Toll Road Tagoli

Dawn was far away. But I was up, splashing cold water on my face. The sink seemed new but the hotel was old. The lightbulb was awkwardly placed. It made me look older in the new mirror. It was the greying stubble. But it didn't matter then. I had a flight to catch. 

My phone buzzed and broke my self indulgent questioning. A driver had been assigned to me by Uber. My scheduled ride for 3:30 AM to the airport. But the driver was eleven kilometers away. Would he actually make it? 

“I hope he doesn’t change his mind” I thought.

It was time to brush and get ready for the ride.

The ride to T1 is always a long one, no matter where you started from. If you were on the other side of Hebbal it is a banal ride at best on a very good road, gliding over Yelahanka town. 

The driver arrived before I could wear my shoes.

“I’ve arrived” – he texted using the pre-programmed message.

“Be right there” – I used the other pre-programmed reply.

I paid my dues to the groggy front desk staff who muttered a see-you-again-thank-you-for-staying-with-us. 

I stepped out onto the cold pavement. The cool Bangalore air which I continued to miss so much hit my face. Where was the driver? 

He had gone further ahead, so he began reversing to turn towards the exit of this cul-de-sac on which I stood.

I got in.

“7651” I said. 

He nodded and took the service road.

At Hennur, he paused. The strategic pause that a person takes when deciding between the two options that confront them. A moral dilemma between what's right and what feels easy. 

I could almost hear his mind squirming desperately. The dilemma was between the two roads that stretched right in front of us. One was the toll road and the other was an inner road bereft of any toll. 

Naturally, he wanted to take the road less taken – the hallowed non-toll road via the desolate Bagalur. A potential saving of Rs. 150 easily. 

Now on any other morning I would have gladly agreed to go via that route, which I also secretly enjoyed. It was lonely, sure, but it was scenic. Farm fields everywhere, growing not sure what. But still pleasant to look at. Maybe the fields would be all dark at night anyway but it would still be full of mystery, like a ride through the old village roads, which connect hamlets and small towns. As idyllic it sounded, it was an infamous route for being deserted and a few crime incidents had been reported. And if the car were to break down en route, it would get really difficult to reach the airport on time. 

So, before he could make up his mind and decide, I cleared my throat and said in my most confident Kannada – "toll road tagoli". 

Take the toll road. 

I could have added "daivitu" or please. But I ended with tagoli. It was not meant to be a request. 

I could hear him sigh and maybe even curse under his breath as he swerved to the left, under the bridge and onwards to Hebbal.

He slowed down a few meters ahead and with another phone tried to scan the Fastag code. Evidently he was running on low balance and wanted to delay the recharge to the extent possible. The ambitious rollout of Fastag had also come with absurd rules like minimum recharge value of Rs. 500. Internet forums abounded with hacks to circumvent this but given the digital divide, most drivers felt the pinch and simply complied.

I was surprised that he did not negotiate. Perhaps he thought that I was the best bet for that hour - night rates were a bit lower so he had to make do with me or risk keeping the car stationary. Which as we all know is more expensive. Besides, being at the airport has an upside, any ride from there would help make good for the discount. His reluctance was evident but my "tagoli" was firm. 

His Uber bio said that he had been a driver with them for the last eight months. I wondered how often he had to make these choices and mental calculations. How did he approach them. It was natural for me to think on his behalf. That is what I did for a living anyway, talk and think about how others worked and everything around it. 

So naturally, I started to wonder about his decision-making process. What was the mental model that cab drivers like him followed? Did they even know what mental models were?

There were just too many variables involved. The advanced data analytics which powered the ride hailing platform was of little use to the drivers accepting or rejecting your request. Does the house always win?

As we turned right at Hebbal and past the Parsi tower of silence, my mind was flooded with more thoughts. 

Should I have taken the risk of Bagalur – who knows. There wouldn’t have been any bogeymen waiting to ambush our car. The young driver would have made some more money. But I had to be at work at 9. The flight was already delayed and I couldn't now risk missing it. 

All of this was a cop out. 

I was just not interested in trying out new stunts. I was not going to be extra alert or be held at knife point. I would have to give up my work laptop – oh too much of a hassle in case I had to file an FIR. What would I tell at work? 

At that moment I didn’t care if the toll would eat into his earnings.

After all he had not even negotiated. The answer is a no if you don't ask they say. But would I have entertained it? No. I was sure of that. I was just not in the mood. 

When did I become so self-absorbed? I was a champion of workers rights. But when did all of that disappear?

The vehicle continued to move at a steady pace. The non-ac uber Go - Wagonr cruising at a comfortable seventy. The lights of Yelahanka twinkled. Oh Yelahanka - the land of Kempe Gowda after whom the airport was named. After the Jakkur aerodrome, the plain boring old highway stretched ahead of us. The only significant feature on the route were the limestone quarries which always seemed fascinating. But I had never gone down to them ever. Someday I thought to myself. 

We trundled along. It was cold outside but warm inside the Wagonr. I continued to debate on my insistence of taking the toll road but the young driver had gotten over it. He was yawning now but seemed alert as we approached the toll naka itself. We breezed past it because the recharge had been successful earlier. Now it was the final stretch. The circuitous route to the airport made it look like they had pushed the airport farther away. I could see the ATC now and the dazzling lights. 

En route the grand statue of Kempe Gowda appeared. He seemed to be walking resolutely towards Devanahalli with a sword in his hand. What a majestic figure. So fair and just, unlike me, who had been firm on following the rules and not indulging in a bit of risk taking. I had chosen convenience and safety over a bit of extra income for the young chap. 

T1 arrived. And I added a tip into the fare. He smiled at me, a warm genuine smile as I thanked him and walked into the Digi Yatra line, right on time for my delayed flight.