The last ride from Marve

Freaky Friday

It was last Friday night. We five Jani Dushman - Rudy, John, Abhay, Punit and I agreed to meet at Casa Manor in Marve, a quaint and serene place ( unbelievably in Mumbai ) where the sea whispered and the mangroves listened. The place clung to the edge of Marve Beach.

After old songs, stories, old jokes, aged whisky bottles emptied, and the night had turned into a smoky and mischievous creature, we dragged our thinning laughter out of the resort. A reunion that had begun at twilight was ending at a time when even ghosts feel sleepy.

Marve is strange at night. The wind has a habit of bringing you stories when you aren’t asking. It was around 1 AM, my friends scattered into the darkness toward their cars. I had called a kaali-peeli as I was told Uber’s other cars skip Marve at night. Mumbai still obeys the drunk man’s need to get home.

The taxi appeared without drama. Headlights low. Engine humming like someone half-asleep. The driver’s side window slid down. There was this woman - short wavy hair and a black jacket, unbelievably in driver's seat.

I blinked. Not because women can’t drive taxis in Mumbai; of course they can — but because I couldn't see her face. Darn whisky .

“Home?” she asked, voice smooth with a faint, old-world lilt.

“Yes, Bandra,” I said, and as I was settling in, I could hear loud cheer from afar.

The cab smelled faintly of wet soil and eucalyptus, an odd scent for a Mumbai taxi. What other smell you can get near beach area, I thought. The roads were empty and she spoke in a tone that made me feel like she had been driving me home for years.

“You had a good night.” she said. Not a question.

“Great night. Old friends. Lots of laughter. Too much whisky.”

“Old friends are like ghosts. They return only when you least expect them.” she whispered.

I chuckled, assuming she was joking. But she wasn’t smiling. Her face remained fixed on the road, lit by the soft orange of dying street lamps. She spoke in both Hindi and broken English, with a gentle, old inflection.

I rambled about work, heartbreak, and was humming Mary Hopkins song -

"Those were the days, my friend

We thought they'd never end

We'd sing and dance forever and a day

We'd live the life we choose

We'd fight and never lose

For we were young and sure to have our way

La-la-la-da-da-da.

Da da dia da da..."

She listened as if she’d heard every confession in the city. Maybe she had.

“Love doesn’t leave quietly,” she murmured. “Sometimes it stays longer than the people.”

The sentence sat in the cab like a drop of ice. I stared at her reflection in the rear-view mirror. It looked slightly blurred, as if the mirror needed adjusting. But her real face, right in front of me, was perfectly sharp.

Maybe it was the alcohol. Easy to blame it. Maybe it wasn’t.

The streets grew emptier. The street lamps flickered in unison, as if timing their breaths. My phone battery was dying, leaving only the hum of the tires and the low whoosh of wind.

We approached the turn that would take us through Madh Island.

“Not today,” she whispered, taking a longer road without waiting for my approval.

“Why?” I asked.

“Some places don’t want us passing through.”

I should have protested, but something about her voice dissolved the will to argue. The air felt heavier, almost saturated.

An hour and half later we entered the quiet lanes near my building.

“You’ll get home,” she said, “but don’t look back tonight.”

Before I could respond, the cab stopped under the yellow glow of my building’s light.

I pulled out my wallet.

She turned around. And the world split.

The person facing me was a man.

Thin, unshaven, eyes exhausted from night shifts. He wore the same jacket. The same seatbelt clicked across his chest. The same taxi meter blinked between us. But he was not the woman I had been speaking to for the last over an hour.

He simply asked, “Sahab, paise?”

My heartbeat went berserk. His face showed no recognition of any conversation we had supposedly shared.

I got out, half-dazed, reached my wallet, gave some notes to the driver while leaning and saying byes.

He nodded, started the engine, and drove off as casually as someone leaving a parking lot.

I stood under the building, shaking.

At home, I splashed water on my face, replaying every detail. Surely I must’ve hallucinated. I checked the cab booking.

The app showed a male driver.

The ride listed no interruptions, no alternate routes, no anomalies.

“No woman driver exists for that number,” the system responded when I tried to lodge a query.

Strange things happen in life, I thought. Was it the first time?

Morning brought clarity — rather the illusion of it. I brushed off the incident as drunken confusion, until my neighbour knocked at my door with an uneasy expression.

“Bhai, you came very late last night,” he said. “And… I saw something odd.” He handed me a USB stick.

“Just watch,” he insisted, backing away, as if he didn’t want to be in the room when I see what he had seen.

I plugged it into my laptop.

The CCTV footage, timestamped 2:38 AM, showed the lane outside our building. A black-and-yellow cab stopped. I got out, slightly unsteady. I leaned forward, smiling, talking animatedly to the driver.

But the driver’s seat was empty. Completely empty.

I stretched out my hand, as if giving money to someone. The note fell and fluttered to the ground, like it had slipped between two invisible fingers.

Then the driver door shut. By itself.

No human silhouette.

The taxi pulled away smoothly.

My neighbour’s voice echoed in my head:

“Who were you talking to?”

I felt something cold crawl up from spine to skull.

I sat frozen on the couch, unable to move.

The city seemed too quiet. Like it knew something.

Suddenly, my phone vibrated.

Screen on. App open. I had not touched it.

Ride Confirmed. Driver Arriving.

The profile picture was that of a man named Aftab.

Pickup point: Casa Manor

Time: 1:12 AM —(the previous night).

A driver's missed call. A message "I've arrived."

Status: UNFINISHED TRIP.

Bewildered, I made a quick Lime and Soda, sat on sofa and closed my eyes. Just then, John called up.

“Sir jee, what time ultimately could you leave from Casa Manor?”

I said “same time with you guys.”

He shot back. “No. You met some one and decided to linger on for a while at Casa Manor.” The phone fell from my hand.

~ For a word of comfort: