Free Finding Arun by Marisha Pink Page A

bags
and I think you are coming from outside.’
    His intonation and broken English reminded Aaron of
Kalpana’s letters.
    ‘I do come from India, my mother lives in Puri,’ he
responded, a little more defensively than he had intended to.
    At that moment it dawned on him that technically it
was not his first time in India at all and he wondered distractedly
whether the first time counted if he himself couldn’t recall
it.
    ‘You are speaking Oriya?’
    ‘Speaking what?’
    ‘Oriya. It is our language, isn’t it?’
    ‘Oh, I see. No, not speaking Oriya,’ answered Aaron,
suddenly feeling slightly ashamed.
    ‘Speaking Hindi only?’
    ‘No, not speaking Hindi either.’
    ‘You are taking a train for reaching in Puri?’
    ‘Yes, I’m taking the train to Puri.’
    ‘Is a long way going in Puri. How much it is costing
you the ticket?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ Aaron replied brusquely, exhausted
by the incessant questioning.
    He couldn’t understand the driver’s apparent
fascination with his life; taxi drivers in London were rarely
interested in anything that he had to say. The small driver either
failed to notice or chose to ignore the irritation in Aaron’s
voice, and continued on with his inquisition undeterred. Aaron did
his best to respond succinctly, yet politely, until the disturbing
antics beyond his window completely drew his attention away.
    The taxi had lurched forward into the heavy morning
traffic and was now stopping and starting abruptly, forced to allow
other vehicles to merge onto the road from all directions.
Impatient drivers sounded long horn blasts and leant out of their
windows, perilously close to the passing traffic, in a bid to gain
right of way. Battered old cars mingled with shiny new ones, and
whole families swept by on motorcycles, blissfully indifferent to
the chaos that Aaron was so acutely aware of. The driver weaved in
and out of the traffic as though on autopilot, focused more on his
line of questioning than on the road itself, and Aaron felt a
growing sense of unease, convinced that the man’s prolonged glances
at him through the rear-view mirror would eventually result in a
collision. He scrambled around in search of a seat belt, but there
was none to be found and, helpless, he settled for wedging himself
between the back of the driver’s seat and his own, tightly gripping
the inside of the door for added security.
    When they reached the railway station, Aaron let out
a grateful sigh of relief and quickly clambered out of the car,
thankful to have arrived unscathed. His heart had been thumping
furiously throughout the entire crazy ride and having counted no
less than seven near-collisions in the space of only ten minutes,
he had eventually resorted to closing his eyes in order to make it
through the journey. While the tiny driver ceremoniously removed
his bags from the rear compartment, Aaron stood on the kerb,
struggling to breathe in the thick, musty air as the sun beat down
on him fiercely from above. He was certain that the temperature had
climbed several degrees since he had exited the airport and his
lips tasted salty from the rivers of sweat that had dripped down
his face.
    The driver closed the rear compartment and looked up
at Aaron expectantly, shielding his eyes from the brightness of the
sun with his hand. Aaron dealt out the one hundred rupees that they
had agreed upon, but the driver’s palm remained outstretched as he
smiled conspiratorially, cocking his head to one side.
    ‘Sir?’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘You are having something small for me please,
sir?’
    Aaron stared down at the driver blankly.
    ‘I just paid you. One hundred rupees, like we
agreed.’
    ‘Yes sir, but you are having some tip maybe for
me?’
    Aaron wanted to laugh in the driver’s face, but
despite his cheekiness, Aaron had to admire the boldness of his
approach. He placed a few small denomination notes into the
driver’s hand and after thanking and blessing him, the small man
hopped back