Mumbai's cabbies and I always have a rather stormy relationship... we tend to bicker like jaded lovers... over money, routes, and life.

I think there's a reason that gaggle of cabbies outside our Lower Parel office suddenly seems to take an extraordinary interest in their nails, when I leave the building. One of them once decided to stop in the middle of vegetable-infested Dadar, citing an ill-mannered engine. When I politely, but firmly, protested he should at least drop me to another cab, he flew into an unreasonable black rage and told me he didn't need my money. Sounds good to me, hotshot! Three days later, I unknowingly got into the same cab, and the cretin billed me for the previous week as well! Yeah, like he was gonna get paid!

But sometimes, we're closer than that. While in America, a New Yorker friend (we call him Cope), under the influence of various substances, got into a yellow cab, and finding the driver was Indian (of course), thought it would be a wonderful idea to call me at home when I was sleeping - at 3 am - and kindle a romance. Americans often don't understand our own parochial class hang-ups. Two Indians finding each other in a foreign country, thought my astute friend... it was a match made in heaven, one my parents would be thrilled with.

The cabbie - his name, I remember, was Kumar - was duly shown a picture of me (from Cope's camera phone), approved, and was put through to make conversation. Which he did, rather admirably. I can't say the same for myself, it being the middle of the night and all. Kumar and I are not together. It caused Cope great anguish, but shit happens.

But I feel compelled to end this on a hopeful note. My cabbie and I are both capable of finding deeper meaning in our black-n-yellow bell jar, given the right amount of time, and traffic. Once, going at negative 10 km/hour on the 90 km minimum-speed deserted Bandra Reclamation freeway, one such cabbie - approximately 63 years old - looks over each bony shoulder like he has a nervous tic. I take a deep breath, get my foot off the imaginary accelerator in the back seat, and ask him sweetly, "Bhaisaab, aap kya kar rahe ho?"

God bless him, he puts his finger to his temple, taps it 3 times, and says, very slowly, "Main soch raha hoon."

This happened about a month ago, and I do hope that nice old (maddeningly slow) man has resolved his existential issues.