"Everywhere is jammed," the taxi driver said. “You better tell me now which way you want to go."
I’d got into his taxi at a traffic-light-ed Bangsar T-junction. I looked to the left, and the left was full of cars; I looked to the right, and the right was full of cars. Neither side moved.
"Um, whichever way," I said. “Um, to the right?"
"Ya, let’s try," the taxi driver said. “Maybe the right-hand way is free further up. Who knows? Whether or not we manage to escape the jam, that’s not important, as long as we try. Ya?"
He seemed to expect a response from me, so I nodded. “Maybe people are going home to break fast," I said.
The taxi driver said: “Maybe. Maybe they are going to the bazaar to buy food. I heard that if you have a stall at the bazaar, you find a lot of money, because all people go: Malays go, Chinese Indians also go."
"Where is Uncle breaking fast later?"
"Me? Oh I’m not fasting today."
"Um, how come?"
"My fast got cancelled," he said. “Earlier I had a meeting. I got angry and I said some things which were very bad. A day of fasting, I can replace it later, but it’s a waste. I was fasting for almost the full day already."
~
Traffic eased and we accelerated up a hill. The driver had sunglasses and terrible teeth; he had a Grecian profile, with a nose that looked like it’d been hit by a hammer. His phone whistled twice every minute.
"It’s this MyTeksi thing," he said, pointing to the sticker on his windshield.
He scrolled through his messages. "Look at this one: ‘Bangsar Village to KL Sentral.’ What do you say to that?"
"Roads like this, walking would be faster," I said.
"That’s right. You said it, don’t even need me to say." He scrolled through his messages some more. “But we have to keep up with the times. I use this new phone, just so I can get passengers on this MyTeksi thing."
"Many passengers?"
"So-so," he said. “But we have to try. Ya?" He looked at me. “What sort of work do you do?"
"Um, I’m a writer."
"A writer? Writing, working for what newspaper?"
"No no, not newspaper," I said. “Last to years, I’ve been writing a book. So not working for anyone."
"So you not working?" His alarm seemed genuine. “How you earn a living?"
~
I explained to him that I took small jobs for pocket money, that I lived off my savings and the largesse of my parents, that the book project was an experiment in writing fiction full-time.
The taxi driver spoke haltingly, trying to understand. “Well. We have to try. Ya?" he said.
A pause.
Then he said: “But, if you ask me, ya? I can’t say that what you are doing is the right thing. Earning money is important. This is the way the world is. You know?
"Like me. Whatever I say, whether I’m right or not, you can just ignore me. Because I have no money. But if I drive a Ferrari? Even though I say bullshit things, you would say: ‘Ya ya, you are correct.’ Just because I have money.
"But I don’t have any money, so no one listens to me.
"Earlier I had a meeting with my taxi company. They told me: I need to find one thousand five hundred, if not they will take my taxi away. I said to them: I have children, I don’t have any savings. If you continue to let me drive I can find that money for you. When you take my taxi away, it’s not as if anyone else will be driving it. Right?
"They never listened to me. They told me, I’ve until Friday to find that one thousand five hundred."
~
The driver told me that it was not possible for him to earn so large an amount in so short a time, driving his taxi. “Not even if I drive day and night," he said.
He took off his sunglasses as we sped down the flyover into Old Klang Road. Surprisingly, it was not congested. His eyes were bloodshot.
I didn’t know what to say.
"If I try to borrow the money from people, who is willing to lend me money?" the taxi driver said. “I could borrow from Ah Long, but then I’m scared."
I felt uncomfortable. I felt guilty and I felt sad. He made me feel this way, so I was suspicious of him.
What was his motive, telling me this story? Did he want something from me? Where was his family, his community — they’re the ones who should be taking care of him! What did he do to them?
"I could rob someone," he said. “If I robbed you, it wouldn’t be robbery, ya? It would be borrowing. Because no one is willing to lend me money, I have to force you.
"But who can I rob? I don’t know how to rob people."
He didn’t seem like he was talking to me any more.
He said to himself: “Since I was born I’ve had a hard life. My parents divorced, and I only studied until Standard Four. I work so hard but still I have no money. Why is my life like this? How is this fair?
"How is this fair?"
~
"I’m sorry," I said to the taxi driver.
He said: “Why you say sorry?"
We were getting close to where I was going; it was just a few more traffic lights ahead. “Oh," he said. “You think I want something that’s why I’m telling — no no, not like that. I’m just talking. This thing is on my mind."
The taxi driver looked at me.
"You are already helping me," he said. “It is good to have someone to listen. I’m just telling you, in life we have to try. Try to change things. Even though actually my situation is hopeless, I am still trying.
"It’s just a pity for my children. And also so close to Raya.
"That’s why I say to you, you also have to try. Don’t waste time. Get a job with a newspaper, keep up with the times, write about things people will like. Nowadays people don’t like to read books."
"Ya," I said. What else could I have said? His story made whatever I had to say feel weightless in comparison.
"Maybe you can write my story. Maybe it will make a difference. But I don’t know whether people will read it, I don’t know what people like to read."
I’d got into his taxi at a traffic-light-ed Bangsar T-junction. I looked to the left, and the left was full of cars; I looked to the right, and the right was full of cars. Neither side moved.
"Um, whichever way," I said. “Um, to the right?"
"Ya, let’s try," the taxi driver said. “Maybe the right-hand way is free further up. Who knows? Whether or not we manage to escape the jam, that’s not important, as long as we try. Ya?"
He seemed to expect a response from me, so I nodded. “Maybe people are going home to break fast," I said.
The taxi driver said: “Maybe. Maybe they are going to the bazaar to buy food. I heard that if you have a stall at the bazaar, you find a lot of money, because all people go: Malays go, Chinese Indians also go."
"Where is Uncle breaking fast later?"
"Me? Oh I’m not fasting today."
"Um, how come?"
"My fast got cancelled," he said. “Earlier I had a meeting. I got angry and I said some things which were very bad. A day of fasting, I can replace it later, but it’s a waste. I was fasting for almost the full day already."
~
Traffic eased and we accelerated up a hill. The driver had sunglasses and terrible teeth; he had a Grecian profile, with a nose that looked like it’d been hit by a hammer. His phone whistled twice every minute.
"It’s this MyTeksi thing," he said, pointing to the sticker on his windshield.
He scrolled through his messages. "Look at this one: ‘Bangsar Village to KL Sentral.’ What do you say to that?"
"Roads like this, walking would be faster," I said.
"That’s right. You said it, don’t even need me to say." He scrolled through his messages some more. “But we have to keep up with the times. I use this new phone, just so I can get passengers on this MyTeksi thing."
"Many passengers?"
"So-so," he said. “But we have to try. Ya?" He looked at me. “What sort of work do you do?"
"Um, I’m a writer."
"A writer? Writing, working for what newspaper?"
"No no, not newspaper," I said. “Last to years, I’ve been writing a book. So not working for anyone."
"So you not working?" His alarm seemed genuine. “How you earn a living?"
~
I explained to him that I took small jobs for pocket money, that I lived off my savings and the largesse of my parents, that the book project was an experiment in writing fiction full-time.
The taxi driver spoke haltingly, trying to understand. “Well. We have to try. Ya?" he said.
A pause.
Then he said: “But, if you ask me, ya? I can’t say that what you are doing is the right thing. Earning money is important. This is the way the world is. You know?
"Like me. Whatever I say, whether I’m right or not, you can just ignore me. Because I have no money. But if I drive a Ferrari? Even though I say bullshit things, you would say: ‘Ya ya, you are correct.’ Just because I have money.
"But I don’t have any money, so no one listens to me.
"Earlier I had a meeting with my taxi company. They told me: I need to find one thousand five hundred, if not they will take my taxi away. I said to them: I have children, I don’t have any savings. If you continue to let me drive I can find that money for you. When you take my taxi away, it’s not as if anyone else will be driving it. Right?
"They never listened to me. They told me, I’ve until Friday to find that one thousand five hundred."
~
The driver told me that it was not possible for him to earn so large an amount in so short a time, driving his taxi. “Not even if I drive day and night," he said.
He took off his sunglasses as we sped down the flyover into Old Klang Road. Surprisingly, it was not congested. His eyes were bloodshot.
I didn’t know what to say.
"If I try to borrow the money from people, who is willing to lend me money?" the taxi driver said. “I could borrow from Ah Long, but then I’m scared."
I felt uncomfortable. I felt guilty and I felt sad. He made me feel this way, so I was suspicious of him.
What was his motive, telling me this story? Did he want something from me? Where was his family, his community — they’re the ones who should be taking care of him! What did he do to them?
"I could rob someone," he said. “If I robbed you, it wouldn’t be robbery, ya? It would be borrowing. Because no one is willing to lend me money, I have to force you.
"But who can I rob? I don’t know how to rob people."
He didn’t seem like he was talking to me any more.
He said to himself: “Since I was born I’ve had a hard life. My parents divorced, and I only studied until Standard Four. I work so hard but still I have no money. Why is my life like this? How is this fair?
"How is this fair?"
~
"I’m sorry," I said to the taxi driver.
He said: “Why you say sorry?"
We were getting close to where I was going; it was just a few more traffic lights ahead. “Oh," he said. “You think I want something that’s why I’m telling — no no, not like that. I’m just talking. This thing is on my mind."
The taxi driver looked at me.
"You are already helping me," he said. “It is good to have someone to listen. I’m just telling you, in life we have to try. Try to change things. Even though actually my situation is hopeless, I am still trying.
"It’s just a pity for my children. And also so close to Raya.
"That’s why I say to you, you also have to try. Don’t waste time. Get a job with a newspaper, keep up with the times, write about things people will like. Nowadays people don’t like to read books."
"Ya," I said. What else could I have said? His story made whatever I had to say feel weightless in comparison.
"Maybe you can write my story. Maybe it will make a difference. But I don’t know whether people will read it, I don’t know what people like to read."
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