The Drivers

I stand with the drivers. I do not have a placard. One of them asks, ‘Big boss?’ I nod.

5 am is the peak hour at the international airport. The flights from the Middle-east arrive then.

The exit area is fashioned like a catwalk. The hoi polloi are not allowed near the building. There is a long sloping path running parallel to the building from the exit door to an opening at the far right. Drivers wait there patiently, on one side, not crowding, allowing space for each placard, some held high, some low. The families, and friends, crowd around the railing along the path, for the first glimpse of their long-gone loved-ones and the bags with duty-free Chanel, Toblerone and Johnny Walker.

‘That lady, there, that fat one in black with three kids, so gloomy, no? Is the hubby coming back for good? Or time for another kid?’ one driver comments.

‘Look at the one coming out. Doesn’t he look like a paedophile? Fat old grandfather, they are the worst. I hope he is not for me, but some perverts tip well,’ another notes.

‘Hey, I know that chap coming out behind grandpa. He lived in my area. Ha, ha, suit boot, bet he is wearing velvet underwear.’

I join in. ‘Why do the ladies always come out with sunglasses on top of their head, and their rich guys with half-pants?’

‘But you can make out those from the Gulf and those from the West transiting via there,’ one of them adds.

We can be considerate. ‘If only their kids were not wearing cheap shoes, that family too could have looked rich.’

‘Oh God, oh god, let her be mine. What a body! I am sure she will give a ten dollar tip.’

‘Yeah, yeah, and ask you to marry her?’ We laugh.

‘Oh my mother, see that one coming out now. Who does she think she is – Lord Devendra’s father Muthupattar’s daughter? I want to see the poor husband waiting for that one.’

I step out. They do not laugh.

As I said, they can be considerate.