Many auto rickshaws were parked near the bus terminal

I was standing in front of the bus terminal in Pune, in western India. It was a mild afternoon—neither hot nor cold—the sky a soft blue dotted with clouds, as if it belonged to a calmer, more dignified world than the chaos below. But the reality at my feet was different. Across the road, a row of identical auto rickshaws stood neatly in line, like soldiers awaiting roll call. This was what people here call yakumachi—waiting for passengers—and the drivers’ expressions suggested they didn’t have so much as a speck of “the customer is always right” in their philosophy.

Small as they look, these three-wheelers have engines that growl more than you’d expect, and while the back seat is meant for two, three passengers is hardly unusual. Fares are a matter of negotiation, and a distracted tourist can easily be charged double the going rate. Then again, in this country, the notion of a “going rate” is as much a mirage as anything—you’d be the odd one out for seeking fixed prices. Next door, under a blue shop sign, a small store displayed stacks of bottled water and dubious-looking snacks. Laundry fluttered from a balcony upstairs, and in the distance a modest sign announced itself: THE SAMRAT.

The rickshaw drivers sat in the shade, each in their own world—one puffing on a cigarette, another reading a newspaper, another simply gazing wordlessly at the sky. None of them rushed when a customer appeared. They knew someone would take a ride sooner or later. I considered hopping in, but could already picture myself losing the price negotiation, so I stayed put, not crossing the street. Only the blue of the sky made me forget, for a moment, that I was in India.