Have you ever asked a cab driver how much he makes? They usually give you a number that doesn’t make you jealous unless you’re a lab assistant. But this is a story about when the opposite happened.
I live in Bachupally. If you’ve never visited, good job. It’s where the city ends and nothing begins. But life is good, and it happens in Gachibowli, where your college farewell and first day at the office are separated by just a zebra crossing. There’s a comedy club there, and I go almost every day.
The distance is 12 km, but it’s the longest 12 km I’ve ever travelled. Don’t judge me, I’ve travelled 9,136 km on one trip, but this still feels long because I leave at 8 pm.
That’s when Coca-Cola factory workers stop bottling sugar and phosphoric acid and head home to drink the same with their families or at a bar. So there’s traffic. Especially near Kondapur, where even the guy who designed the traffic icon in Google Maps is probably stuck in the same traffic he mapped. It’s like the Matrix, but sad. And now there’s a new flyover. I know the joke is repeating, but someone has to get the message.
On good days ie; the day after doing jokes for drunk senior citizens, I take a cab. The logic is: I suffered, so now I deserve comfort.
On one such day, I booked a cab to the comedy theatre. A place where I say things like this and hope people laugh.
The cab fare should’ve been Rs 350–400. It showed Rs 150. That’s when I realised why Uber drivers and Uber — the couple once in love — now act like bitter in-laws. But he accepted the ride, and I was getting late for the open mic, so I got in.
I made the cab wait because I was choosing which pen had funnier jokes. But I felt I could make up for it later.
I’d already decided I was going to tip today. He was nice, the cab was clean, and it had a sticker that said ‘Customer is king’. I took it personally. For 35 minutes, I was the ‘king of good times’.
Since I’d been paid well, I figured he should be too. I was about to put on my headphones to listen to Shankar-Ehsaan-Loy, but his car deck was already playing the same vibe. So now the tip decision: `50. I don’t usually tip, but it was a good day.
I complimented his music taste. His name was Nizam, and I made a joke: “Rolls Royce bech ke Dzire kab liya?” He gave a half-honest laugh, the kind that says, “Nice try, I’ve heard this before.” But I got my first cheap laugh of the day. The tip in my mind bumped up by another Rs 30.
He asked what I do. I said, “I tell jokes.” He said, “You chose the right job.” That line alone deserved a bigger tip.
I decided to pay what Uber would’ve charged on a normal day, if it weren’t a public holiday in Hyderabad and half the city hadn’t left for Vijayawada.
Double it. Let him be happy. Let me feel like I’m in the ‘Generous Club’.
He dropped me off and asked me to scan. While fumbling with the app, he ended up showing me his account balance.
His balance shook my balance off balance. He had the kind of money you’d expect from someone buying four cabs and not the guy driving one. Maybe he was a Nizam, or some far-off relative. There are many, you can tell by the number of bedrooms in Chowmahalla Palace.
I was glad I hadn’t announced the tip out loud. Suddenly I thought if Uber’s algorithm has decided this is the fair price, who am I to spoil him? Also, who donates a drop to an ocean?
I paid him exactly what the screen showed — Rs 155.
Before I could feel bad, I told myself: A king doesn’t tip another king. Shah Jahan didn’t. Nizam didn’t. Kohli didn’t give tips to Badshah. So why should I?
I climbed four floors, asked which number I was on. They said, “You’re next.”
I took out my notebook and wrote my first joke: ‘Delusions of a king’.
Sandesh
@msgfromsandesh
(This comedian is here to tell funny stories about Hyderabad)
(The writer’s views are his own)