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I have attended many academic panels on urbanity, masculinity and the modern metropolis as a social construct. Oh, to have been bechanced upon some great contemporary academics who look at autos of Bangalore and Hyderabad using Lefebvrian trilects, class and gendering of roads. The further we move into theory, the further we move away from the vibrating pulse of the street.

So, at first, I thought of writing this with a cue to our pop-feminists’ never-ending obsession – le toxic masculinity. Surely, it will ragebait the right audience. Little did I know, a conversation with an auto driver would lead me to a chatpata take on it. Humorous but wounded – shaped as much by migration and precarity as by patriarchy.

It was midnight on Valentine’s Day and my hands were full. A rose, some gifts, a badminton racket, and my bag. I was returning from the university hostel to my flat in an autorickshaw. I tried to hide my gifts from auto bhaiya, adopting the posture of a “modest” and sincere woman, gave the code and the ride started.

“Are you from Assam?” he asked.

“No, Bhaiya. I am from Bihar,” I told him.

“Bihar? Wasn’t Chattisgarh a part of Bihar?”

“No, bhaiya. Jharkhand, Bihar and Bengal were a territory on their own. Chhattisgarh was a part of Madhya Pradesh.”

“No, no. It was. My friend is from there.” he asserted.

“Maybe,” I said, as an awkward silence followed. 

Messages on autorickshaws. Photo provided by author

I was sure of my geographical knowledge but hesitated to tell him that because I did not have a friend from........

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