The Balcony Pickup

Dev had ordered a cab before putting on his shoes, a decision he considered evidence of efficiency. The app said the car would arrive in three minutes. He tied the first shoelace. It said two minutes. He tied the second. It said one.

Eight minutes later, it still said one.

He stepped onto his fourth-floor balcony and looked down. Across the road, beyond a divider and a row of parked vehicles, sat a silver cab. Its driver was looking up at his building. Dev waved experimentally.

The driver waved back.

At last, a transport problem with excellent visibility.

His phone rang. “Sir, this is Manjunath. Are you the gentleman waving?”

“Yes! I can see you.”

“I can also see you.”

They paused, briefly satisfied with this achievement. Then Manjunath explained the one-way arrangement. To reach Dev’s entrance correctly, he needed to continue ahead, circle the block, and approach from another road. Dev examined the scene below and discovered that knowing where something was did not necessarily make it accessible.

“No problem,” he said. “I’ll come downstairs.”

“Please use the main gate.”

“Which one?”

It emerged that the apartment listing used a pin near the rear boundary wall. The actual vehicle entrance was on the next street. Dev had lived there for eleven months without needing to describe this distinction to anyone beyond a pizza delivery person, who had solved it through stronger language.

Dev entered the lift. On the second floor, Mrs Fernandes joined him carrying a cloth shopping bag. She asked whether he was going to the airport. He said no, just a café to meet an old friend.

“Then why the expression?”

“I can see my cab but cannot reach it.”

She nodded. “Modern life.”

At the main gate, Dev called Manjunath again. The cab was now on a different side of the building. Dev could see it through the gaps between a coconut tree and a water tanker. He waved. Manjunath, safely stopped, waved back.

The security guard, Kumar, watched this exchange with the interest of a man encountering a new form of badminton.

“Sir, going where?”

“Eventually, that car.”

Kumar explained that the next street had temporary work near one entrance. A slightly longer route would bring the cab to the correct side without squeezing through the narrow section. Dev passed along the directions. Manjunath thanked him and set off.

Meanwhile, Dev’s friend called from the café. “Have you left?”

“I have left the apartment.”

“Great. How far?”

“Vertically, four floors.”

The friend went quiet, then ordered a sandwich.

Mrs Fernandes returned from the nearby shop with tomatoes. Dev was still by the gate. She examined him with concern.

“Is the café in another state?”

“Not yet.”

Kumar offered Dev a chair. He declined at first, then accepted with the reluctant dignity of a person establishing residency in the security cabin. From the chair, he corrected his saved pickup location so the next booking would use the main entrance.

Manjunath arrived a few minutes later, entirely legally and facing the correct direction. Dev stood up so quickly that Kumar saluted with his biscuit. The driver smiled as he opened the journey in the app.

“Finally, sir.”

They looked at each other with a warmth normally reserved for relatives reunited after difficult travel. Dev settled into the back seat, fastened his belt, and sent his friend an update.

“In the cab.”

A reply arrived immediately: “Photo proof.”

Dev took a selfie showing the seat belt and a corner of the rear window. High above, his own balcony was still visible.

He decided not to mention that part.

Read when you’re a passenger or safely off the road. Never while driving.