Dubai: Part 2

I come across men everyday, men I do not know, will not see again. Taxi drivers. Sometimes, they are quiet timid types, sometimes boisterous and curious. They drive me to work and back from work. They wear the same shirts and always call me before they get to my house, unable to read the directions on the screen- they call me and speak in a broken tongue of Hindi, Pashtu, Urdu, Arabic and of course English to get the directions. They are uneducated most of them, those that are not are just victims of cruel old fate. They hail from India, Pakistan, Nepal, Bangladesh and a myriad of Arab nations.

We talk of many things. They speak in plain tongues, its no holds barred once they establish I am not an undercover out to get them. They all speak of the same thing, though none has yet come out and said it plainly- their own souls. They are the drivers to the world, they see it all, the bad, the ugly, the disgusting, and sometimes even the good.

They see men slime on women, they see women slime themselves, they see life at its most base. They speak of their dying souls indirectly, using cliches to hide their anger, to deflect any thought that they are way too human for this, that this is killing them, that if they were not here, they would be happy. Anywhere, but here. Fate, once again.

Some are impervious to the soul drenching around them, some are way too aware. They mutter prayers under their breath, hope that the next ride will be a quiet one, that they will get to say a few kind words, and hear perhaps just one in return. In this way, their life continues, the pendulum swings on. This city keeps on breathing, a manic breathing in the daylight, a slow painful heave at night.

I gain a silent faith from these men. They may seem fearful, but it is only because they value their own sanity, they may seem weak but its only because they are cowed day and night by the worst of what this city has to offer, they may disparage other cultures and peoples, but its only because those people have shoved them hard. They may seem strange, but its only because they have dealt with society at its lowest, and who would be normal after that, day and night of that?

They work 14 hour shifts, each and every day of the year, bar none. If they fall sick, they have to go to a company doctor, if the meter in their taxi busts up, they have to sit at home and wait for it to get fixed and then make up the hours. They get 30% of their daily earnings, the rest is taken by the company. They live in labor accommodations, five to a room. They drive people from Five-star hotels day and night to executive meetings night and day, and if at the end of it, someone, some kind soul slips them an extra five for their troubles, you should see the smile that creases their pained expressions. 14 hours days, each and everyday, at the end of the year, they get a month off to go home- broken men, returning to realize that all they do is not enough for their family, that they must work harder. But how?

In the taxi, I sit silently in the back seat, usually prodding with questions here and there, and I let them talk. Sometimes they ask me where I am from, and sometimes I lie to that question. I told an Indian once that I was Indian, he told me how horrid Pakistanis can be. I told a Pakistani once that I was Egyptian, he didn't say another word the rest of the trip. Yet, I gain from them. It is their experiences in this city, in this world that shapes their actions.

Its a strange feeling to get out of a cab at 8:50 am and know that you have acquired one man's thoughts, you have read a book that will haunt you the rest of the day. They speak in plain tongues, they hide behind cliches yes, but their words pour plainer than all the people around them, that lie and claw all day.

I gain faith from them, perhaps because there isn't much else these days.