The by-gone days of four wheeled transport

I am as repelled by public transport as the T-rex probably was by green, leafy things. It’s a disease actually, this incurable addiction to cabs. As an impecunious aspiring journalist, this burning need to “cab-it” has come at the cost of many other luxuries - like food, clothing and on one famous occasion the ability to pay for the cab. This is the reason why the recent hike in fares had me tying a noose and looking for a ceiling fan. Fortunately for mankind – my house does not have any (ceiling fans that is).

I had heard scurrilous rumors about a rise in fares sometime before the holiday season. Having refused to learn from previous rumors which turned out to be true (the rise in cigarette prices for example), I continued to flag down those beautiful blues and uplifting yellows of transportation heaven without a second thought.

Then one day, it happened. The meter read $2.80 and the peak hour charge was $1. Engrossed as I was, as is my wont, in happy thoughts of working for Cricinfo, this change did not register. A few minutes later though, Pandora let loose all sorts of containers. It was just a chance glance at the meter that took away all that is good and holy in this world. The peak hour charge read $3.00 and was climbing even as the little yellow birds twittered around my head.

I engaged the cabbie in dialogue, asking him if there was a problem with the meter wiring. Being the taciturn sorts, he merely looked quizzically at me and shook his head – unaware that my very being was tottering. I tried again, asking him the reason why the little red numbers were rising faster than a Geiger counter would beep in Chernobyl. Reasons like the increase in diesel prices, the erosion of Amazon forests, congestion on roads, the fact that the Bush poodle needed a pedicure, the flourishing Indian democracy and expenses for Sonia Gandhi’s hindi classes poured forth. I realized that the reasons mattered not one whit, for the winds of change had buffeted me towards the nearest LRT station.

I live at the edge of civilization. Before leaving for my house, people sacrifice all manner of creatures, cast wistful glances at their abodes, place pictures of their families in front pockets and pray to any God that comes to mind. Atheists cry.For it is an arduous journey this, involving as it does using multiple modes of transport, pit stops for refreshments and marking X’s on trees. They arrive at my place with beards, bruises and shoulder length hail; their possessions usually lost or stolen by brigands whose presence is inevitable on such arduous routes.

My plight should now be easily imaginable. Every time I leave the house, the cabs mock me and the LRT stations open up like a chasm. To me, having to take public transport over cabs is like being forced to use khaadi condoms instead of latex. Yet, economic sense demands I do so (take public transport). So, I have decided not to leave home. The only ventures outside are to forage for food, and take advantage of some of those sun endowed vitamins that people are always harping about. This shall be my own silent protest – much like a loincloth wearing bald man did some 70 years ago. And look what he was able to achieve! I shall win – one day, I will sit in that front seat, put on the seat belt, look the LRT station in the eye and not flinch!