Should've asked him his name

The heat wasn't as killing as yesterday. I could have walked it. I was going to. I had already started.
But I fell to the temptation of an empty cab slowly going past me, the cab driver looking my way, almost sure I was going to wave out sooner or later. I could see him look in the rear view mirror as he drove on at snail's pace.
He stopped. As casually as ever I walked up and sat in.
He looked at me, for me to speak of my destination. "Al Dana Club," I said, rather arrogantly. Today was the first time I acted arrogant with a human here. For the first time my 'real' (arguable, hence in quotes) me came out.
I was angry. I was upset. I was frustrated... because my search had still not come to an end. It was just a bad afternoon. What ignited it was the lazy attitude of this country.
He was an ugly looking man. Fat, maybe in his mid 40s, bearded, face scarred from the right, a rather bent nose. He was wearing a pathani suit.
I was looking out of the window, a smile nowhere near me. The disgust more than evident on my face.
I jerked my face around to the left after I felt the man's touch on my arm. Maybe my mistake. He was touching my black adidas bag strap.
I glared at him.
"Seatbelt," he said, with a smile. Poor guy... he was just checking if the black strap around my shoulder was the seatbelt. But I was angry. I had to act it.
I turned my face out of the window again and put on the seatbelt.
"Philippines?" he asked.
I looked at him for a while longer than I should have. I wouldn't have if I wasn't frustrated at that particular moment.
"India," I said, arrogantly again, after taking a long breath.
"Oh..." he reacted. "Topi ki vajah se..."
The beige hat, a french beard, a couple of earings and my brown shades, can fool anyone.
"Kyun Hindustani ko garmi nahi lag sakti kya?" I said sarcastically.
"Nahi bhai, aaj kal kya Hindustani kya Amreeci," he said. "Sab ek hi hain bhai."
My heart started warming up for the man. The frustration level was coming down. My anger was calming down.
"Pakistan?" I asked
"Haan ji," he replied.
A little while later. "Dilli toh Pakistan ke kareeb hi hoga na?" he asked.
I looked at him. And then turned my face to look outside of my side of the window. "Haan, baaju mein hi hai."
"Baaju mein..." he mumbled, confused.
"Kitne saal se yahan par ho?" I asked.
"Tees saal."
"Mulkh waapus jaate ho?"
"Haan, jaata rehta hoon. Mera beta aapke jaisa dikhta hoga. Usko milne jaata hoon."
"Kabhi Hindustan ho aao phir chhutti mein..." I reacted.
"Hukumat jaane deti hai?"
I had never thought of it like that. This man, looking the way he does, always in a pathani suit, will no way in hell get a visa to India.
Who is he? A cab driver, who has a 20-year-old son, a wife that he loves very dearly. He's here, far away from them trying to give them a decent lifestyle.
"Khwaish toh sabki hai Hindustan dekhne ki, magar hukumat nahi jaane deti," he said. "Shaayad ek din deewar gir jaaye..." he mumbled.
He dropped me off at Al Dana club. Took a Riyal less. He said, "Jab aap agli baar Hindustan jao, toh is note ko Hindustan ki mitti par chhor dena."
Speechless, I kept the note in my wallet zipper section, which I never open.
I got out of the car, afraid to look in those eyes. I don't know why.
I had been too rude to him, maybe thats why.
He drove off. I looked back. I could see a glimpse of that scar on his face through the mirror. Or maybe it was just my imagination. But he did not look ugly.
I should have asked him his name, i thought, as I entered the posh Al Dana Club to get my hair-trends story.
I should have asked him his name...