Only moments after Id stopped to give the lady with the bag a lift in my car, I knew Id been had. Im Prem, she said, turning the airconditioning vents towards herself. I was divorced 24 years ago. I had two boys but Ive no idea whether theyre living or dead.
Where are you going, I asked, suddenly less than eager for her company. Wherever youre going, she said. Noting my alarm: Ill get off somewhere on the way. I have neither home nor shelter of my own.
That explained the bag which had fooled me into thinking she was from out of town.
Im going to ask you for something before I get off, she said. No, I replied, for I knew what she would say next. If its money, Im not giving you any.
Why, she said, as if mildly interested, I can give you something else in return.
I desperately wanted her out of my car.
You have children, she said, her eyes resting on the crayons and hairbrushes on the dashboard, and a wife. Then: Why wont you give me money?
I wasnt going to tell her Id been gypped dozens of times, once borrowing a thousand rupees to get rid of a baba whod set up up an amazingly terrifying performance in the office. Or about a caddy who used to hitch rides at the neighbourhood red light and then ask for some little money to sponsor him in forthcoming golf tournaments. Or about the guy who, also taking a lift, had said he owned a small hotel in London but, what rotten luck, had found his wallet picked just when he was on his way to calling his wife to wish her a happy birthday, and could I...
My guest in the car suddenly shouted: You dont want to give me money because you think its below your dignity to help a woman. Im telling you I wont take it for free. How dare you say you wont give me money?
That particular stretch of road wasnt too busy, so I stopped the car near the kerb. I think you should get off, I said mildly.
Youre calling me names because Im a divorced woman, she ranted, looking around to see if she could gather a crowd. Please, I pleaded, just go.
She continued to sit in the car. You think youre a better person than me? You think your wifes a better person than me? Youre insulting me just because Ive sat in your car for free, you think you can take away my dignity.
She was biding her time, either waiting for someone to stop and ask if there was any trouble, or for me to to abuse her, or better, perhaps, shove her out, so she could play the role of the ill-treated woman. Delhi, fortunately, zipped insularly past.
I leaned across her, opened the passenger door, and said with all the authority I could muster, I think you should leave now. She began to hurl invective my ears had previously not been treated to. At any other time, they might have been of academic interest, but the lady with the bag was turning into a problem.
Lady, I said, see the sticker on the back
