is personal, such as the fact he’s not circumcised (his antipathy to Islam evidently has a history) or that he keeps liquor under his bed (although he claims never to touch it, ‘hardly ever actually’). But much of what we discuss sticks to the everyday, like the best way to rid a dog of maggots or which is the best-flavoured lassi (mango, apparently).
I remain fascinated by how Babu views the world around him, especially in a city such as Mumbai, where the divisions between the haves and have-nots are so stark. Doesn’t it frustrate him to be surrounded by so much wealth? When he’s driving past Anil Mabani’s two-billion-dollar skyscraper palace or watching the banking crowd feast on fresh salmon at Olive, doesn’t it make him jealous?
Over lunch one day in a greasy Chinese joint along Colaba’s main strip, I put the question to him directly.
He places his fork on the table and thinks a moment. Slowly, he works the chicken chow mein around his mouth. (Our lunches are exceptions to his usual veg diet.) He eyes squint ever so slightly with deliberation, as if he’s trying to work out if my question is somehow more complex than it appears.
‘I am not jealous with them. They are more studied than me.’
It is both an answer and not an answer, a politician’s response. Could he expand?
‘Maybe they come from a royal family, that’s why they have a good house. Maybe they have black money. Who knows?’
The truth of the matter doesn’t seem to bother him. He assumes no relation between his own lot and that of Mumbai’s moneyed classes. The two – the loaded and lacking – might be living cheek and jowl, but, in this driver’s mind at least, they are occupying different orbits.
‘Doesn’t it make you feel angry?’ I press, placing my fork on the table as well.
It suddenly feels as though we’re sparring, as if a duel with pronged cutlery is about to kick off.
‘No, I don’t feel angry,’ he replies, part indignant, part confused. ‘Why should I?’
It falls to me to wonder whether his puzzlement is genuine or if there’s more to his response. ‘Because of the unfairness of it all!’ I want to shout. ‘Because your kids go hungry while theirs grow fat!’ But I hold back. If he can’t see it, then I can’t explain it to him.
Maybe jealousy is too localised an emotion to feel about peopleso far removed from his own affairs, from the world of Ganesh Murty Nagar? Perhaps envy requires relational proximity to foster? Towards his neighbours – for their new extensions or their foreign remittances – its sting is stronger. But for those across the invisible wall, the visible divide, that separates India’s rich from its poor? No, it’s senseless, a futile waste of precious energy. It would be like me harbouring a hatred against Neil Armstrong for walking on the moon instead of me. What’s the point? The logic makes sense, but something about it – the impassivity, the resignation, the detached acquiescence – still doesn’t feel right.
I try another tack: ‘What do you think the best thing about being rich is?’
The tension dissipates. He chuckles and picks up his fork again. ‘The best thing is – what you call it? – a stylish life. Without doing anything. Just attending phone calls. Not doing big, hard work.’ He traps a straggle of stir-fried noodles and searches out a piece of chicken around which to wind them. ‘Not like my work. Running in the traffic all day. And police harassment for the parking. And dying in the pollution. I hate those things actually.’ I ask if he’d like a job in a big company. He says he would. The trappings of a ‘good position’ appeal to him particularly. ‘I’d like a car and a driver and a good flat along with the maid.’ He looks wistful and then a smidgen dejected. ‘But that is not possible because my education is low.’ He despises ‘the maths subject’ especially. ‘I don’t want to kill my mind by giving interest in those
I remain fascinated by how Babu views the world around him, especially in a city such as Mumbai, where the divisions between the haves and have-nots are so stark. Doesn’t it frustrate him to be surrounded by so much wealth? When he’s driving past Anil Mabani’s two-billion-dollar skyscraper palace or watching the banking crowd feast on fresh salmon at Olive, doesn’t it make him jealous?
Over lunch one day in a greasy Chinese joint along Colaba’s main strip, I put the question to him directly.
He places his fork on the table and thinks a moment. Slowly, he works the chicken chow mein around his mouth. (Our lunches are exceptions to his usual veg diet.) He eyes squint ever so slightly with deliberation, as if he’s trying to work out if my question is somehow more complex than it appears.
‘I am not jealous with them. They are more studied than me.’
It is both an answer and not an answer, a politician’s response. Could he expand?
‘Maybe they come from a royal family, that’s why they have a good house. Maybe they have black money. Who knows?’
The truth of the matter doesn’t seem to bother him. He assumes no relation between his own lot and that of Mumbai’s moneyed classes. The two – the loaded and lacking – might be living cheek and jowl, but, in this driver’s mind at least, they are occupying different orbits.
‘Doesn’t it make you feel angry?’ I press, placing my fork on the table as well.
It suddenly feels as though we’re sparring, as if a duel with pronged cutlery is about to kick off.
‘No, I don’t feel angry,’ he replies, part indignant, part confused. ‘Why should I?’
It falls to me to wonder whether his puzzlement is genuine or if there’s more to his response. ‘Because of the unfairness of it all!’ I want to shout. ‘Because your kids go hungry while theirs grow fat!’ But I hold back. If he can’t see it, then I can’t explain it to him.
Maybe jealousy is too localised an emotion to feel about peopleso far removed from his own affairs, from the world of Ganesh Murty Nagar? Perhaps envy requires relational proximity to foster? Towards his neighbours – for their new extensions or their foreign remittances – its sting is stronger. But for those across the invisible wall, the visible divide, that separates India’s rich from its poor? No, it’s senseless, a futile waste of precious energy. It would be like me harbouring a hatred against Neil Armstrong for walking on the moon instead of me. What’s the point? The logic makes sense, but something about it – the impassivity, the resignation, the detached acquiescence – still doesn’t feel right.
I try another tack: ‘What do you think the best thing about being rich is?’
The tension dissipates. He chuckles and picks up his fork again. ‘The best thing is – what you call it? – a stylish life. Without doing anything. Just attending phone calls. Not doing big, hard work.’ He traps a straggle of stir-fried noodles and searches out a piece of chicken around which to wind them. ‘Not like my work. Running in the traffic all day. And police harassment for the parking. And dying in the pollution. I hate those things actually.’ I ask if he’d like a job in a big company. He says he would. The trappings of a ‘good position’ appeal to him particularly. ‘I’d like a car and a driver and a good flat along with the maid.’ He looks wistful and then a smidgen dejected. ‘But that is not possible because my education is low.’ He despises ‘the maths subject’ especially. ‘I don’t want to kill my mind by giving interest in those
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