THE moment you spot her, your mind conjures up images of a bindaas Ghungroo of Ram Gopal Varma ki Aag. But a closer look at the petite 26-yearold Sunita, and you can see the difference between the real-life female autorickshaw driver, who cruises the deadly roads of Delhi, and her reel-life counterpart. There are no Ghungroo-style gaalis or brazenness of Sholay’s Basanti, just stoic calm. A fire in her belly that translates into strength in her eyes. Eyes that convey that they've licked many a darkness-filled corner.
As I hitch a bumpy ride on her auto on a hot sunny day, Sunita waves a practised hand when a bus load of school kids wave at her. She tackles half a dozen funny stares without batting an eyelid. She laughs when she recalls the reaction of other autorickshaw drivers when she hit the road. "They were really threatened and said, 'What will happen to us if women start driving? No one will hire us then'. I even got into fisticuffs with them." Today, by her own admission, she's quite respected by her fellow drivers. Why, we even witness a rowdy driver of a killer Blueline bus making way for her! "I still carry the 10-rupee note my first passenger tipped me with," she says fondly, waving the talisman in my face.
But life's not been easy for this woman. It was less than a decade ago when a mentally and emotionally scarred girl came to Delhi, leaving behind her rusty village near Meerut to escape a maniacal husband and even worse inlaws. She was married off at 13, divorced at 14. But this gutsy girl decided to take the reins of her life in her hand. Initially, with no place to stay or any money for food, she started as an errand girl at a primary health centre. Then came the turning point in her life.
En route to Haridwar, Sunita saw the bloodsmeared body of a young guy — a victim of road rashness. As she cried for help, the callousness of passersby appalled her. Even the police refused to help. As she saw the boy die in front of her eyes, Sunita promised herself that she'd never abandon a hapless person on the road or an accident victim, ever. "And there was just one way I could do so — by owning a vehicle," she says.
But she soon realised that without money, she couldn't even afford driving lessons. Not one to lose heart, she asked around. Policemen from the local station acted good Samaritans. They let her practice on their PCR van on one condition — she had to be there at the crack of dawn, before the senior officers arrived. And there she was!
She bought her first autorickshaw after a lot of tussle with the authorities. "They simply refused me a licence, because 'they've never given one to a woman before'. "A decision that made me run from pillar to post for three long years!" exclaims Sunita. Driving in Delhi's chaotic traffic is no fun. But Sunita remains unfazed, weaving through traffic, totally confident of her driving skills. "I drive from dawn to dusk. It never tires me. In fact, I love driving at night when I get to see interesting characters and all sorts of human drama unfolding," she says with a glint in her eyes.
So, does it get lonely at times with not a single female colleague to bond with? "I do chat with other male drivers or policewallas, but I don't like to be 'one' of them. They smoke and drink. I prefer to read my newspaper or take a nap on the backseat when I get free moments," she explains. Incidentally, some years back, she contested the assembly elections in Delhi and lost. Would she file her nomination again? "Why not? Politicians have clout." Would she give up her auto then? "No way! It's my luxury car!" she cries energetically.
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