My New Driver

I sat still with all the strangeness enveloping me like a blanket. I hate changes.

When I got used to the new country, we changed houses. When I finally de-sanitized my new house, we changed helpers. When I got accustomed to the whims of the new helper, we changed drivers. And when I got used to all the swashbuckling of our new driver, we changed again. And here I am, with this brand new stranger on the busy roads of a teeming city, smelling a faintly sickening smell of cigarette smoke and car-freshener, the FM radio blustering out gibberish, and my weird musings took on a sense of panic. I hate changes.

To break the ice, I said to him in my halting vernacular – “bisa ganti CD?” Can you change the CD?

He seemed overjoyed at the sound of my voice. I wondered how many panicky thoughts had raced through his head. He replied in a torrent which I was not even able to begin to comprehend, when he asked more succinctly, ending my misery, “CD?”

“Ya.”

“Nomor satu?”

I played the word in my mind. Nomor satu – number one. Number one what? It struck me all too suddenly that he might have meant which CD to play in our CD changer. Blast the CD changer, making difficult things impossible!

“Ya.” I replied quite predictably.

And then, the Om Shanti Om song – ankhon mei teri – filled our thin air, words flitting like butterflies mocking my verbal scarcity.

One minute into the song, I saw that my new driver was trying to grab my attention.

“Ya, Pak” – I said, again pretty predictably.

Again a torrent of words.

“Saya tidak bisa mengerti” – I can’t understand. I was apologetic. An intruder using their country, using their cars, using their drivers, and failing to understand them.

“Saya suka --,” and he pointed to the CD player. He said he likes the song. I smiled. A bridge is built on unknown waters. He again said a lot of things, a little of which I understood – he liked Hindi songs, he liked Hindi movies, he had this particular song at home, he listened to it every now and then. And then surprisingly, he sang along the beginning two lines. Wow! I almost wanted to clap. I didn’t know the words myself. But then I am very poor in Hindi. My new driver’s accent was much better than mine which my dear husband says sounds very French, also a language that I have no knowledge of.

“Anda tahu Hindi?” Do you know Hindi? I had to ask him.

“Tidak.” “Saya yanyi tapi tidak bisa mengerti.” I sing but cannot understand.

I thought of explaining the words to him, words of imperishable romance, of her breath being the wind that makes the singer’s heart soar like a kite, of moon being a shadow of her beauty, but I stumble on my lingual inadequacy and also something else, an invisible but taut line of cultural, social, and sexual inhibitions. I look out of the window, catch a glimpse of a sliver of a moon, point it out and say “chand.” He repeats, he is seemingly contented.

At least, we have music.