Kindness Comes in All Shapes and Sizes
If you have a heart, you can help anybody.
Extraordinary People
On a summer morning in 1993, my daughter Deepti and I were riding in an autorickshaw on a busy suburban Mumbai street. I was accompanying Deepti to her final 12th standard examination in maths, the one subject that made her nervous. As we neared the exam centre, I pulled out my wallet for the fare.
Just then a child appeared out of nowhere, darting across the narrow street. Our driver braked instantly. The child ran off safely but our rickshaw pirouetted and flipped over. The driver was flung out. I lay on my back in the middle of the road with one of the hind tyres resting over my ankle. "Ma, are you okay?" asked Deepti, unhurt but frantic.
I was not okay. While the shock had blocked out any pain, I could feel blood running down my pinned-down ankle. And there was a semicircle of unknown faces blocking the sky, peering down at me like a scene from a macabre movie. Why isn't anybody freeing my foot? I wondered.
After a while, I felt the rickshaw being lifted up. I also felt a pair of sturdy arms heaving me up from behind and putting me on my feet. I turned around gratefully and found myself staring into the face of a sari-clad hijra-a eunuch-who was one of a small group of hijras passing by. It was they who'd also lifted the autorickshaw up, Deepti later recounted. The hijra who had lifted me up also handed me my purse, cash, house-keys, spectacles, all of which had been scattered about the road.
"Do you need to see a doctor?" the hijra asked me in Hindi.
"No," I lied, anxious about getting Deepti to her exam hall on time. Thankfully, my sari covered the wounded foot. "But I need another auto to take my child to her examination hall," I added. The hijra fetched me one immediately and also passed on the fare I handed over for the dazed auto-driver, now seated on the footpath. I could barely murmur a "Thank you" before rushing off-first to drop my daughter, and then to the ...
Extraordinary People
On a summer morning in 1993, my daughter Deepti and I were riding in an autorickshaw on a busy suburban Mumbai street. I was accompanying Deepti to her final 12th standard examination in maths, the one subject that made her nervous. As we neared the exam centre, I pulled out my wallet for the fare.
Just then a child appeared out of nowhere, darting across the narrow street. Our driver braked instantly. The child ran off safely but our rickshaw pirouetted and flipped over. The driver was flung out. I lay on my back in the middle of the road with one of the hind tyres resting over my ankle. "Ma, are you okay?" asked Deepti, unhurt but frantic.
I was not okay. While the shock had blocked out any pain, I could feel blood running down my pinned-down ankle. And there was a semicircle of unknown faces blocking the sky, peering down at me like a scene from a macabre movie. Why isn't anybody freeing my foot? I wondered.
After a while, I felt the rickshaw being lifted up. I also felt a pair of sturdy arms heaving me up from behind and putting me on my feet. I turned around gratefully and found myself staring into the face of a sari-clad hijra-a eunuch-who was one of a small group of hijras passing by. It was they who'd also lifted the autorickshaw up, Deepti later recounted. The hijra who had lifted me up also handed me my purse, cash, house-keys, spectacles, all of which had been scattered about the road.
"Do you need to see a doctor?" the hijra asked me in Hindi.
"No," I lied, anxious about getting Deepti to her exam hall on time. Thankfully, my sari covered the wounded foot. "But I need another auto to take my child to her examination hall," I added. The hijra fetched me one immediately and also passed on the fare I handed over for the dazed auto-driver, now seated on the footpath. I could barely murmur a "Thank you" before rushing off-first to drop my daughter, and then to the doctor. I had a torn ligament that took weeks to heal.
I have always remembered those marginalized human beings who stepped forward to help me at a critical moment when all the "normal" people just stood by till the hijras arrived. Ever since, I have overcome the fear and inhibition I used to feel whenever I came upon a member of that unfortunate, over-dressed and loud set, pleading for attention and a little cash to survive on.
SHAILAJA GANGULY, Mumbai
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Priceless Treat
As my great-grandchildren Abhi and Santosh finished their tender coconuts at a local road-side stall, two other children came by.
They were a little boy and a girl, siblings for sure, shabbily dressed and possibly from a slum nearby. The girl, who looked older, hesitantly held out a folded ten-rupee note to Prakash, the coconut vendor, and asked for a coconut. I had just paid `20 each for our coconuts, so I watched to see what would happen.
Prakash took the note and, without unfolding it, asked his helper to pick out a large coconut for the children. "Take this home," Prakash told the girl as he gave it to her. He must have thought of the others back home they could share it with. The girl happily walked away carrying the coconut, with her brother following her.
How sensitive of the coconut vendor-a poor man himself-to understand the situation and make it all right for two children, who didn't have enough money. When would one see such compassion in a big store anywhere?
C. Venkatesan, Chennai
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Comfort in the Sky
It was my first flight. I was a bit nervous, travelling alone from Mumbai to New York for a training program. On my right was a middle-aged Indian gentleman. On the window seat to my left was a slender East Asian woman. With both my seatmates uninterested in any conversation, I had my meal and dozed off.
I woke up above New York, but we couldn't land immediately. While our plane circled about awaiting clearance, we remained belted in our seats. There was some turbulence that made me so queasy, I wondered if it was all right to unbuckle myself and go to the washroom. Just then I grabbed an airsickness bag and threw up, but the base of the bag fell apart spilling vomit over my lap and the floor!
It was humiliating. The man on my right got up immediately and moved to an empty seat in another row. As I wondered what the lady, trapped on my left would do, she started rubbing my back gently. "Don't worry dear," she said, "my sister too gets sick on flights."
She then summoned an airhostess and asked for wet napkins, which she used to help clean me up before we landed. I'll always remember the lady who hadn't spoken a word till the end of the long flight but was so concerned and caring when I really needed help.
Manjusha U., Palakkad, Kerala