The Auto Driver's Prayer

Lord of the meter I do not use, Lord of the stickers on my dashboard — Venkateswara, Sai Baba, a small picture of the Kaaba, a Mother Mary my wife’s friend gave us, all of you sharing one strip of glue and getting along better than the city — hear me.

Give me today a passenger going to Secunderabad, and not to some lane in Tolichowki where even the map on the phone loses faith. Give me the green signal at Panjagutta just once, as a sign. Keep the traffic police looking at the other auto. Let the CNG queue be short, and the man ahead of me not want to talk about politics.

Bless the schoolchildren I carry every morning, nine of them in a space built for three, their bags in my lap, their arguments in my ears. Bless the one who sits behind me and sings film songs off-key; may she never find out she is off-key.

Forgive me the twenty rupees extra I asked the foreigner. Forgive me the times I said I don’t go there when I do go there, I just didn’t want to. Forgive me for the rain, Lord, when I charge double — but you also charge double for rain, and nobody says anything to you.

And when it is evening, and the last fare is a tired woman with vegetables going home to her own tired house, let me take her the short way even when she falls asleep, even though the meter I do not use would never know.

Let my son pass his exams so he never has to pray this prayer. Let the loan man forget my name for one more month. Let my back hold. Let the three wheels hold. And when you need me, Lord, don’t call — I won’t hear the phone over the engine. Just raise your hand at the corner. I’ll stop. I always stop.