The Pickup Instructions

Farah loved Jayanagar’s trees until one of them became her transport address.

Her cab driver called as she left a small clothing shop with a carefully packed alteration. “Madam, stand near the big tree,” he said.

She looked along the pavement. There were several trees. Most had entered adulthood with confidence.

“Which tree?”

“The green one.”

Farah closed her eyes briefly. The description had narrowed the field to Bengaluru’s entire living canopy.

The driver, Santosh, was trying to help. His app pin sat near a building entrance that did not provide a suitable stopping place. He had found a better pickup area a little farther along and was describing the most visible feature.

Farah understood the problem. She did not yet understand the tree.

“Is there a shop name?” she asked.

“Bakery.”

“Which bakery?”

“One with bread outside.”

She looked down at her phone, then back at the street, and decided that allowing the conversation to continue in this format would eventually involve botany and flour classification.

She remained on the footpath, away from the shop doorway, and asked Santosh to stay safely parked while they clarified. He agreed. Neither had to keep moving the target while explaining it.

A shop assistant named Chitra came outside to check whether Farah needed anything. Farah repeated the tree instructions. Chitra looked along the road and began laughing gently.

“People describe that tree as if it has a registration number.”

Apparently, the tree in question stood beside a well-known local bakery sign. Chitra supplied the actual business name and a clear description of its entrance. Farah passed this to Santosh. He confirmed immediately.

Communication improved so sharply that both sounded mildly surprised.

The walk was short and along a proper footpath. Farah thanked Chitra, checked the route, and went to the agreed waiting point. The tree was indeed large. It was also green. The original instructions had achieved accuracy while avoiding usefulness.

Santosh’s car stood in the suitable pickup area, matching her booking details. Farah confirmed the registration and driver before boarding. Her alteration parcel settled beside her, apparently relieved that its role remained clothing rather than a flag to attract passing cars.

“Sorry, madam,” Santosh said. “I didn’t know the bakery name.”

“No problem. I didn’t know the tree name.”

They laughed. There had been no need for blame. Two people had used different references, and a third had supplied the missing label.

Farah saved the clearer pickup point for future visits. Santosh said he would remember the bakery sign. The tree continued providing shade without being asked to manage any further appointments.

Santosh mentioned that another passenger once described a pickup point as opposite the place that used to sell tyres. Farah admired the extra difficulty of a landmark requiring historical knowledge. They agreed that a current sign and an accessible entrance made a much stronger combination than either a tree or an abandoned business category.

Halfway home, Farah’s sister called. “Where were you? I messaged.”

“Under investigation near a tree.”

She explained the pickup. Her sister suggested describing the tree as having leaves next time. Farah said that would improve specificity only during a very unusual season.

At home, she opened the alteration parcel. The tailor had adjusted a sleeve exactly as requested. For a few minutes, she enjoyed the satisfaction of an instruction being understood the first time.

Then a message arrived from her father, who needed help identifying a cable behind the television.

“Which cable?” she asked.

“The black one.”

Farah looked at the photograph. There were seven.

She sat down, took a breath, and typed: “First, nobody move anything.”

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