One Last Ride: The Taxi Driver’s Secret

One Last Ride: The Taxi Driver’s Secret

Written by Mirza

Nobody knew his full name—everyone just called him “Baba Taxi.”

For more than thirty years, Baba Taxi drove the streets of Lahore, weaving through its dust, chaos, and colors. His old yellow-and-black cab was a familiar sight—scratched, dented, but somehow proud. His back slightly hunched, white beard trimmed, and smile always kind, Baba was the silent companion of countless passengers.

To the world, he was just another aging driver. But behind the wheel, Baba held a secret, one he never revealed in a word but lived in every journey he took. He wasn’t just driving people from point A to point B. He was looking for someone.

Every evening before ending his shift, Baba would drive to the railway station and wait near the exit gate. For twenty years, he would sit silently, eyes scanning the faces as passengers disembarked. Some looked at him curiously, some asked for a ride, and many just passed by. But none were the face he was looking for.

People joked that Baba was obsessed with the station. Some drivers whispered he was waiting for a lost love, others said he was senile. Baba never explained.

Then, one rainy Thursday in July, everything changed.

A young woman named Meher flagged down Baba's taxi near Liberty Market. Her eyes were red from crying. She clutched a backpack and held a folded letter in her hand.

“Railway Station,” she said quietly.

Baba glanced at her in the rear-view mirror. Something in her expression—something broken yet familiar—caught his attention.

The silence in the cab was heavy, except for the hum of the engine and occasional splashes from puddles. Baba didn't ask questions. He never did.

But as they neared the station, she broke the silence.

“My mother used to tell me a story,” Meher said suddenly, voice cracking. “About a taxi driver who used to take her to college every day. She said he never charged her a rupee. Just asked her to promise him something.”

Baba's hands stiffened slightly on the steering wheel.

“She said he made her promise that one day, when she had a daughter, she'd tell her about him. About his kindness. About how he saved her life one night when she almost ran away from home after a fight with her parents.”

The girl smiled faintly through tears. “She never told me his name. Just called him ‘Baba Taxi.’”

The car stopped. Meher opened the letter and held it toward him.

“She passed away last month. Cancer. But she left this... for you.”

Baba’s fingers trembled as he took the letter.

Dear Baba Taxi,

If Meher finds you, it means she listened. I never forgot that ride. You talked me out of leaving home that night. You said I would regret losing my family, and you were right. Because of you, I went home and reconciled with my parents. Because of you, I stayed. I married, I raised my daughter, and I lived a full life.

If you're reading this, please take care of her. Like you did with me. Just this once. She’s lost right now. She needs you.

With all my heart,
Zoya.

Baba’s eyes glistened. It had been her.

For all these years, he'd returned to that station, hoping. Not to find her again, but to return a photo he’d found under the backseat the night she almost ran away. A photo of her and her parents. He kept it, in case one day, someone came looking.

Baba reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a small, creased photo. Meher gasped.

“That’s... my nani and nana,” she whispered.

He handed it to her with the gentleness of a grandfather. For a few moments, silence wrapped the cab like a blanket. The rain outside had softened to a drizzle.

“You’ll stay with me tonight,” Baba said quietly.

Meher nodded. For the first time in weeks, she felt safe.

Epilogue

Meher did stay.

She spent a few nights at Baba’s small home. He cooked daal and parathas, told her old tales of Lahore, of love lost and found, of how every rider in his taxi left a story behind. She shared stories of her mother, listened to songs from Baba’s dusty cassette tapes, and slowly, something inside her began to heal.

A few weeks later, Meher left for Islamabad, where she had been accepted into an arts program. But she promised to call every week—and she did.

Baba didn’t wait at the railway station after that night. He didn’t need to anymore.

He had finally completed the ride he’d waited a lifetime for.