The Taxi Driver

It was an angel, in a black and yellow Ambassador, who turned out to be a saviour.

- Padmavati Mhatre

THE YEAR WAS 1964. I was about 16 and lived in Nagercoil, a small town in the southernmost tip of India. From the time I was a small child I had seen my family go through several ups and downs. While my father and elder brother were in Bombay (it was not Mumbai then) to earn a living, I was at home, in our small rented accommodation, looking after my ailing mother, who had been bedridden for 15 years.

I was too young to remember why and how my beautiful Amma, once an accomplished teacher, became so sick. Her body shook violently, often, and she was unable to keep her eyes open. Always petrified something would happen to her, I would lower my head on her chest sometimes to check if she was still breathing. I lived in the fear that Amma would die when I was away to school. This is why I preferred to stay home taking care of her. My childhood was troubled by fears and insecurities.

One day Amma’s condition turned serious and she needed immediate medical help. There was a government hospital about an hour way. Dazed and confused, I decided to rush her there. There was no public transport available in Christ Nagar, the neighbourhood where we stayed. Also, Amma was so sick that there was no option but to hire a taxi. Guessing that the fare would be about ₹2, I hurriedly borrowed about ₹2.50 from my friends.