Our auto-rickshaw sped through the streets of Jodhpur, careening this way and that, locked in a tight race for God-knows-what with the motorcycle next to us. I close my eyes as I’m thrown against the meager padding of the rickshaw cab as we swerve just in time to narrowly miss hitting one of India’s sacred cows. I pull my daughter closer and pray that we make it to the hotel safely tonight. Because goodness gracious will I have a lot of regret if my decision to choose the beltless open-air vehicle that was immediately available vs the seatbelt-clad Maruti Suzuki Uber 20 minutes away lands us in the hospital. But what is life if not a series of calculated risks, no?
We pull to a stoplight and I smile when I see that our driver has decided to abide by the traffic signal this time. The guy in the rickshaw next to us seems to think I’m smiling at him though and shouts to me, “Where you from?†I’m just beginning to answer as our rickshaw rockets forward again and my reply “Mumbaaaaaaiiiii†gets lost on the wind.
I survive to see another day in Jodhpur. It’s 6:30 AM and our cab driver is waiting out front. I shout out to my daughter, “Ranguvir (Rahn-goo-veer) is here!†loving the way it rolls off my tongue as a rhyme. It turns out Ranguvir has big conversation plans for our 30-minute cab ride to the desert park. I cringe, not in the mood to make small talk, but with no obvious way out of it since we’re sitting side by side for the next half hour and my “Minnesota Nice†conditioning prevents me from telling him that I’d rather not talk.
“You marriage?†he starts out. This topic is very out of the blue and it takes me a minute to figure out what he’s saying. This feels like waaaaaay too much mental effort for 6:30 in the morning. “You marriage?†he repeats in his thick accent and it finally clicks that he’s asking me if I’m married. “Yesâ€, I reply. “My husband and I live in Mumbai with our daughter.†When I don’t add additional information, he switches topics, trying to talk me into visiting an arts and crafts village, where he will likely get a commission for bringing us. I keep my answers short and sweet. “No time. Sorry. Next visit.†We proceed with several other unrelated areas of questioning before he finally gets the hint that I’m not keen on talking. I breathe a sigh of gratitude and count down the minutes ‘til we arrive at our destination.
Our plane’s wheels touch down with a thud on the tarmac late Sunday night. We are back in Mumbai. The air is thick and muggy, causing sweat beads to form along my bra strap within 60 seconds of exiting the airport. The air is a curious yet all-to-familiar combination of fried food and burning garbage. It smells like home. I find the cab that will take Nia and I to our apartment and settle into the back seat. I am pleasantly surprised with the quality of the cab, though of course it is lacking in seat belts. I am even more surprised to see that we have a female driver, a true anomaly in Mumbai. I make a comment about how delighted I am to see a female driving a cab and can hear the pride in her voice when she replies, “Only 100 women taxi drivers in Mumbai.†Wow, I think. 100 in a city of 23 million. Such a small fraction but heck, it’s a start. This woman is a freaking pioneer. I decide I want her number so I can tell all my friends about her and support this female who is doing brave things in a heavily male-dominated culture.  May we all be so courageous.
