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1.One hot morning on my way to work.
 Curious Taxi Driver (CTD): Salaam alaikum
Sweaty Me (SM): Ma-alaikum salaam. Hilal.
CTD: Very hot?
SM: Yes
CTD: Where you work?
SM: Magazine.
CTD: How long you have been in Doha.
SM: Four years.
CTD: So you have lots of money.
(Yeah sure, that is why I chose to travel in your junk Mazda instead of using my BMW.)
CTD: Your family here?
SM: Yes
CTD: You have baby?
SM: Yes
CTD: How many?
SM: One (but feels like a dozen)
CTD: How big?
SM: Small (in size, big on attitude)
CTD: Don’t worry you will get more.
(What? Me? Worry? I stare incredulously out of the window.)
CTD: You want more?
(Ignoring him, I mentally will my office to move a couple of kilometres closer before he asks for my horoscope.)
CTD: Don’t look sad, God will give you many more children.
(Oh yes, please. By the way, which God are you referring to? The one that supported America in its carnage or the one that ignored the Iraqis who were getting bombed? The one that supported the Taliban or the one that laughed at the women in Afghanistan?)
The taxi stops at my office and I hastily hand him the fare and escape further inquisition.
2. A sticky, warm evening on my way back home
Malayalee Taxi Driver (MTD): Sugamano?
Non-Malayalee Me (NMM): Mansoora (where I live)
MTD: Malayalee ano?
(Pretend not to understand)
MTD: Sri Lankan?
NMM: No (but do wish I were from a different planet)
MTD: Indian?
NMM: Nod (to his reflection in the rear view mirror)
MTD: Tamizh ano?
NMM: Nod (Bingo)
Visibly thrilled, he continues in Malayalam…
MTD: Then you should understand. Tamil-Malayalam same-same.
NMM (and chauvinistic Tamilian): No it is not. My language predates yours by several hundreds of years
MTD: (In a conciliatory tone) I speak Tamil.
… And continues in a version of Tamil only Mamootty or probably a Nagercoil resident will understand.
MTD: Few more years in Gulf you will learn Malayalam
(Shouldn’t I be picking up Arabic here?)
MTD: You have no Malayalee friends, I think.
NMM: Have both friends and a husband from Kerala.
MTD: Then you should learn. You have a child? How will your child learn HIS mother tongue?
NMM: No sweat. SHE will. It is after all Tamil.
The taxi stops in front of my home and I run for cover.
3. Late one evening, with my daughter to the video
parlour.
Age-Evaluator Taxi Driver (AETD): Where?
Looking-old/Feeling-young Me (LFM): Dasman Centre.
AETD: Your child?
(No, borrowed her for the weekend and returning her to the store now.)
LFM: Yes.
AETD:Only baby?
LFM: Yes.
AETD: Hello baby, what is your name?
Oviya: (Happy to receive some attention) Hi, veeya… (and a lot of gibberish)
AETD: Very small girl.
(Yep, she is a hobbit.)
AETD: Late marriage?
(Desperately looking in my bag for a weapon that will maim him for life.)
AETD: How old are you?
(Offended by his insinuation and allowing my temper to get the better of me, I rise to his bait.)
LFM: 29
AETD: Really? You look older!
(I grab the packet of chilli powder I always carry in my purse. I plan my strategy: Take Oviya out and as I pay him, throw the powder on his face. Better sense prevails. I give him the fare and slam the door shut hoping the window shatters.)
AETD: Bye
Oviya: Bye. Thankee… (blows a kiss)
Glaring at the driver and pinching Oviya’s thigh, I walk into the store.
4. One long taxi ride to a work-related interview.
Osama Look-alike Taxi Driver (OLTD): Wayn? (Where?)
Pissed-off Me (PM): Madinat Khalifa.
(The conversation continues in Urdu and
Hinglish)
OLTD: You work?
PM: Hmm.
OLTD: Your family here?
PM: Hmmmm
OLTD: You have children?
PM: Hmm.
 (I take out a book from my bag and start reading, to deflect further questions. But hint is not taken)
OLTD: I have four children. Three boys and one girl. In
Baluchistan.
(Look up from my book out of politeness. OLTD dunks under his seat. Hello, who is watching the road? He fishes out a photo.)
OLTD: Here, see their photo.
(Four children. The oldest is in his early teens. The youngest looks about five. All dressed in salwar kurtas, posing in front of a tractor.)
PM: Very nice.
OLTD: My daughter is six years old. I have never seen her.
PM: Oh!
(OLTD turns around to point at the picture.)
PM: I will look at the photo if you keep your eye on the road.
OLTD:
I came to Doha when my eldest son was two years old. My wife was pregnant. I have been home only twice after that.
(His eyes are wet and his voice choked. He stares pointedly at the Nissan pick-up in front of him.)
OLTD: Everything is so expensive these days. I don’t know when I can afford to go home. I miss my family.
(A little tongue-tied, I merely nod.)
OLTD: Your family here?
PM: Yes (Oh, no. Let us not start on that)
OLTD: Good. Very good.
(Negotiates a crowded signal. Silent for a few minutes.)
OLTD: People complain that taxi drivers talk a lot. It is because we have no family here and we are homesick. So we talk about our family and yours…
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