Sitting Shiva

in the backseat of a cab

No apology was necessary, but that’s how his story began. And I begin where he began, because his is a story worthy of respect.

“I am sorry,” his eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. “I was sitting at the gas station, like I always do, starting my shift, waiting for my first fare. Then my phone rang.”

A curious greeting. He said it while making a u-turn on the dark and empty street. I was clinching my seatbelt, barely settled in for the 20 minute ride to the airport. One hundred yards later, the car paused at a red light, but the cabbie’s words kept flowing.

“I’m sorry,” he said it again, as if gulping for a much-needed breath before he could continue. “I must explain why I might not be at my best today. I just received news. You will be my only customer this morning. After this, I will go home.”

7:15 a.m. His shift barely begun. Early morning news that abruptly changes the course of one’s day is either very good or very bad. I waited.

“My uncle, like a father to me. He died this morning. So suddenly. No warning.”

And now it was my turn. “I am so sorry.”

We were on the ramp now, the cab merging on to the expressway. Cars sped by; it was a mild winter’s morning, no ice, just damp pavement. No snow, just a fine mist over the brooding city. I was glad for the the cover of darkness, its shroud more appropriate to the moment than a dramatic sunrise.

Sudden news of sudden death affects us one way or another. Words spill out or are staunched. In this case, the cabbie could not contain his grief.

Perhaps my questions helped, but I suspect, once he’d uttered that first apology out loud, his sorrow was bound to breach all gates.

“Where did your uncle live?” I asked, choosing to lean into the gulf opening up between us, to try and bridge it. I hoped he would talk as much as he wanted about this dear uncle who was gone too soon. If I’ve learned anything from grieving friends, inhabiting the space of grief together can be a good gift. Also, talking about the person who has died. Not burying memories of them too soon, if ever.

“In London. He was a banker.”

What was his name?” I asked. He spoke it quietly.

“Was he your father’s brother?”

“No, actually he was my cousin. But you know, he was like my uncle.”

“What is your name,” I asked. Since I was now on a first name basis with the deceased, it seemed only appropriate to ask the same of the living.

He spoke his own name.

And then he began to tell me stories.

When they were younger, before leaving India, or perhaps just after, the two boys and other cousins slept all together in one bed. Details of their shared life trickled out as the cabbie navigated lane changes, the car slowing as traffic built up around us, but never his words. The apologies continued, too, until I suggested there was no need.

“It’s important to talk about people we love when they die,” I said. “I am glad to listen.” I thought another question might be helpful.

“Where did you live in India?”

I didn’t catch the name of the small village but I caught a sense of it. This cabbie was such a storyteller! I could picture his childhood home, not far from the border of Nepal, on hill that rolled down into a jungle. In this jungle, there were huge snakes.

“When I was a baby,” he recalled, “I was laying on the floor, covered by a blanket. When the blanket was lifted off me, there was a cobra next to me. My grandmother shone a light in it’s eyes, blinding it. My father thrust a broom handle at it and the cobra twirled itself around it. He lifted the snake outside and threw it down the steps. Then he killed it. Another time — I was still a baby — laying on the door step, halfway in, halfway out. Another great snake slithered up beside me.”

As we rounded the highway towards the airport, the phone rang but the cabbie ignored it, apologizing for the interruption.

“Please,” I said. “Answer it. It might be about your uncle.” But his cabbie’s good manners prevented him. Instead, the snake forgotten, he told me about his own children, grown now. A doctor. A teacher. Well educated like their father, like their uncle, the banker. Before coming to Canada, the cabbie had worked as an electrical engineer in India for more than 20 years. In Canada, he opted to try construction, then bought a house, then another.

Then came the taxi. “I love it,” he said in answer to yet another of my quesitons. “People are so interesting. And often, very kind.”

His phone rang again. This time he answered it. I heard the word heart attack.

“That was my uncle’s brother-in-law. I’ll go to his house after I drop you off.”

He pulled up to the airport curb and I wondered what to say, beyond thank you. I was thinking about his grief, about his uncle. About all that would happen in the days to come. London seemed very far away.

As he handed me my suitcase, I reached for his free hand. “May God be a comfort to you as you grieve your uncle,” I said.

He thanked me, all apologies spent. Perhaps, too, a little of his grief. Standing there, face to face, we shook hands.