Fuel prices are rising so often nowadays that I no longer look at the petrol pump display. I turn my face away respectfully, the way middle class Indians avoid eye contact with hospital bills, school fees, or wedding caterers.
The other morning my driver arrived looking unusually cheerful. This itself was alarming. A cheerful driver during fuel hikes usually means either he has found a richer employer or developed a dangerous economic theory after watching three news channels and two WhatsApp videos.
“Sir,” he announced grandly, “I have found the perfect solution to beat the fuel hike!”
Now whenever anybody in India says they have found the “perfect solution,” it usually involves yoga, turmeric, breathing exercises, veg products, or forwarding a message to eleven people before midnight to avoid financial disaster. So I prepared myself mentally.
“What is your solution?” I asked cautiously.
“Simple, sir,” he said. “You finish all your outside appointments today. From tomorrow, till the war is over and Hormuz opens properly, I will take paid leave!”
“Paid leave?” I shouted.
“Yes sir,” he nodded kindly, “so that you can save petrol.”
I nearly dropped my coffee onto the sofa.
First of all, I was shocked that my driver knew about the Strait of Hormuz. Most Indians discovered Hormuz only because television anchors suddenly began shouting the word every seven minutes while standing in front of glowing maps that looked like video games.
But my driver spoke like a retired foreign minister.
“Sir,” he continued seriously, “this is global economics. Crude oil goes up, petrol goes up, vegetables go up, taxi fares go up, blood pressure goes up. Only salaries remain committed to simplicity and humility.”
I nodded sadly. The fellow was beginning to sound wiser than Parliament.
Then he leaned closer and lowered his voice.
“Sir, yesterday one man at the petrol pump asked for fuel in EMI.”
I stared at him.
“He said full tank was emotionally impossible.”
My driver shook his head gravely.
“Another fellow only asked the pump attendant to spray petrol smell near the car so he could remember better days.”
Frankly, I was beginning to suspect the nation was collapsing mentally.
“But what happens,” I asked cautiously, “if the war gets over and our great oil companies still don’t reduce prices?”
“Then both of us continue to work from home, sir,” he said calmly. “And now with GPay,” he said proudly, “I don’t even need to meet you for salary. No need to waste petrol. Only QR code is needed.”
He then stared out of the window and sighed, “Sir,” he said softly, “but I will visit you once in a while and we will sit together inside the car, just like I am taking you somewhere. We will switch on the AC for five minutes, and talk about the good old days when we could afford to drive…!”
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