘yes, I am coming, I am nearby’. He was perhaps trying to frighten me into thinking that he had an ally who was waiting nearby.

I knew this was a pretence. By this time I’d figured out he was drunk, and recognised the rancid smell in the taxi.

Beyond fear

It’s a strange thing, I wasn’t really afraid, the road was full of traffic, I knew it well. But I began to look at it not with my eyes, but with the eyes and ears of someone younger, someone unfamiliar with the city. I realised how afraid a person could become with this kind of intimidation.

I wondered how Meru — the taxi service that had been advertising itself as ‘safe and reliable’ after the Uber rape incident — could employ such people and let them drive drunk.

For the next 10 minutes he continued to try to intimidate me, pulling over to the side, staring at me, turning around and forgetting to drive, asking me ‘Who are you?’

Finally, near a metro station, I stopped him, got off, and took an auto. I took his number, demanded a receipt, he refused, and then thrust a blank paper at me and drove away.

The auto driver was sympathetic, and angry that I had not reported the cab driver to the police. I tried to call 100 but the signal was weak. I searched for a PCR van but did not see one. So I did the next best thing, reported the incident to Meru, where a young call centre executive merely said, ‘Madam, we will get back to you in 48 hours.’

The women’s helpline (1091) was much more helpful. Minutes later, I had a call from a PCR van, and their first question was ‘Madam, where are you right now, are you safe?’ I was once again pleasantly surprised. This was followed by a call from the Hauz Khas police station with details of my complaint, and a promise to take it up with the cab company. I have no idea whether they’ve done that or not. Or what the fate of the drunk driver is. I keep wondering what he had in mind. Was he just drunk or had he planned — what. Assault? Robbery? I have no way of knowing.

What I do know is that if this had happened to a stranger, someone unfamiliar with the city, it would have been an unpleasant, traumatic experience. Meru has no emergency line nor do other cab companies, as far as I know.

All I can do is to alert women to what they already know. Don’t believe the false propaganda of cab companies and be alert. And whatever you do, don’t take cab number 8184 from Meru. I’m still waiting to hear back from them on my complaint.

Urvashi Butalia is an editor, publisher and director of Zubaan

blink@thehindu.co.in

Related Topics