11
‘We’ve already paid for the taxi,’ I said. ‘So, you can pretend to get along. See it
as a budget exercise.’
My mother and I walked towards the taxi stand outside campus. She had no
inclination to see where MR Gandhi lived. The Sabarmati Ashram, on the outskirts
of the city, was a key tourist attraction. Ananya had got lunch packed in little
packets from Topaz. According to her, it would be a Kodak moment to picnic
somewhere by the Sabarmati river. Of course, she had no idea about her missed
Kodak moment when my mother had made insightful comments about certain
South Indian actresses.
‘We had booked a Qualis,’ I told the driver who stood next to an Indica. Ananya
and her family were already at the taxi stand. Her mother looked like she had just
finished a grumble session, maybe her natural expression.
‘The Qualis is on election duty. We only have this.’ The driver crushed tobacco
in his palm.
‘How can we all fit in?’ I wondered.
‘We take double the passengers, squeeze in,’ the driver said.
‘Let’s take an auto,’ I said.
‘I’m not taking an auto,’ my mother said as she slid into the backseat.
‘You can sit in front and make madam sit in your lap,’ the driver pointed
Ananya to me. Ananya’s mother gave the driver a glare strong enough to silence
him for the rest of the day.
‘Mom, can you take an auto?’ Ananya requested her mother.
‘Why, we have also paid for this,’ she said. ‘Something something illa illa!’
‘Seri, seri, Amma,’ Ananya said.
We finally arrived at an arrangement. Ananya’s dad sat in front with Ananya in
his lap. Ananya’s mother sat behind with her son in her lap. My mother had