Rickshaw-wallah: “Sir? Auto sir?”
Sagar: “No”
R: “Auto! Auto! Sir?”
S: “No, boss”
R: “Taxi, Sir?”
S: “Nahi, bhaiyya” (No, brother)
R: “Sir?” [Khaki-uniformed Rickshaw driver shaking his head laterally with superhuman frequency]
S: “No! I want to wal-NO! Why am I explaining myself to you…$*#@(&!!!!”

Any composer trying to capture the aural assault of a typical Indian road would be remiss if they did not include this dialogue as an interlude to their composition. An earnest representation would include this interchange, at the risk of redundancy, at least four times within the span of ten minutes.

As someone who operates in the yuppified world of business, I must admit that I do admire the tenacity of their salesmanship. There seems to be a belief among these rickshaw-wallahs that I’m simply being coy, or playing “hard-to-get,” and that what I want more than anything else in my life is to ride in one of their kerosene-fueled rickshaws instead of enjoying a leisurely promenade.

Occasionally, my common sense fails me and I pay one of these fearless men to try killing me as many times as possible en route to my destination. They are overwhelmingly qualified and determined to perform this task. Before any of this fun can begin, however, one must partake in the ancient ritual of haggling over the fare. Some heathens have switched to metered fare, but a purist does not meddle with such treasonous technology. Rather, both rickshaw-wallahs and their patrons rely upon some bastardized version of the same formula. The common variables of this formula are distance, cost per kilometer, supply and absurdity. My personal bastardization of the formula is something like this:

(Distance x Cost Per Kilometer – Supply x 5) / Absurdity = Starting Offer for Fare

Of course, the rickshaw-wallah has his own formula, so after the initial calculations are shared among the two de facto mathematicians, the ensuing fifteen minutes are spent pretending that averaging two numbers is a skill that can only be performed by overly-exuberant thespians. If there was an Academy Award for Best Depiction of Numerical Shock, I’d have at least seven Oscars on my desk, and a Lifetime Achievement Award to boot.

This negotiation always seems to teeter on the precipice of hostility, and only made worse when the only words the two parties have in common are numbers. There is an art to asking someone to accept payment that is inconceivably low. Submitting such an offer can only be done when delivered with a bit of humor and sangfroid. On several negotiations, I’ve lost my footing and plunged into a kerfuffle. Never a fisticuffs, just a verbal spat between two people who do not understand each other. One party always relents, and whether victorious or vanquished, I typically crawl into the backseat of the rickshaw, a black smudge invariably finding its way onto my pants from the smog-encrusted vinyl seat. As the rickshaw-wallah driver jerks the engine to life, and we putter along the roads of India, we both sit sullenly, mentally recalculating our formulas.

The scene from there is always the same:
Being a child of the 80s, my eyes are naturally drawn to the shiny rear-view mirror that is quivering from what I can imagine is the same fear of death that I am struggling with in the backseat. Naturally, the mirror is pointed at me, and not at the road. When we stop momentarily, I see my reflection; the sun glinting off the beads of sweat on my face, a look of surliness commandeering my face. Recognizing the cantankerous curmudgeon in the mirror, I look in the other mirror (also not pointed at the road), hoping to find an equally incensed rickshaw-wallah glowering back at me. Instead, I find a man who is calmly doing his job. No anger, no rage – all of that is stewing in the backseat.

I think it is time I give the rickshaw-wallahs a chance. One of these rickshaw-wallahs will be my friend, nolens volens.

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