Considered “past her prime” by society, Nisha look...

Part I: Expired Goods

Nisha Kulkarni was 30, divorced, and according to her building aunties in Kothrud, Pune, already expired.

She had been an English teacher at a good CBSE school in Pune for six years. She taught Wuthering Heights to 11th standard and corrected their grammar with a red pen that never ran out. She lived with her six year old daughter, Myra, in a 1 BHK that had too many books and too little sunlight. Her ex-husband, Rohit, was in Hyderabad with a new wife who made good rotis and did not argue about feminism.

Nisha’s mother called every Sunday and said the same thing in different order. Beta, second marriage socho, who will take care of Myra, you are 30 only but society thinks you are expired goods. In Pune, in middle class Marathi families, divorced single mother is still a confusing category. You are either pitied or advised.

Nisha had stopped explaining. She took an Uber to school daily, because her old Scooty had died and auto drivers in Kothrud charged like they were driving Mercedes. She had a monthly pack with Uber, same time, 7:40 am to school, 3:30 pm back.

She was an English teacher. So she noticed English everywhere. She noticed when people said more better, she noticed when they said myself Nisha instead of I am Nisha. It was an occupational hazard. She corrected people mentally, sometimes verbally, even when she should not.

Myra was her real world. Myra had a gap in front teeth, asked why sky is blue 20 times a day, and believed her mother knew everything.

Nisha’s life was going on in second gear. School, Myra, tiffin, PTM, building aunties. No drama. Till Sameer.

Part II: The Uber Driver Who Spoke Broken English

Sameer came first on a rainy Monday in July.

Nisha booked Uber, as usual. A white Swift Dzire came, driver name Sameer D. Rating 4.98. That itself is rare, because Pune Uber drivers never have 4.98.

He was maybe 36, 37, light beard, wearing a simple blue shirt, not the usual shiny shirt that Uber drivers wear. He said, “Good morning, madam,” with an accent that was definitely Marathi trying to speak English.

“Good morning,” Nisha said, sitting behind, opening her book.

He drove well. No sudden brake, no honking like he owns road. He drove like someone who has all the time.

Nisha noticed he spoke in broken English. On phone, he said to someone, “Yes sir, I am coming only in ten minutes, you wait only.”

When she got down, he said, “Thank you madam, have a nice day’s.”

Day’s, with an extra s. Nisha corrected in her mind, have a nice day.

He came again next day. And next day. Because in Pune, if you book same time daily, Uber algorithm gives you same driver only.

Slowly, he became her fixed driver. Morning and evening.

Nisha, being English teacher, could not resist teaching. She was also, if she is honest, looking down a little. In her head, Uber driver equals less educated. It is a very Delhi Pune upper middle class thought, but it is there.

One day she said, “Sameer, you should say have a nice day, not have a nice day’s.”

He smiled in rear view mirror. “Okay madam, thank you for telling. My English is not good.”

Another day, he said, “Madam, your daughter is very cute only.”

Nisha said, “You should say very cute, not very cute only. Only is extra.”

He said, “Okay madam. Sorry.”

Myra liked him. Myra sat in front sometimes, when Nisha allowed, and he would give her a small toffee and say, “For good girl only.”

Nisha would correct again, “Just for good girl is enough.”

He would nod.

In three months, Nisha knew his full story, or what she thought was his story. He is from Satara, studied till 12th, came to Pune for driving job, wife died two years back, no children, lives alone in a small room in Hadapsar, drives Uber from morning to night to make money. Poor fellow, she thought. Nice fellow, but poor fellow.

She started giving him extra 20 rupees tip, started telling Myra, “See, study hard, otherwise you will have to drive Uber like Sameer uncle.”

Sameer never argued. He just drove.

One evening, it was raining heavily, Myra had fever, Nisha was crying in backseat while talking to her mother on phone, saying I cannot manage alone, I am expired, who will want me with a child.

Sameer stopped the car near a medical shop, bought a small packet of crocin syrup for children with his own money, gave it to Nisha and said, “Madam, don’t worry, children fever is common only. You are good mother.”

His English was still broken, but his kindness was perfect.

Nisha felt a strange warmth. She, who looked down on him for his English, started looking forward to his car. Not because of English, but because in his car no one judged her for being divorced. He never asked why husband left, never asked when second marriage. He just drove.

She started sharing things. About school principal who said divorced teachers should not teach love poems. About building aunties. About Myra’s father who never calls.

Sameer listened. He always listened. He would say small things like, “Madam, you are strong only,” which was grammatically wrong but emotionally correct.

On a Friday in October, Nisha had a parent teacher meeting where a parent said, “Madam, you are divorced, so you may not understand family values.” She came out furious, sat in Sameer’s car, and burst out.

“Sameer, these people think I am expired goods because I am 30 and divorced. Tell me, am I expired?”

Sameer parked the car near the lake, gave her water bottle, and said, “Madam, in my village, expired goods are those which no one wants. You are wanted by your daughter, by your students. So you are not expired.”

Nisha cried a little. He did not correct her English that day. He just let her cry.

That night, she reached home, opened her school WhatsApp group where principal forwards motivational LinkedIn posts daily. That day principal had forwarded a post with caption, Proud of our Pune alumnus.

Nisha opened it casually, wiping Myra’s forehead.

The post had a photo of a man in a tweed jacket, speaking at a podium with Oxford logo behind. Same beard, same eyes, same smile, but no broken English. The caption said something that made her hand freeze on Myra’s crocin syrup.

And then, as she was getting down at her society gate, her phone buzzed with a message from the school principal, a forwarded LinkedIn post that said Congratulations to our alumnus Prof. Sameer Deshpande, Oxford University, Department of Linguistics, on his new book The Indian English Bazaar, and the photo was of her Uber driver Sameer in a tweed jacket speaking at Oxford, and in that moment she realised the man whose broken English she had been correcting for three months was actually an Oxford linguistics professor who had returned to India after his wife’s death and was driving Uber just to listen to common people’s stories to write a book, and he was far more educated than she would ever be.

Part III: Professor in a Swift Dzire

Nisha did not sleep that night.

She googled. Sameer Deshpande, Oxford University, PhD Linguistics, Cambridge, then Oxford, author of two books, wife Dr. Anjali Deshpande, cancer researcher, died in 2022 in Oxford. After wife’s death, he took sabbatical, returned to India in 2024.

There were videos. Sameer speaking fluent, perfect, British accented English about how Indian people say only and itself and how that is not broken English but new English.

In one video, he said, “When my Uber driver in Pune says I will come in ten minutes only, he is not making a mistake, he is making Indian English. We need to study it, not correct it.”

Nisha felt her face burn. For three months, she had been correcting his only and day’s.

Morning 7:40 am, she booked Uber. Same car came. Sameer. Same blue shirt.

She sat, did not say good morning.

He said, “Good morning, madam, have a nice day’s,” again, deliberately, with that extra s, looking at rear view mirror, eyes twinkling.

Nisha said, voice shaking, “Stop the car.”

He stopped.

“Why did you lie?” she asked.

“I did not lie, madam,” he said, still in broken English. Then he switched, in one second, to perfect Oxford English, the kind Nisha had only heard in British Council audio. “I never said I studied till 12th, Nisha. You assumed. You assumed driver means less educated. You assumed broken English means broken mind. I just did not correct your assumption. That is different from lying.”

Nisha stared. Same man, two Englishes, like two people.

“You are professor at Oxford? You drive Uber? Why?”

He parked properly, turned back.

“After Anjali died, I could not stay in Oxford. Every building there had her memory. I came to Pune, my hometown. I did not want to teach immediately. I wanted to listen. In Oxford, I studied Indian English from books. I wanted to study it from people. So I started driving Uber, 6 months, just to listen to how people really speak. How they say kindly adjust, how they say itself, how they say expired goods. I record, with permission, I note. I am writing a book. The Indian English Bazaar. Your only is in chapter 3, Nisha. I was going to tell you.”

Nisha felt small. Not because he was more educated, but because she, an English teacher who taught students not to judge, had judged him for three months by his English.

“I told Myra to study hard otherwise you will have to drive Uber like Sameer uncle,” she whispered, ashamed.

Sameer smiled, sad. “And I told my diary, Nisha madam teaches English but does not know that English belongs to everyone, not only to British. We both were wrong.”

“Why broken English then? You can speak good English.”

“Because if I spoke Oxford English, no one would speak naturally to me. They would become conscious. Drivers are invisible in India. People say real things in front of drivers, maids, chai tapri boys. I wanted real stories. And also, my wife Anjali used to say, Sameer, you speak too posh, try to speak like common man. So I tried. For her.”

He said his wife’s name and his eyes became wet. That was the first time Nisha saw him not as driver, not as professor, but as a widower, 38, who lost his wife and was trying to find stories to fill silence.

“So you were doing research on me?” Nisha asked.

“I was doing research on language. But I found a story I did not expect. A divorced English teacher who thinks she is expired goods, who corrects everyone, but who cries for her daughter and who gives extra 20 rupees to driver thinking he is poor. That story is not in my book yet. That story is still being written.”

Nisha did not know what to say. She got down, took Myra to school by auto that day. She cancelled Uber.

Part IV: Slow Burn

For one week, she did not book his Uber. She took autos, which charged Mercedes rates and drove like bullock carts. Myra asked, “Where is Sameer uncle?”

Nisha said, “He went to foreign.”

But Sameer came, without booking. On Monday morning, 7:40 am, his car was standing below her building, no Uber booking, just standing.

He lowered window and said in broken English again, “Madam, school?”

Nisha, despite herself, laughed and cried at same time.

“You are not my Uber now,” she said.

“I am free Uber now. No charge. Only toffee for Myra only,” he said, again with extra only, deliberately.

She sat. Myra ran and sat in front, as usual.

In car, he spoke normally now, not broken, not Oxford, just normal Pune English, mix of Marathi and Hindi and English, the real Indian English.

“Nisha, I am not angry that you looked down on me. Everyone does. My own department in Oxford, when I said I drive Uber in India, they said why, you have become poor. We all look down. It is human. What matters is what we do after we know.”

Nisha said, “I am sorry. I am English teacher, I should know better. I told students language is power, but I used it as scale to measure people.”

“And I used broken English as mask to measure people. So we are same. Two teachers, both judging.”

They started talking, real talking now. Not madam and driver, but Nisha and Sameer.

He told her about Anjali, how she was Maharashtrian, how she loved misal pav, how she died in 8 months after diagnosis, how he could not save her even though he knows 5 languages.

She told him about Rohit, how he left saying you argue too much, how society says expired, how Myra once asked why Papa does not come and she had no answer.

Slow burn is not fast. Slow burn is Pune to Kothrud traffic, slow, honking, but moving.

Sameer started coming not as Uber, but as friend. He would come at 6 pm, take Myra to park, teach her why sky is blue in Marathi and English both. He would sit in Nisha’s small 1 BHK, drink chai that Nisha made, which was too strong, and he would not correct.

One evening, Myra had high fever again, 102. Nisha panicked. Sameer was in Bangalore for a literature fest. She called him, crying.

He took overnight bus, came at 4 am, took Myra to Deenanath hospital, stayed whole night, holding Myra’s small hand.

Nisha saw him holding Myra and thought, this man lost his wife, has no child, but knows how to be father more than Myra’s real father.

Later, when Myra slept, Nisha asked, “Sameer, why you? Why us? You are Oxford professor, you can have anyone. Why a divorced teacher with expired tag?”

Sameer said, “Because you also drive, Nisha. You drive your life, alone, with a child, with building aunties saying expired, with principal saying don’t teach love poems. You drive daily, like I drive Uber. We are both drivers only. And my wife Anjali, before dying, told me, Sameer, don’t marry a professor next time, marry someone who knows how to live without Oxford. Someone who says only and itself and means it.”

Nisha said, “I still say only. It is habit.”

“I know. And I love your only. It is in my book now. Chapter 3, Only is not extra, Only is emotion. Dedicated to Nisha Kulkarni, English teacher, Kothrud.”

Nisha cried, again, but this time not because she felt expired, but because someone had written her only into a book.

Part V: Not Expired

In December, Sameer’s book launched in Pune, at British Council library.

Nisha went, with Myra, wearing a simple cotton saree, not expensive. Sameer was on stage, in tweed jacket, speaking perfect Oxford English to audience of professors.

Then he saw Nisha, switched to Pune English.

“This book is about Indian English. But this book is also about an Uber ride that became friendship. I used to think I am professor, I will study people. But one passenger taught me, language is not for correcting, language is for connecting. She corrected my day’s to day, but she also gave me crocin for a child who was not mine. So this book is for her.”

Everyone clapped, looking at Nisha, who wanted to hide behind Myra.

After event, building aunties who had come because event had free samosa, came to Nisha and said, “Aga, Nisha, your Uber driver is Oxford professor? Then you are not expired goods, you are lucky goods.”

Nisha smiled, for first time not angry at aunties.

Sameer came to her, with a copy of book. Inside, he had written, For Nisha and Myra, who taught me that broken English is not broken, and expired goods never expire, they just get new price tag.

Myra asked, “Sameer uncle, will you be my new Papa?”

Sameer knelt, same height, as he always does, and said, “I will be your friend who will always drive you to school, even if I become principal of Oxford itself. Is that okay?”

Myra said, “Okay, but you should say friend only, not friend itself.”

Sameer laughed, Nisha laughed, and for first time Nisha did not correct Myra’s grammar.

She had spent 30 years thinking English is about being correct. Sameer, the driver who was more educated than her, taught her English is about being understood, and love is about being accepted, even with extra only and extra day’s.

On way back, they did not book Uber. They walked, three of them, holding hands, Myra in middle, speaking in mixed Marathi, Hindi, English, all at once, the real Indian English that no Oxford can teach, but only life can.

And somewhere, Nisha knew, she was not expired goods. She was just a single mother who finally found a co-driver for her life’s Uber, who knows when to speak broken and when to speak perfect, and when to just stay silent and drive.