Today in Mumbai marked the last day of the Premier Padmini (Originally Fiat) taxis also known as the Kaali-Peeli because of their black and yellow colors.
Although such claims cannot be effectively substantiated or refuted, I am going to make it anyway. It is largely accurate. In the decade of the 1980s, I was arguably the most frequent user of the Kaali-Peeli among the city’s journalists. Unfortunately, my dear friend Shireesh Kanekar is no more around to bear witness to this claim because not only would he have borne me out but even told you a few stories about my cabbing habits. I want you to accept my word in good faith.
With that as the backdrop, I record the end of the Kaali-Peeli with no particular emotion. As cars go, Premier Padminis sucked. They were like an iron box with four doors, four tires and a steering wheel. In their defense, they were a very hardy vehicle, especially considering Bombay’s/Mumbai’s intense monsoon season. What was hilarious about the Kaali-Peeli was that they created the illusion of moving when in reality it was the city going in the opposite direction out of sheer exasperation. (Literary exaggeration.)
In my 20s, single and earning reasonably well, I was a legend as an obsessive cab user among journalists. I once joked with Shireesh that if I had my way I would hire three taxis, one in front and one behind just for the heck of it. It may sound foolish but I used to spend more than half my salary on cab rides. I took Bombay’s horrendous local trains only for about four years until 1985. Even during those four years there were any number of days when I used to cab it out. From 1981 right until I left Bombay for Delhi in 1989, the Kaali-Peeli was my only means of transport.
So coveted was I as a customer for cab drivers in Kala Ghoda near my newspaper office that every evening about half a dozen cabbies would wait for me along the lane near Kandeel Juice every evening. It was like a harem of taxis that I had to choose from. I used to be particular about overall cleanliness but in particular of the seat covers. There were times when I thought that city’s best decked-up cabs used to wait for me to make my choice for the evening. It was only after I had exercised my first right of refusal that the rest of the hoi polloi was allowed to use them.
I remember I used to be mildly irritated on days when I did not find a clean and well-equipped taxi. There was one where the cabby had only one handle to open all doors and roll down all windows. His wipers did not work on a particularly squally monsoon evening. He had to stop every few minutes to clean the windshield. Eventually, he was so annoyed himself that he unrolled about half a dozen cigarettes and spread the tobacco on his side of the windshield. Quite remarkably, that helped clear up the windshield. I had never known until then that tobacco could keep something clean.
I once joked with A L Quadros, the general secretary of the (Bombay) Mumbai Taximen’s Union that they should adopt a special resolution thanking my unfailing patronage of the Kaali-Peeli. It was when I wrote a feature about Bombay’s taxis, then the second highest in the world, for the Associated Press.
In those days, there were exceptionally few, if at all any, air-conditioned Kaali-Peelis. I suspected that was because Premier Padmini’s terribly weak engine could do only one of two things—either actually run the vehicle or power the AC. It could not do both at once.
It was my habit to offer rides to my fellow journalists as a matter of routine since I was going to take a cab anyway. There were those who lived en route from Churchgate to Dahisar (where I lived for a bit) and then Andheri. These were long and expensive rides. I used to pay about 150 rupees in the 1980s one way to Dahisar from Churchgate and about 120 to Andheri.
The final exit of Premier Padmini from Mumbai’s roads may be a source of nostalgia tinged with sadness for many. For me, not so much even though I used it so much. It was just a vehicle, and it is pointless to anthropomorphize it. I liked it as much as one would like any reasonable convenience.
Now that it has permanently gone off the road, I can pretend be wistful about the Kaali-Peeli. But I would not be convincing at all.