City life: New Delhi - Journey ends at scrapyard for 80,000 Ambassadors 80,000 Ambassadors make final trip to the scrapyard

NEW DELHI no longer has stop lights. Busy intersections have "relax lights" instead, where each red light is painted over with the word "relax".

When ordered outright to stop, obstinate Delhi drivers used to carry on honking and jockeying for position. Most taxi drivers would just shut off their engines in an attempt to save fuel at the lights.

But in spite of the laid-back traffic instructions, cab drivers in the Indian capital feel anxious. A government anti-pollution campaign will soon banish all commercial vehicles older than 15 years and that will hit Delhi's fleet of Hindustan Ambassador taxis hard. More than 80,000 are destined for the scrapheap.

Most cabs look far older than they are because the Hindustan Ambassador comes off the assembly line with a chassis virtually identical to a 1954 Morris Oxford II. The seats are like your gran's sofa. On many, the springs have sprung because the driver sleeps in the back. With snubbed snouts and high suspension, Ambassador sedans are usually painted cream or in the taxi livery of yellow-topped black. They are as ubiquitous on Delhi's streets as the humped holy cow and share similar rounded lines.

Cab driver Man Singh, 27, says: "My Ambassador is more like a water buffalo. It is very strong. No matter how many passengers, or what the weather conditions, it still gets you there. I just give it fuel and water. Rough roads, potholes - no problem. Diesel engines don't stall in the monsoon. We are superior to other cars."

Mercedes Benzes, Opel Astras, Ford Escorts, Daewoo Cielos and zippy Maruti Suzukis have integrated into Delhi's traffic snarl of three million vehicles over the past few years, but the Ambassadors keep ambling along at a stately pace rarely more than 60 kilometres per hour. They are not known for manoeuvrability, but for endurance. Other cars defer to them at roundabouts, and not only because of their advanced age. A mere knock against an Ambassador invariably crumples newer autos.

Balvinder Singh, 69, has driven a Delhi cab for 50 years - not the same cab, but three successive Ambassadors. "Mechanically they are sound autos. Very reliable," he says, fondly patting the fender. "The Prime Minister rides in a bullet-proof one."

Besides decrepit Ambassador taxis, including some that have been roadworthy since the 1960s, the government ban will affect 4,000 fume-belching buses and virtually all of the old Harley-Davidson diesel tricycles which haul eight passengers at a time. These historic contraptions, dating from the Second World War, are called Phutphutiya - after the putt putt sound of their engines.

Mr Singh rolls his eyes. "Phutphutiya are not in our league," he confides. "They are for fresh air fiends, not select customers. But their drivers also need to earn a living." In solidarity, most cabs and rickshaws stayed off the roads last Thursday to demand government subsidised loans for replacing engines in all elderly vehicles and to plead for an extension of the deadline.

Hailing taxis in Delhi is not customary, because they rarely stop. Most are dispatched from neighbourhood stands, where regular customers can phone in and a mechanic is available on-site. "We are ready to work 24 hours a day," says Harpreet Singh, 23, who was recently promoted from car cleaner to full-fledged taxi-wallah after a year learning the by-lanes of Delhi by riding with his cousin. "It only takes me five minutes to tie my turban after I get a call, then I am off."

A dozen drivers camp out full-time alongside Man Singh and Balvinder Singh near Lodhi Gardens, sometimes sleeping rough on rope charpoy beds, or else across the comfy back seat of their Ambassador taxis. The dashboards frequently get trans- formed into makeshift shrines. (This accounts for an odd, lived-in odour - a mix of sweat, mildew and incense. Man Singh wrinkled his nose at the "Sikh-ly smell" in a 1974 Ambassador, which runs so erratically that it's become the venue for card games during thunder showers.)

All the drivers must wash at a hand pump in the open air. Ever since the Municipal Corporation took away their tents because officials complained that the taxi stand detracted from the Mughal tombs nearby, life has become harder. In off-season, between April and September, some drivers go back to wives and sweethearts in the villages of Punjab. But most earn as much as they can in the capital.

Harpreet Singh polishes his Ambassador cab with pride. He swears it is his vehicle of choice. "We prefer to drive Ambassadors. In case of accident, the passenger and driver are protected. Its steel is strong. Spare parts are found everywhere. And no matter how much luggage we have, it always fits. We can squeeze up to nine people inside."

Regular customers can be particular about which cab they use - not so much the driver, but the licence plate. "Numerology buffs won't take a taxi if the digits add up to 13. They request their lucky numbers," says Man Singh. "But we drivers are not superstitious. The only numbers I care about are on my meter."