Mumbai wanted to do a Dubai. So Vilasrao uncle and (revered) colleagues came up with the “Mumbai Shopping Festival” (and actually fooled Orange into sponsoring it)

“What is the difference between ‘Mumbai Shopping Festival’ and ‘Dubai Shopping Festival’? The difference is only ‘Mum’ and ‘Du’, everything else is the same.”, thus mused vivacious Vilasrao. “With an extra alphabet, we will end up being more successful than DSF.”, concluded bubbly Bhujbal. Now you know why these guys run the state. Nice!

Dubai organized a go-kart race in the parking lot of a popular shopping mall. (The parking lot was actually good enough to race on, using tiny go-carts with microscopic wheels – think about it) Mumbai decided to go a step further (one small step for mankind, a giant leap for Mumbaikars) “We will organize an autorikshaw race on a go-kart track”, said peppy Patangrao (wow!).

Thus, we return to the saga of the mighty autorikshaw. Yes, for all those people who’re shouting “Hey! What about peppy Patangrao’s plan??”, it did materialize. So now we had 50 maniacal dogs in urgent need of relieving themselves. Like the prize were a ticket to pee (in the Sulabh Shouchalayas, of course, constructed by one of Patangrao’s aides), and only one dog could win it, so they kept racing each other, till only one was left, recipient of the priceless pee ticket.

Which brings me to my current muse, the beautiful (ahem) auto. My first auto ride was at age three months; the jerks caused immutable damage to my chromosomes, which causes all the flab in my body to proceed to an infinite state of inertia. Yes, all the flab remains just that, FLAB. Hell, it doesn’t turn into muscle even if I work out as much as Mr. Asashoryu. Asashoryu, by the way, has won the prestigious Emperor’s Cup sixth time this year. And I am talking about Sumo Wrestling.

My Momma tells me that in 1975, there was a single auto in all of Mulund. Now there’s one for each person in Mulund (and a few for the unborn babies as well). Quite an explosive growth then, one that is ahead of the baby-making machines we call humans, by a long long way. The first autos were small, sourced their power from a 100cc scooter motor, and ran on three scooter wheels. Three so that the driver could carry over-fed, super-plump aunties (sometimes three of the kind) over the harshest terrain in the country – Mumbai roads. They had a really curious stance, with the ‘diving-down-nose’ (much like the dog sniffing the ground) and the conspicuously raised ass (like the dog didn’t care about the rest of the world). And yes, the ass came with a cute muffler that peeked out of the center, the source of all those ugly gases. So many similarities! Bajaj realized that these autos were possibly designed by a pervert, and bore too many anatomical resemblances. What followed was a notable design change. The new ones featured a wider backside (quite like a PYT’s after marriage). The ass was made to be lower, so as to show some respect to other road users. And yes, the cute muffler now peeked out of the side, to wipe out any more anatomical similarities. Impressive!

As a result of the somewhat vulgar design of the old autos, I shall indulge in an act of self-censorship, and restrict the rest of this discussion to the newer variants – the ones with the wider backsides. (Long live the wider asses!)

These autos then, are of three types. The really old ones; the not-so-old ones; and the spanking, gleaming, shimmering, (and wonderfully smelling) new ones. The really old ones and the really new ones are quite innocuous. Which brings us to the not-so-old ones (lets call them ‘uncles’), the real culprits of every transgression on the city’s roads. Uncles can be identified by two year old babies, eight year old Alsatians and any year old George W. Bush’s. They are characterized by loud music systems (replete with super tweeters for the dhinchaak beats) belting out the latest remix number at 226.86 decibels (albeit without the unclothed young ladies – I hear that advances in in-vehicle entertainment technologies will make LCD screens affordable enough to be fit inside autos, you can have the ladies then). Uncles’ owners like to dress them up quite aggressively. So they come with unimaginably massive amounts of chrome, enough to dismiss any American muscle car worth its name to the bottomless pits of mortification; a weird triple edged accessory (in shimmering, light-reflecting chrome of course) to decorate the front wheel (like jewelry for the nose); and a blaring, shouting sticker on the windscreen (that makes half the windscreen useless) that says something to the effect of “Shivneri” or “Magnificent Maratha” or “Shraddha and Saburi”…the likes. I don’t even need to mention the tinted glasses, the premium fabric upholstery and the motorized wiper, because they’re a sure-shot given. Some Uncles also sport peculiar stickers that spell “Chrysler” or “Harley Davidson”. Queer! (On his last visit to Mumbai, George W. Bush was taken aback by the sheer number of Chrysler vehicles on Mumbai roads. His well-endowed gray cells couldn’t figure out though, why they were all black and yellow, more importantly why they ran on three wheels. The CIA enlightened him – Chrysler was cutting costs in India they told him!)

Uncles’ drivers are also peculiar, and the eccentricity is uniformly evident across the entire city, from Malad to Mulund and from Bhandup to Borivli. The drivers are most likely to be middle-aged, aggressive, stupid and as intelligent as Dubya. They sport a thick gold chain, the source of which needs to be further investigated (possibly at considerable peril). It would not be unreasonable to suspect hidden sources of income. Drivers classified under this category are not driven by mere material motivations (read the jingling of coins). Consequently, they are often seen whiling away their work hours on the roadside, listening to the afore-mentioned item songs. These are the ones who stop in the middle of the road, as soon as they smell the slightest traces of a prospective customer, brakes working with the ferocity that reminds one of Mercedes’ patented ceramic braking technology.

I’ve stumbled upon a new trick that I play on the Uncle drivers to satiate my sadistic self. I stand on the edge of the road with a stupid expression on my face, an expression that screams to an Uncle driver, ‘Come pick me up from here. I am dying to go someplace far off!’. In come the dudes, they get a dirty look from me which screams ‘On your way buster. I ain’t hiring your vehicle’. The ‘Dubya’ look on their faces is worth dying for. As if the Mr. Universe title got snatched away from them. Highly recommended!!

That then, is the saga of the bizarre Uncle autorikshaw and its equally eccentric driver, forever adding colour to Mumbai’s humdrum landscape. Something that will stay for ages and ages to come, unaffected and unchanged through decades. Now how many people do we know of do THAT??