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TWILIGHT and the city’s lights come on. This is the hour he feels the pain the most. Meter down, he begins to drop people home. Sometimes they talk, among themselves or on cell phones, about dinner, the more tired office-goers about tucking into bed. In traffic, he understands only snatches of their conversation. But when they talk about home, he always knows.
That’s because for a little over four years now, home for taxidriver Moinuddin Sheikh and his son Nomaan has been their black-and-yellow cab. At 54, Sheikh has an idea of home. But, like millions of other Mumbaiites for whom even a tiny rented flat is an unattainable goal, his idea of home has stayed that—an idea.
“The only thing I want is a house on rent,” says Sheikh. Still, he doesn’t really consider himself a nomad—given the circumstances, the four-seater cab has been an unwavering friend, and a home.
Nomaan, 10, mostly does not like divulging details of his special lifestyle to strangers and keeps silent, watching everything with keen interest.
The dashboard resembles the mess of a lived-in home. It holds a pocket-sized Quran, a blue plastic bottle of hair oil, a pack of cigarettes, a plastic box of medicines, a twisted tube of ointment and a pack of incense sticks. At bedtime, Sheikh’s wallet and Nomaan’s skullcap also find space on the crowded dashboard. A small bundle is their bedding, also useful as a dining table for two.
This is the dining room, the living room and the bedroom. More important, it is also their only source of income.
Travelling through the city ferrying passengers, a shy and quiet Nomaan is normally at his Abba’s side. “Before agreeing to ferry any customer I make it clear that Nomaan goes with me. If the customer agrees, fine. Otherwise I’ll get other passengers,” says Sheikh bluntly.
This is the Mumbai life: No money for a roof over their heads, Sheikh’s job is his entire existence.
Reluctant initially to talk about his past, Moinuddin says he lived a fairly prosperous life in the late 1980s, employed as a driver in Saudi Arabia. “I earned well during my days in Saudi Arabia. I feel now that I lived like a king then,” he says. Today, he just about manages to earn Rs 250 to Rs 300 a day.
Born into a lower-middle class family, Sheikh is one of six siblings born to a post-Partition migrant from Karachi. Never one for academics, he finished his schooling in an Urdu-medium school near his home in Andheri’s Mahakali Caves locality in suburban Mumbai and he began driving the city’s iconic black-and-yellow in 1976. He didn’t ever imagine then that he would live in one for four years.
An “opportunity” came in 1982 and he flew to the Middle East. “Woh mera sabse haseen waqt tha (that was the best time of my life),” he recalls.
Fourteen years later, there was a lockout at the factory where he was employed and from then things went downhill. “I came to know that the company had shut down only after I returned after getting married,” he says. That was 1996. He rushed back to Mumbai and rented a taxi to drive, the only other job he had been comfortable with.

But times were tough as a taxidriver in Mumbai and his one-room-kitchen home had to be sold off. His wife abandoned him and Nomaan, he says. “Ab main kise dosh doon; main hi paise ki ehmiyat nahi samjha. (Who should I blame? I didn’t understand the importance of money).”
Sheikh still repents not trying to find another job in Saudi Arabia. Despite the financial crunch, the search for an affordable home continues. In fact, the thing that drives Sheikh to carry on with his uncertain life is the hope that some day, his prayers will be answered and his wish will be granted—a house on rent.
Amid working hours, he stops at suburban colonies to make his enquiries. “I have hunted for a home, but people ask for Rs 40,000-Rs 50,000 as deposit, which is impossible for me,” he says. Initially, he tried to rope in family and friends to bail him out. “Everyone disappointed me,” he says. “The friends whom I’d helped in my good times change lanes if they see me now,” he says, as if to convey his fading faith in people, in relationships.
He has made a conscious effort, however, to keep Nomaan shielded from his daily bitterness. Four months ago, Sheikh admitted his son into a madrassa at Chakala, in Andheri, where the boy now spends six days of the week.
“I didn’t want Nomaan to struggle with me every day. As it is he has faced too many hardships at this tender age,” the father says. “This way, he will learn about our religion and culture.” The last time Nomaan went to regular school was four years ago, when he had completed senior KG in an English-medium school. “I wanted to give him the best education possible, but I think God had other plans,” Sheikh says.
Apart from his son whom he dotes on, the other object of his affection is his taxi, bought second-hand but still not entirely his. He bought it on loan and is paying a monthly installment of Rs 5,600. “It’s a huge burden for me to pay these installments. There have been occasions when I couldn’t pay up, but this is the only source of income and the only shelter I have for myself and my son,” he says.
Sheikh operates between Andheri and Kandivali along the busy Western Express Highway, ferrying goods of a small industrial unit located just next to his permanent parking place at Mahakali Caves—he parks closest to the last flat he remembers as home. On an average business day, he earns Rs 300, spends Rs 100 on gas and saves as much as possible. But for Nomaan, all stops are pulled out. On Thursdays, when Nomaan comes to his father, Sheikh arranges for a “Chinese” meal—stir fried noodles from streetside woks. “Nomaan ko Chinese khane ka behad shaukh hai. Ab itna toh kar hi sakta hu main,” he says.
The boy has been silent through most of the last few hours. Then, as if suddenly falling short of patience and strength, he looks up at his father: “Bas Abba, ab ghar le lo (Enough, let’s please have a house).”
The father is quick to assure him: “Ho jayega (It will happen).”

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