Jay Rahaman

The red vinyl of my taxi seat sticks to my back like always. It’s not even noon yet, and the heat has already curled itself around my spine. The sweat collects under the plastic sheet my brother-in-law stretched over the driver’s seat years ago, thinking it would protect the leather. It protects nothing and collects everything — but I’ve grown used to it. I’m 45, I’ve been driving this cream-colored Ambassador for twenty years. The car’s older than some buildings in Mumbai, India, and I’m proud of it. It still rattles and purrs like an old tiger. We both do.

Yesterday was a strange day, though. I picked up a passenger in a sharp suit — type of man who speaks more into his phone than to you. Bank district to Colaba. He left behind a wallet thick enough to feed my family for a month. I found it only after I’d dropped him off, and for a moment, I sat there in silence. The temptation was real. My wife and I had been worrying about our son’s school fees. The landlord was being difficult again. But I’ve always believed that what you do in silence, the world hears in strange echoes. Karma listens.

So I spent two hours tracking him down. His business card was inside, tucked behind a thick wad of notes. When I rang his office bell and handed the wallet over, he stared at me like I was an alien. Then he grinned, shook my hand, and tried to press a reward into my palm. I refused. He insisted. I didn’t want it — it didn’t feel like mine.

Later, stuck in traffic near Victoria Terminus, a boy with burnt cheeks knocked on my window. I handed him the entire reward. He stared at the money, then at me. For a moment, the chaos around us stopped. He smiled. I smiled back.

Mumbai is like that. A beggar’s hand outside your window, a palace behind him. The scent of incense mixing with sewage. Sometimes it’s a mistake to drive — you could walk faster. But then you'd miss moments like that. Small things that remind you that you are still human. Still breathing. Still trying.