City Poem - Aliza Bakht

Uber

My Uber ride starts at 9:10 pm sharp.

Not too late, thank god.

Neither too early, nevertheless.

So, I’ve got to be a little cautious.

And not tell my mother back home.

I picture a phone call as the ride starts.

“Beta, those streets are not safe.

Just the other day, Suggi got

Beaten by a cab driver and looted.

And he was a karate champion, the Boy.”

My replies are always the same.

“Arre, relax. Don’t think too much.”

Translation: “Stop watching Crime Patrol.

It’s not helping anybody.

Don’t make me anxious.

Also, I’m definitely lying to you tonight.”

I cut the call and focus on the road.

Moving past the same signals, bricks and flyovers.

Restless, I try chit-chatting with the driver.

I ask him about his family back home.

He tells me a distant story I don’t remember.

The weather is discussed briefly.

Winter is too cold and summer too hot.

I ask him what he thinks about Delhi.

“It’s like an onion”, he says.

“Peel the layers and you’ll find it empty.”

I stay silent

and check the duration to my destination.