I Waited Outside Her Gym
Mornings in Bandra are always the same.
Sticky heat.
Sound of sweeping brooms on footpaths.
Smell of fish and incense.
I start work at 6:45 AM.
Always park near the crossroad — close to the big gym where the rich ladies go.
One of them?
Is her.
Isha.
Isha Kapoor.
Daughter of criminal lawyer Rajeev Kapoor.
Lives in a bungalow near Turner Road.
Drives sometimes, but says she "hates morning traffic".
So she takes my rickshaw.
Me.
My rickshaw.
Every Monday, Wednesday, Friday.
She doesn’t remember my name.
Calls me "driverji" when she’s polite.
"Poet rickshaw" when she’s joking.
Once called me "Rickshaw Rumi" in front of her friend — I didn’t understand, but she laughed.
I laughed too.
Later, I googled it.
She always sits side-saddle.
Always asks for extra tissue — to wipe the seat before she sits.
Always wears perfume that smells expensive and slightly cruel.
First time she rode with me, she said:
"You drive too smooth. Are you trying to impress me?"
I said:
"No, madam. Just don’t want to spill your coffee."
She smiled.
That smile ruined me for a week.
Sometimes she hums along with the radio.
Sometimes she scrolls silently, lips parted slightly, looking at her phone like it’s a mirror.
Sometimes, she just stares at the back of my head.
Once, at a red light, she said:
"You must get tired of taking people richer than you."
I didn’t reply.
"Sorry," she added, "That was bitchy. But accurate, no?"
She laughed.
I forced a smile.
I’ve dropped her at yoga, facials, dentist, a brunch with "the girls".
She once changed her heels while riding.
I slowed down just so she wouldn’t fall.
She looked at me through the mirror and said:
"Gentleman. Careful. That’s dangerous."
I nodded.
She winked.
Sometimes I dream of her saying my name.
Just once.
In that voice — not teasing, not mocking.
Just soft.
Like I matter.
Last week, she left her lip balm in the back seat.
I kept it.
Didn’t tell her.
Still smells like her.
I make ₹500–₹700 a day.
Some days more.
Not enough for her world.
But I still show up.
Every Monday. Every Wednesday. Every Friday.
Same corner. Same wait.
Today, she hasn’t come.
It’s already 9:30.
Maybe she got a ride from her friend with the Audi.
Maybe she didn’t feel like yoga.
Or maybe?
She forgot I exist.
But I’ll be back Wednesday.
Just in case.
[to be continued...]
Mornings in Bandra are always the same.
Sticky heat.
Sound of sweeping brooms on footpaths.
Smell of fish and incense.
I start work at 6:45 AM.
Always park near the crossroad — close to the big gym where the rich ladies go.
One of them?
Is her.
Isha.
Isha Kapoor.
Daughter of criminal lawyer Rajeev Kapoor.
Lives in a bungalow near Turner Road.
Drives sometimes, but says she "hates morning traffic".
So she takes my rickshaw.
Me.
My rickshaw.
Every Monday, Wednesday, Friday.
She doesn’t remember my name.
Calls me "driverji" when she’s polite.
"Poet rickshaw" when she’s joking.
Once called me "Rickshaw Rumi" in front of her friend — I didn’t understand, but she laughed.
I laughed too.
Later, I googled it.
She always sits side-saddle.
Always asks for extra tissue — to wipe the seat before she sits.
Always wears perfume that smells expensive and slightly cruel.
First time she rode with me, she said:
"You drive too smooth. Are you trying to impress me?"
I said:
"No, madam. Just don’t want to spill your coffee."
She smiled.
That smile ruined me for a week.
Sometimes she hums along with the radio.
Sometimes she scrolls silently, lips parted slightly, looking at her phone like it’s a mirror.
Sometimes, she just stares at the back of my head.
Once, at a red light, she said:
"You must get tired of taking people richer than you."
I didn’t reply.
"Sorry," she added, "That was bitchy. But accurate, no?"
She laughed.
I forced a smile.
I’ve dropped her at yoga, facials, dentist, a brunch with "the girls".
She once changed her heels while riding.
I slowed down just so she wouldn’t fall.
She looked at me through the mirror and said:
"Gentleman. Careful. That’s dangerous."
I nodded.
She winked.
Sometimes I dream of her saying my name.
Just once.
In that voice — not teasing, not mocking.
Just soft.
Like I matter.
Last week, she left her lip balm in the back seat.
I kept it.
Didn’t tell her.
Still smells like her.
I make ₹500–₹700 a day.
Some days more.
Not enough for her world.
But I still show up.
Every Monday. Every Wednesday. Every Friday.
Same corner. Same wait.
Today, she hasn’t come.
It’s already 9:30.
Maybe she got a ride from her friend with the Audi.
Maybe she didn’t feel like yoga.
Or maybe?
She forgot I exist.
But I’ll be back Wednesday.
Just in case.
[to be continued...]
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