OLIVER
He was asked to report at 3, but he came at 4.20. Upon enquiry, he said he mistook my name for a Mr Solanki! He sounded apologetic over phone, but I was miffed. He couldn’t have chosen a worse waiting spot, for I had to go ankle deep in puddle to reach his car. I was ready to give him a piece of my mind when he turned to me. Instinctively, I smiled. And decided to like him. He reminded me of my grandmother (all old people do). Only, he’d be a decade younger than her. Aaji is 94. Let’s call him Oliver, a kind of portmanteau for Old Driver. In his prim blue suit and cap, dear Oliver looked rather cute. His driving, though, was a complete disaster. He held the steering with unsure, fidgety hands, peering ahead with blinking eyes. The machine, least to say, was as old as the man himself. Every part of the Santro shuddered; it had the talent of sputtering to a total halt in most difficult traffic situation. Every time that happened, dear Oliver took a good one minute to restart the...