When I bring up the incidents in the run up to that trip, VK says, “I would have totally gone ahead without you.” I usually mockingly punch him in the arm, but I do wonder if he really would have done that; what if I’d actually not been able to go?!
November 2016. We were about to leave for our vacation to Iran. We were mighty pleased with ourselves. For choosing the country as our destination. For figuring out the complex visa process, like whether a HIV test was really “required” (no, it wasn’t). For the painstaking research to develop the itinerary. Most of all, for being the cool couple that travelled to “such unique places”. That “wow”, the widening eyes, the disbelief, when we talked about it with others.
And to think I almost didn’t make it.
My trip to Iran was prefaced by a college friend’s wedding in Bangalore. I landed there, excited to spend time with my sister and her kids, attend the wedding, and then leave for Bombay for a flight to Tehran. VK was going to meet me directly at the Bombay airport.
After three busy, joyous days, I sat down late at night to repack and get ready to leave for the airport at 5 the next morning.
Except I couldn’t find my passport. For a few minutes, I searched every bag inside out, frantically opening zips and digging into each compartment. Nope. Wasn’t there. I remember, to this day, sitting on the cold, tiled floor of my sister’s flat, feeling dread engulf me. I forced myself to breathe deeply and recollect my trip from Delhi to Bangalore.
It was with me when I left Delhi, a little cloth sling bag with a long red string, slung across my shoulder, holding only the passport.
To keep it safe but handy, on my person all the time.
For good measure, I added a 500-rupee note too, to have some easily accessible cash.
The bag was with me during the flight, I was sure.
Also when I got into the Uber at the Bangalore airport.
Slowly, the clouds in my mind parted, leaving me with a chilling realisation: I absolutely did not remember taking the bag off my shoulder when I reached my sister’s home. I recalled the steps again: reach apartment # 101, sit on the sofa, remove the shoes, put the backpack down, roll the suitcase to the corner – my mind replayed the steps beautifully, sequentially. Missing step: remove sling bag and keep it in the backpack.
“Anu,” I told my sister, still sitting on that cold floor. She was about to go to bed, but came back to look for me, probably after hearing my frantic zip-opening. “I think I left my passport in the Uber cab.”
The cab ride was three days ago. A whole three days through which I’d frolicked without knowing that my passport was missing.
I opened the Uber app and reported that I’d lost an item. Uber unhelpfully said they would have the driver contact me.
I resigned myself to missing the trip. I thought of my passport, my precious companion since I left home at 17 to pursue an undergrad degree overseas that was a financial strain on my family. I thought of the visa stamps that I was so proud of, including the one from Iran, obtained at the beautiful embassy in a wide, tree-lined road in central Delhi.
It was going to be 11. I was losing any remaining shred of hope.
And then, the call came.
Breathlessly I explained, in a mix of Hindi and English, that I may have left my passport in the cab three days ago.
“Yes, madam, it is here only!” he said, and I slunk to the floor in relief. The driver, whose name I’m ashamed to say I cannot recollect, had informed Uber about it, but I’d heard nothing from Uber.
“I was going to give it in the police station tomorrow, madam!”.
“Oh! Thank God you didn’t – my flight is tomorrow morning!” I asked if he could – please, I’m so sorry for the trouble – come give it to me right away.
“Madam, I live in a village near Sarjapura – it’s nearly forty kilometres from your place,” he said.
What do we do, I asked him anxiously.
We decided that he would leave home at 3 am to drive over with my passport. He asked that I book a ride from his village so that his long drive would count as an Uber trip.
VK tried to reassure me over the phone that everything would be alright. But I wasn’t reassured. What if the driver didn’t answer my call the next morning? What if he didn’t wake up on time? What would VK do, wait for me, or carry on? What if the village bus stop, which the driver had asked me to put as the “pickup point”, didn’t show up on the map? Worse still, what if some other driver was assigned that trip? (he’d told me that that couldn’t happen, he was the only driver in that village, but well…)
I’m a hardened cynic. Perhaps it’s adulthood that put me on my guard, but after years as a naïve optimist, I learnt that life wasn’t easy; people could be cruel, unfair, unkind, treacherous, willing to kill. Kindness from strangers made me – makes me – suspicious. I saw no reason why Uber Driver wouldn’t be casual with our plans and make me miss my flight.
After all, what was in it for him?
By 1, I fell asleep due to sheer exhaustion and worry. Woke up at 3 to book the Uber ride that, it seemed, my life depended on. Said driver got assigned the trip. I nervously tracked his little white car on the app. And just when my airport ride arrived, so did my saviour, with my passport.
A tall, dark-skinned man with a black moustache, in a crisp white half-sleeved shirt and white pants.
I nearly wept with relief when I saw the little red sling bag. The last few hours, I’d been cursing myself for my stupidity-in-the-name-of-safety.
“Madam, there was a 500-rupee note also, it’s still there,” he told me. Indeed it was.
I pressed a few notes into his palm, but he flatly refused. I thanked him for several minutes, even as the airport cab driver watched us impatiently, waiting for me to get into his cab. I offered Uber Driver money again, but he said, “No, madam, you already booked a trip for me into the city. That is enough.”
I’ve always lacked tact with giving tips or money, so I let it go. But just then, hesitantly, he asked, “I looked through your passport and saw the stamps, Singapore, Malaysia and all. Could you please get me a job in any of these countries?”
My heart sank. I had no clue where one could even begin with a request like this. I thought of the Indian foreign workers I would see in Singapore, in their yellow helmets and neon orange vests, being ferried around in open trucks. “They live a tough life,” I wanted to tell Uber Driver, “you continue living here, at least you will be with your wife and child.” He’d told me about them the previous night, assuring me that his wife would wake him up in time this morning.
But what did I know? He wanted a job overseas, and there was nothing I could do. It was crushing to say no to the only thing he asked for, to refuse the man who had offered me extreme kindness.
“I’m afraid I can’t do anything about that, I’m sorry,” I said.
“It’s ok, madam.” He smiled, we shook hands, he left.
I reached Bombay. Then Tehran. We went across Iran as planned, basking in the kindness of the beautiful people there – our hosts, locals who guided us, wanted pictures with us, and the man who paid for our bus tickets when we couldn’t rustle up change.