On Sunday morning my mother and I set out for the busy streets of Saddar to buy clothes for a wedding. The roads were jammed with cars and there was a flood of people. The journey was long and tiring.

We reached after an hour and walked hurriedly to the shops. Mum browsed through many shops, rather indecisively. She took a long time deciding on what she had to buy. Finally, after hours of boredom, we decided on a blue embroidered dress. It’s was very pretty.

I sighed, I wished I could’ve stayed at home and read my new book, but mum wouldn’t let me. When we came out of the shop, my father called and told us to take a taxi ride as the car had gone for maintenance. Disappointed, my mum told me to go and call a taxi.

As I came out on the main road, a few taxies were parked on the side of the road. I beckoned her to come and we negotiated the fare with the drivers. Finally, we settled on an ancient car which was driven by a man as ancient as the cab. The car paint had pretty much rusted off. As I sat in it, a strong scent of perfume struck my nose. It wasn’t bad at all. But after that a stench of sweat soon travelled to my nostrils, making them burn. Nauseated, I looked towards my mother, but her tired face made me decide again complaining.

‘Okay… stay put,’ I thought.

My mum sat on the bumpy side of the seat and I sat on the harder side. The car was decorated with things like pictures, puny ornaments and all the bits and pieces the old man had found through his travels.

“How long have you been driving this car chacha?” I asked.

“Oh beta, probably 50 years or so, I don’t even remember. Life goes on so quickly...” and he went on in a long silence.

The journey was progressing normally but half-way towards home, the car started vibrating violently. My mum gripped my hand and I looked at the driver. Soon the car stalled. But the driver was completely unconcerned. He got out as slow as a sloth, moving to the boot of his car and then slowly started fiddling with the engine. There were a few clanks and whirring. Then the noises subsided and he seemed to have disappeared.

After a few minutes, I clambered out of the car, annoyed.

“Chacha!” I called out, but no answer. When I got out of the taxi to check, I found him sitting on the roadside eating paan.

“What are you doing?” I asked impatiently.

“Waiting... I fixed my car. It only needs ten more minutes and it’ll start working,” he replied, his voice thick from the paan in his mouth. I went back in the car and told mum we needed another taxi but the driver waddled back and ignited the engine.

First, it gave a shudder and then miraculously it coughed and spluttered to life. Amazed, my mother pointed out in Persian, “Wow…, this driver knows his car like his child,” and I laughed in agreement.

I sat back in and the car started moving, now at 20 miles per hour. I decided not to interfere in case the car’s feelings got hurt and it died again.

Finally, we reached home by late evening. I thanked the driver and gave him the fare. He nodded and then ignited his car again. It coughed and wheezed and then the engines switched off.

I stared in disbelief as I watched the driver moving out again, patiently dealing with his car as if he would with his child.

I chuckled and headed inside for I knew the driver could handle it. Now whenever I take a taxi ride, I always remember that chacha and his funny little car.

Published in Dawn, Young World September 16th, 2017