Chapter 2: The Drunk’s Test

At first, the drunk was relatively quiet.

He just breathed heavily with his mouth open. With the AC on, the enclosed car quickly filled with a foul stench that made Ramesh want to gag.

Ramesh briefly lowered his window, letting in the night air mixed with a whiff of paani puri masala and the faint smell of burning diesel. He consoled himself: this was the last ride—once he dropped this guy off, he could air out the car.

After years behind the wheel, he’d seen all sorts: passengers who whispered secrets, couples making out, people picking their nose.

Once, a schoolkid left a half-eaten vada pav under the seat—he found it two days later, crawling with ants. He remembered once a college boy tried to hide a samosa under the seat, and an aunty insisted on reciting a full Hanuman Chalisa over Bluetooth. This little cab was a microcosm of life. Ramesh’s tolerance for oddballs had grown over time.

After a while, the drunk belched—a long, ominous one, as if he might throw up any moment.

Ramesh took a nervous breath, reassuring himself: If this guy pukes, at least I can charge him a cleaning fee.

But sometimes, you just know when someone’s going to cause trouble—and this guy was on a whole different level.

He’d heard fellow drivers at the chai tapri talk about the ‘Friday night special’—always some customer who thinks your car is their drawing room. After exhaling enough alcohol fumes to fill the car, the drunk finally blinked, opened his heavy eyelids, and started fumbling through his pockets.

Ramesh glanced over, curious what the man was up to.

After a few seconds of clumsy searching, the man finally fished out a pack of Gold Flake cigarettes.

With trembling hands, he pulled one out.

Gold Flake—of course. The unofficial badge of the seasoned drinker, Ramesh thought. He relaxed a little. So, he just wanted to smoke—easy enough. These days, everyone knows you can’t smoke in cabs.

If he throws up, there’s not much you can do. But if he wants to smoke, just say no.

Ramesh waited for the man to ask for permission so he could refuse. But this drunk was not the type to ask.

With a snap, he flicked his lighter and lit up.

The next second, smoke billowed out, drifting straight into Ramesh’s face.

The ash threatened to fall onto the seat covers his wife had stitched from old sarees. Ramesh sighed and said, “Bhaiya, the company has rules—no smoking in the car.”

“Huh?”

The drunk barely reacted.

“I said, you can’t smoke in my car.”

“We’ve got the AC on, and this is public transport. The smell of smoke lingers and is hard to get rid of.”

Trying to keep things calm, Ramesh even offered a compromise:

“If you really need a smoke, let’s pull over somewhere. You can get out and smoke, and I’ll wait for you.”

But the drunk wasn’t listening. It was as if his mind filtered out everything except the word “no.”

The “no smoking” finally sank in, and he immediately got angry, making a scene.

He kept leaning over toward Ramesh, his face full of disbelief—as if he couldn’t believe anyone would dare say no to him.

“What? I just want a smoke, and you won’t let me? Are you mad or what?”

The look he gave Ramesh was as if he’d seen a cow in a lift.

That classic Nagpur disbelief—how can someone like me be refused? Ramesh figured the guy was just too drunk and patiently explained:

“Sorry, but my car needs to transport other passengers too. It’s not fair to them if it smells like smoke.”

But clearly, in the drunk’s mind, “other people” didn’t matter.

He had no patience for Ramesh’s explanations. To him, the only acceptable answer was “yes, smoke away.”

But Ramesh wasn’t budging.

So, the man leaned in, practically nose-to-nose, and asked, enunciating every word:

“I’ll ask you one last time—can I smoke or not?”

It was a blatant threat.

Ramesh’s heart thudded as he remembered the app’s warning: “One complaint, and your account is suspended.” But to keep his car clean, he stayed firm:

“No matter how many times you ask, the answer is still no. Like I said, if you want to smoke, I’ll pull over and wait for you outside.”

There was no point arguing with a drunk. The plan was simple: pull over, let him smoke outside, maybe get off work a bit late—no big deal.

Cab driving is a service industry, after all. The customer is always right. One complaint from an unhappy passenger can make your life miserable, so it’s best to avoid trouble where you can.

He remembered his friend Sameer’s story—just one angry complaint, and his app account got suspended for a week. Unfortunately, this drunk didn’t appreciate the effort.

He snorted, shooting Ramesh a few sideways glares. If Ramesh hadn’t been driving, it might have turned into a fight.

Ramesh kept his eyes on the road, steady as a rock. No matter what, there’d be no smoking in his car.

He thought of the tiffin his wife had packed, waiting for him on the table. Then, the drunk changed tack. Suddenly, he asked a question that would come back to haunt him.

He jabbed his chin at Ramesh and demanded:

“Do you have a commercial license?”

Ramesh was taken aback.

He didn’t get it, so he asked reflexively, “What license?”

They’d been arguing about smoking—where did licenses come into this? Was the guy just drunk and confused?

So he replied offhandedly, “No.”

The drunk’s eyes lit up, and he leaned in, smirking: “So you don’t have one, huh?”

Ramesh kept his eyes on the road and replied firmly, “Right, I don’t.”

The drunk’s face was a mix of mockery, indifference, and smugness. His expression seemed to say: Ha, I’ve finally got something on you.

“You, an illegal driver, do you know who I am?”

Ramesh glanced over, unimpressed. “No.”

After all, people don’t wear their names on their faces—how would he know?

But to the drunk, this was even more insulting.

He whipped out his phone and, while dialling, made a show of threatening Ramesh. The call connected quickly.

“Hello, Shukla ji, are you on duty at the usual spot? I just got into an illegal cab—can you believe it? The driver’s got some nerve, actually refusing to let me smoke.”

The implication was clear: in this whole city, nobody dared stop him from smoking.

He told the person on the other end, “Bhai, help me deal with him later.”

After hanging up, he looked at Ramesh with a provocative glare. “Today, I’ll show you who I am.”

Ramesh’s mouth went dry. He glanced at the rearview mirror, half-expecting a police jeep to appear.

Ramesh was baffled. In a law-abiding society, what could this guy possibly do?

In Nagpur, the real trouble isn’t always the people who shout the loudest—it’s the ones who know the right people to call. But unexpectedly, the man suddenly changed his destination—to the Dharampeth Transport Department.

Ramesh’s pulse raced as he turned the wheel towards Dharampeth, the man’s threat echoing in the humid night: “Today, I’ll show you who I am.”