The Wrong White Car

Sameer’s cab was white. So were several other cars outside the Indiranagar shopping complex. He considered this a minor detail until it became the entire plot.

He had a laptop bag over one shoulder, a parcel of shoes in one hand, and a phone displaying a message from his friend asking why he was always late. Sameer wanted to provide a practical demonstration of progress by being inside a car immediately.

He saw a white hatchback in the designated pickup area. It appeared to be waiting. He approached from the pavement side, opened the rear door, and began to sit.

A woman in the front seat turned around.

“Excuse me?”

Sameer froze halfway through becoming a passenger.

“Cab?” he asked.

“Son,” she replied.

There was a silence in which both nouns clarified the situation completely.

Sameer stepped back out, apologised, and closed the door gently. The woman, Mrs Lobo, looked more surprised than angry. Her shopping bag sat on the passenger seat. No part of the vehicle suggested commercial transport beyond its colour and Sameer’s optimism.

“I’m waiting for my son,” she explained through the open window.

“I’m waiting for somebody with a better checking process,” he said, then realised this person was himself.

Mrs Lobo laughed. “At least you have brought shoes.”

He looked at the parcel. It did give his accidental arrival the faint appearance of a family errand.

Mrs Lobo’s phone rang while Sameer stood safely back on the pavement. Her son wanted to know whether she needed anything from the shop. She said no, then looked at Sameer and added that she had nearly acquired an extra passenger already. He apologised once more, smiling this time.

His actual driver called. “Sir, I’m near the pickup sign. Please check the number.”

Sameer looked at the app properly. The registered vehicle was a different model, with a different number, parked two spaces farther along. It was also white. This last feature had been carrying far too much responsibility in his decision-making.

He confirmed the details before approaching. His driver, Naushad, matched the booking. Sameer checked the destination, boarded carefully, and fastened his belt. The laptop bag and shoes were finally in the correct vehicle.

Naushad asked whether the pickup point had been confusing.

“Only because I used colour as my entire system.”

The driver smiled. “Many white cars, sir.”

“Recently established.”

Before they left, a young man emerged from the shopping complex and walked towards Mrs Lobo’s car. He glanced at Sameer through the neighbouring window. His mother appeared to be explaining the incident already, using small, precise hand gestures.

The young man laughed and raised a hand in greeting. Sameer returned it with the resignation of someone who had become another household’s dinner story.

At the first slow stretch, he messaged his friend: IN THE CORRECT CAB NOW.

The reply arrived immediately: NOW?

Sameer explained. His friend requested details about the family he had briefly joined. Sameer refused to provide them, partly because there was little to tell and partly because he wanted the story to retain a manageable lifespan.

This failed. By evening, three friends had heard a version in which he arrived at a stranger’s house carrying groceries. He corrected the record: parked car, shoes, no residential visit. They agreed these were important distinctions and ignored them in the next retelling.

A week later, at another pickup point, Sameer checked the registration, model and driver before opening a door. His friend stood beside him, impressed by the thoroughness.

“Very professional.”

“I have experience.”

A woman in a nearby white car waved to someone approaching behind them. Sameer moved aside without reacting.

The friend nodded.

“Good. You’re respecting the family boundaries.”

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