Ever notice how all rickshaw drivers look the same? Cab and bus drivers, courier delivery guys, pizza delivery boys, pani puri and vada pav bhaiyyas, cigarette walas - they all invariably look the same! They all have separate and unique lives, each as complex and rich in detail as our own. They each have their share of all life's joys: responsibilities, love, loss, celebration, death. And yet, how easily we club them into one common denominator. We never really notice how diverse and rich each life is. That's how we are made to function. How about stopping to spare a smile, a heartfelt thank you? How about asking them what's going on in their lives? There's such a wealth of knowledge behind each of these common faces - so much we could learn, so much we could know.
While I was living in Bombay in Khar, I had slipped into the expensive habit of cabbing it to work every morning. There were a bunch of cab drivers who were always around my house - the same ones everyday. And because I saw them everyday I slowly learnt to tell one face from another. There was one particular cab driver among these with whom I traveled most often. His name was Lal Bahadur. He was an old, fat little man with a small frame and a kind face. He always wore the same white kurta pyjama - looking freshly laundered and then increasingly soiled with every passing day until the cycle would repeat.
Now as a rule, I do not generally engage in conversation with my cab and rickshaw drivers (they can sometimes get too talkative and I like my quiet). But since Lal Bahadur had been dropping me to work quite often lately, I did not particularly mind when he once asked me if it was an office that I went to every morning. We got to talking after that. I told him quite a lot more about my life than I normally would to a stranger. He was mighty impressed that I was a girl living alone in the city, away from my parents, and working in an "office". I think at one point he asked me the name of the company that hired me and when that did not strike a bell with him, he asked what it was that we did. I was at quite a loss to try and explain Advertising to him and remember floundering around, saying "TV" quite a lot - the only word I was sure he'd understand. Lal Bahadur, in turn, shared his life story with me. He was from a small village somewhere in Uttar Pradesh, and had come to Bombay, like so many others, to make money. We live such sheltered lives that there is something about a truth such as this one that really hits home when you hear it from an individual who has actually experienced it - like being in a war or being witness to a bomb explosion, or being a refugee in the Partition. I knew, I'd heard, the newspapers talked about it all the time - the city was such a lure for so many folks from rural India - how, every year, so many of them come here with starry eyed expectation, only to end up being drivers or peons, or, if they're very lucky, little chai stall owners. Hearing Lal Bahadur talk about just this somehow made the fact a little more real to me.
He told me how he had a daughter who was working with SBI bank, and when he told me she was an "officer" with the bank, his voice shook with pride and emotion. I realised he had such a different perspective of things. To him, his daughter had "made it", and she'd hit the jackpot working for a public sector bank - such a very reputed one. To you and me, that seems like a minor accomplishment. Because we've been born into financially stable families, bred by English-medium schools, to us, this seems unworthy of ambition. We have grander meanings associated with that word. Ambition to us is spearheading a big multinational company, or making a speech on television or migrating to a richer country. Its funny, but although Lal Bahadur's definition of the word is so warped compared to our own, our ambitions are probably never going to be realised whereas his already are.
He drives his big Omni around the city with such pride in his eyes, such happiness in his heart. Am I saying one must lower one's expectations from oneself in order to ensure they are achieved? Of course not. For Lal Bahadur, this was the highest expectation he could have placed upon himself and upon his daughter. And yet, he achieved it all. So, by comparison, doesn't it seem like he's a bigger achiever than any of us? We may have fancy clothes to wear, and fancy offices to go to, while he wears the same kurta pyjama everyday and toils the streets of the city in his little black and yellow car, dropping important people to important places. Yet, he shines brighter than me. He shines brighter than all of us. He has achieved what he set out to do, while we haven't even come close.
I salute you, Lal Bahadur.
While I was living in Bombay in Khar, I had slipped into the expensive habit of cabbing it to work every morning. There were a bunch of cab drivers who were always around my house - the same ones everyday. And because I saw them everyday I slowly learnt to tell one face from another. There was one particular cab driver among these with whom I traveled most often. His name was Lal Bahadur. He was an old, fat little man with a small frame and a kind face. He always wore the same white kurta pyjama - looking freshly laundered and then increasingly soiled with every passing day until the cycle would repeat.
Now as a rule, I do not generally engage in conversation with my cab and rickshaw drivers (they can sometimes get too talkative and I like my quiet). But since Lal Bahadur had been dropping me to work quite often lately, I did not particularly mind when he once asked me if it was an office that I went to every morning. We got to talking after that. I told him quite a lot more about my life than I normally would to a stranger. He was mighty impressed that I was a girl living alone in the city, away from my parents, and working in an "office". I think at one point he asked me the name of the company that hired me and when that did not strike a bell with him, he asked what it was that we did. I was at quite a loss to try and explain Advertising to him and remember floundering around, saying "TV" quite a lot - the only word I was sure he'd understand. Lal Bahadur, in turn, shared his life story with me. He was from a small village somewhere in Uttar Pradesh, and had come to Bombay, like so many others, to make money. We live such sheltered lives that there is something about a truth such as this one that really hits home when you hear it from an individual who has actually experienced it - like being in a war or being witness to a bomb explosion, or being a refugee in the Partition. I knew, I'd heard, the newspapers talked about it all the time - the city was such a lure for so many folks from rural India - how, every year, so many of them come here with starry eyed expectation, only to end up being drivers or peons, or, if they're very lucky, little chai stall owners. Hearing Lal Bahadur talk about just this somehow made the fact a little more real to me.
He told me how he had a daughter who was working with SBI bank, and when he told me she was an "officer" with the bank, his voice shook with pride and emotion. I realised he had such a different perspective of things. To him, his daughter had "made it", and she'd hit the jackpot working for a public sector bank - such a very reputed one. To you and me, that seems like a minor accomplishment. Because we've been born into financially stable families, bred by English-medium schools, to us, this seems unworthy of ambition. We have grander meanings associated with that word. Ambition to us is spearheading a big multinational company, or making a speech on television or migrating to a richer country. Its funny, but although Lal Bahadur's definition of the word is so warped compared to our own, our ambitions are probably never going to be realised whereas his already are.
He drives his big Omni around the city with such pride in his eyes, such happiness in his heart. Am I saying one must lower one's expectations from oneself in order to ensure they are achieved? Of course not. For Lal Bahadur, this was the highest expectation he could have placed upon himself and upon his daughter. And yet, he achieved it all. So, by comparison, doesn't it seem like he's a bigger achiever than any of us? We may have fancy clothes to wear, and fancy offices to go to, while he wears the same kurta pyjama everyday and toils the streets of the city in his little black and yellow car, dropping important people to important places. Yet, he shines brighter than me. He shines brighter than all of us. He has achieved what he set out to do, while we haven't even come close.
I salute you, Lal Bahadur.
super like...
ReplyDeleteReally interesting to read this from an English perspective, I think this points the way to a very positive future for India if more people take this approach to those around them!
ReplyDeleteA really nice post but the last few lines are the ones which caught my attention the most!
ReplyDeleteAccording to you, "He has achieved what he set out to do", well I would kinda disagree with that, purely because happiness is such a subjective thing in this world. The next time you travel with him, ask him if he's happy, maybe you'll be proved right but again I doubt he would think that he's achieved what he wanted to achieve. Just a doubt in my mind.