I have attended many academic panels on urbanity, masculinity and the modern metropolis as a social construct. Oh, to have been bechanced upon some great contemporary academics who look at autos of Bangalore and Hyderabad using Lefebvrian trilects, class and gendering of roads. The further we move into theory, the further we move away from the vibrating pulse of the street.So, at first, I thought of writing this with a cue to our pop-feminists’ never-ending obsession – le toxic masculinity. Surely, it will ragebait the right audience. Little did I know, a conversation with an auto driver would lead me to a chatpata take on it. Humorous but wounded – shaped as much by migration and precarity as by patriarchy.It was midnight on Valentine’s Day and my hands were full. A rose, some gifts, a badminton racket, and my bag. I was returning from the university hostel to my flat in an autorickshaw. I tried to hide my gifts from auto bhaiya, adopting the posture of a “modest” and sincere woman, gave the code and the ride started.“Are you from Assam?” he asked.“No, Bhaiya. I am from Bihar,” I told him.“Bihar? Wasn’t Chattisgarh a part of Bihar?”“No, bhaiya. Jharkhand, Bihar and Bengal were a territory on their own. Chhattisgarh was a part of Madhya Pradesh.”“No, no. It was. My friend is from there.” he asserted.“Maybe,” I said, as an awkward silence followed. Messages on autorickshaws. Photo provided by authorI was sure of my geographical knowledge but hesitated to tell him that because I did not have a friend from Chhattisgarh to prove it. It was also late at night and the art of being a woman and travelling alone has taught me to “keep quiet” in auto rides at night. Don’t argue with strange men; you will be safe. Silence often becomes a strategy.But I anyway proceeded to ask him: “Where are you from?”“I am from Maharashtra,” he said.“Where from?”“Palgarh.”“Oh. I have never been to Maharashtra.”“Have you been to Bombay?” he asked.“No.”“Do you know Marathi?”“I have some friends from Maharashtra. Nashik and Pune. How come you are in Hyderabad?” I asked.“Kaam waste aya tha ji…(I came here for work),” he said.Illustration: Pariplab ChakrabortyPointing to the university campus, I asked him if we had reached.“Yes,” he said.But I continued the conversation, and asked, “Do you know Telugu?”“Nahi. Here, everyone knows Hindi. What do you study here?”“Social Science.”“Science? I also studied science in 12th. I got 62%.” he said proudly.“Wow, Bhaiya. That is amazing. I am studying a different science, one about society.”“Is it?” “Yes! Did you study in state boards?”“Haan ji.”“Why didn’t you study more?”“Madam, in this world, even the most educated people are doing nothing good after studying so much? Kya hi ho jayega (What good will it do)? In Marathi, there is a famous saying: Shikshan hi vaghiniche doodh aahe, jo pyaila to gurguralyashivay rahanar nahi (Education is the milk of a lioness; whoever drinks it will roar),” he said and smiled.I could not understand the two contradictory statements together. Was it sarcasm? His dismissal of formal education did not sound anti-intellectual. It showed his disappointment, as if someone was negotiating dignity in a city that had already decided his place.“Didn’t Babasaheb say this?” I asked him“Ambedkar! I see him here. These days, he is everywhere.”“Why don’t you get it written on your auto?”“No need, madam. I am a lion.” Some masculinities announce themselves loudly. Others carry their politics quietly within. He told me he lives near Shamshabad airport with his wife and six-month-old daughter. In the morning, he drives the auto to school in Begumpet. The hyper-masculine autorickshaw messages I had been collecting on my phone felt less like declarations and more like a chink in the armour of masculinity. I paid him Rs 78.During COVID, I had joined a filmmaking course. I remember, the instructor started the class with an unforgettable phrase: “Students are always migrants.” That was the one thing common between the auto bhaiya and I. We were both migrants. We shared the feeling of not belonging quietly in that conversation. Living in rented rooms, speaking borrowed languages, trying to stabilise ourselves in a city that does not guarantee permanence. Beyond gender, we shared a language that made me not so scared at the moment.“No compromise, only fight!” Courage, not violence, entangled with their identities are the urban landscapes that spark this vernacular poetry. These slogans often read less like declarations of male dominance and more like mottos for urban survival.Messages on autorickshaws. Photo provided by authorAre men strange or is masculinity? Well, it is a contradiction between aggression and longing, some cynicism and some hope, sexual pride and sexual anxiety, along with a complex entanglement of money with romance. Read quickly, they sound like toxic masculinity. Read slowly, however, they deliver a spicy, excessive, and chatpata taste. With all its tackiness and incorrect spellings, it’s an archive of a sweet incompleteness.The politics of auto poetry is more than simply “toxic”. In this hustle culture of city life, masculinity becomes aspirational because it carries unfulfilled dreams and fragmented identities. It may just be a son missing his parents, or a father’s dream of educating his daughter.Annika Amber is a doctoral student at the University of Hyderabad. She archives auto quotes on Instagram at @autos_of_hyderabdWe’ve grown up hearing that “it’s the small things” that matter. That’s true, of course, but it’s also not – there are Big Things that we know matter, and that we shouldn’t take our eyes, minds or hearts off of. As journalists, we spend most of our time looking at those Big Things, trying to understand them, break them down, and bring them to you.And now we’re looking to you to also think about the small things – the joy that comes from a strangers’ kindness, incidents that leave you feeling warm, an unexpected conversation that made you happy, finding spaces of solidarity. Write to us about your small things at thewiresmallthings@gmail.com in 800 words or less, and we will publish selected submissions. We look forward to reading about your experiences, because even small things can bring big joys.Read the series here.