It was a pleasure watching you navigate you taxi in the holiday traffic past Mahim, Panditji, yet another story of a runaway vagabond with a hundred bucks stolen from a village home, running away because a parent has been unfair; stretching the money till you can’t pay for even the cheapest streetfood, taking on odd jobs carrying cement-brick loads at a construction site, and then as the contractor notices your dedication, watching your luck turn, the quick rise to supervisor, after a few years changing over to the hotel field and learning about its pitfalls firsthand with one more inebriated Arab to entertain; the realization that this was taking you “ the wrong way”, the simple drivers job at a conglomerate chauffeuring the scions of industry and learning their whims and eccentricities, the forced retirement with pay post-strike, the nine months at the pretty star’s as you watched her metamorphose from refined to foul mouthed, and then your own taxi, short on earnings but high on self respect. Yes,your children go to an English school, you proudly tell me. What a contrast to the chiffon and diamonds clad hi fi lunging for the buffet tables later, yesterday evening.