A mistaken identity, a day-long VIP, is indeed an adventure. Swaraj reveals its boon and bane, with wit and humour. An exclusive for Different Truths.

Anil Kapoor is a celebrated film actor. He is an ambitious journalist in an action-packed Bollywood political drama, Nayak (The Hero). And he becomes Chief Minister of Maharashtra for one day through a series of incidents, mostly fabulous. True to the title of the movie he fights like a true hero. And he tries to eradicate corruption during his one-day Chief Ministership. 

My fairytale elevation in status when I became a one-day Divisional Railway Manager from being a college teacher. It may also appear to be a tale straight from a Hindi movie. And yet this is what happened when I travelled once from Madurai to Rameswaram. 

 And if you think that my short-lived elevation was due to the blessings of a deity in the temple city, you are sadly mistaken. It was the doing of Murukam. He was the driver of the Amby we had hired in Madurai to ferry us to Rameswaram. He was thickset, dark complexioned, a big red tilak on his forehead, and gifted with a throaty voice. Murukam was no ordinary driver. He impressed us with his flawless driving skills, devout nature and his deferential attitude towards me and my wife.

Courteous Driver

Never in my life had I come across such a courteous driver. He would stop his car at every temple on the way to Rameswaram, say ‘sorry’ before going out to pay his obeisance. And then come back grinning from ear to ear to resume the onward journey. Our trip from Madurai to Rameswaram had as many halts as the number of temples on the way.      

A few words of Hindi and English, which Murukam must have picked during his interaction with his passengers. These were enough for him to carry out his day’s business. He picked these, while transporting his clients from one place to another. But we knew no Tamil. Hence conversation with Murukam beyond a few words was impossible. It left ample scope for serious misunderstanding.

Traffic Cops

On reaching Ramanthapuram we were signalled to stop by some traffic cops. They wanted to see the papers of the car. Murukam started rummaging through the glove box. His unease indicated that he didn’t have the papers. I felt uncomfortable at the prospect of the car being impounded and we having to look for another vehicle. 

But Murukam, gesturing towards me, told the policemen something in Tamil. ‘DRM’ and ‘Madurai’. These were the only two words I could gather from their conversation. The cops took Murukam to their officer standing some distance away. And they chatted for a while. Then the officer approached the car, looked searchingly first at me and then at my wife. He jotted down something in his diary, saluted me and allowed us to move on. Turning towards me Murukam smiled, a triumphant smile, and started the car.

Getting a salute from a police officer was quite a heady feeling! My wife, I thought, was impressed, perhaps for the first time, with my social standing. Beaming with pride at this prospect, I just sprawled on the seat like an inflatable toy bloated with air. I was sure that this incident would change some equations on the domestic front.

But what had possibly transpired between Murukam, and the traffic cops, intrigued me. It was a jigsaw puzzle, which needed unscrambling. Piecing together all the ends, however, did not take long. I was in Madurai to present a paper at a seminar on Literary Theories at Lady Doak College. 

A Tourist and a Pilgrim 

My wife, a very devout person, was also accompanying me as she wanted to see famous temples in Madurai. And in some coastal areas like Rameswaram and Kanyakumari. I was a tourist. She, a pilgrim. 

I was quite happy. I imagined that deliberations at a national-level seminar would convince her that she was not married to just a Tom, Dick and Harry. Something that I had not been able to do in more than thirty years.

To be a bit sure footed in a new place, I had requested a friend to help. He was at that time Divisional Railway Manager in Nagpur. He asked some railway officer known to him in Madurai to arrange a cab for us. The railway officer he spoke to had arranged Murukam’s taxi.

He must have told Murukam that I was a friend to the Nagpur DRM. And Murukam, I reasoned, had lied to the traffic cops that a DRM was travelling with him. For obvious reasons, I did not share with my wife that I had unscrambled the puzzle.

Pride Bubble

But I had not realised the shock that awaited me. The shock that pricked in no time the bubble of my feigned pride. It was getting stuffy in the car and the car’s AC was out of order. I asked Murukam to stop the car at a kiosk for a cold drink.

He stopped in front of a vending cart with a pile of fresh coconuts. He did not let me go out. He himself stepped out, haggled with the coconut water seller, and brought two fresh green coconuts for us. Addressing me as ‘DRM Sir’, he offered them to us as if making an offering to a deity. Very reluctantly did he accept the money from me. 

By now it was clear like daylight that he considered me a big shot, a DRM. Hence from his point of view, he had not lied to the police officer. This explained his deference towards us. I tried to convince him that I was not a DRM. However, Murukam nodded his head. 

Mistaken Identity 

Perhaps I was unable to make him understand. Or perhaps like everyone else, he was also deluded by our essentially human propensity to dismiss as untrue what we don’t want to believe. Whatever the reason, he remained impervious to my protestations. I did not know how to avoid my wife’s stares. Because by then it was evident to her that it was her husband’s mistaken identity as DRM that was responsible for his getting salutes from the police. And not his calling as a college teacher. 

Meantime, Murukam, prompted by the prospect of a big favour from a VIP, became more insistent, more obsequious. In his broken English, he started requesting me to help him get a car driver’s job in the railways. I just maintained a studied silence. I believed a real DRM would maintain it in such a situation. Moreover, I was no Anil Kapoor to help him. Had I been that I would have given him a permanent job as a chauffeur for one day. 

If there were still some doubts left in my wife’s mind about why Murukam was so respectful towards us, those were also cleared on the Pamban Bridge. While I took photos of the bridge, he stood before my wife with folded hands. He asked her to help him get the job. She must have been laughing from the other side of her face, imagining what I was undergoing. 

We reached our hotel in Rameswaram. Murukam introduced me as DRM to the receptionist. And left after collecting his fare and a hefty tip I gave him in my most expansive, VIP mood. Before leaving he took my phone number. And gave me his so that he could stay in touch with me about the permanent job.  

By now, I was averse to casting off the identity Murukam had conferred upon me. In fact, having been introduced as a big officer to the hotel staff, there was no reason to give up. The prospect of the luxury of receiving better attention from them silenced me. Why let them know that I was not what they thought I was? 

Identity Proof 

But when I was asked to provide my identity proof which was mandatory for staying there, things changed. I could feel runnels of sweat making their way from my forehead down to my feet. Would they call me an imposter if I gave them my identity card issued by my employers? I wiped my face soaked in sweat with a mildly perfumed wipe my wife gave me. I remembered that my driving license did not mention my designation. The driving license came handy in protecting my VIP status. And I was able to breathe freely. 

But my travails did not end here. Something else kept bothering me the whole night. What would my DRM friend think about me? What if he came to know that I had passed off as a pretender to his fame in Madurai? Would he believe my version that I was forced to bear his cross by a taxi driver? 

Then there was a distinct possibility of my being caught. Had the traffic police officer not jotted down something in his diary? Would he not like to find out the credentials of a DRM travelling in a private taxi without window curtains and without papers? I went on tossing in the bed. My wakeful hours punctuated only with short nightmarish naps. 

Dangerous Imposter 

I would wake up hallucinating about loud knocks on the door by the police trying to nab the dangerous imposter claiming himself to be a DRM. Somehow the night came to an end and the morning tea arrived on time. There was no news of an imposter DRM in the local newspapers. I had no access to the global press. I offered a million thanks to all those hundreds of deities in all the temples in Madurai that we had visited. 

We received the treatment reserved for VIPs at the hotel. Though it proved quite expensive as I ended up tipping the hotel staff in keeping with my high status. Murukam never called me. He might have been undeceived about my real identity by the railway officer who had arranged his cab for us. My DRM friend remained ignorant about this episode until I disclosed it to him after his retirement.   

For one day, way back in February 2008, I was treated to some indulgences reserved for a VIP. It was courtesy Murukam. Now, in hindsight, I relish all that I underwent then. At times, I also wonder if I would ever be able to travel again with someone like Murukam. Sure, I would love to. Ready as I always am for all the imponderable joys and travails that await a traveller. 

Photos by the author

Prof. Swaraj Raj

Prof. Swaraj Raj is a Patiala-based freelance writer, translator, a keen photographer, and nature enthusiast. He retired as Professor of English and Dean, Faculty of Languages, Sri Guru Granth Sahib World University, Fatehgarh Sahib. He has more than 70 publications to his credit in journals and books.

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