Nice to just start afresh

Sanjeev Singh Bariana

I HIRED Balbir Singh’s autorickshaw on my drive back from the office, on the last day on my posting in Bathinda, recently. Often, we met on city roads during the last over two years. He prattled on, in his typical loud style, the daily city news bulletin — a group of girls thrashed a boy and dragged him on the road in front of their college gate for posting obscene messages on Whatsapp; a cow rammed into a car at the bus stand lights; stagnant rainwater in Sirki Bazar area was giving out unbearable stench. 

He knew I worked for a newspaper, so he gave me spicy titbits from daily happenings. In return, he was interested in seeking information about AAP’s fortunes, SAD’s expenditure on campaign and Congress’ prospects in the 2017 elections. He would then make an editorial comment on party standings which changed on a day-to-day basis.

That day, he must have noticed I was distracted and stopped midway. “You don’t seem interested in news today. What happened?” I looked at him and said I would not be travelling in his autorickshaw anymore. “Hunn main ki karr ditta (What have I done now)?” he grumbled. I told him I had been transferred back to Chandigarh and would be leaving early the next morning. 

Balbir Singh, a sturdy driver with a salt-pepper beard, was silent for long. “You had told me that yours was a transferrable job, but I never thought it would happen so soon,” he said, deep in thought. 

When I handed him the fare, he took my hands and placed them lightly on his eyes. He then put his hand on my head and blessed me, “ May God bless you always, wherever you stay.”

As I stood still, after he left, I recalled the day when Balbir Singh left in a huff. It was about a year ago, when I found — after a ride — that I did not have a change of Rs 10 for the fare. I was asking bystanders for a change of Rs 500 when I discovered he had sped off, calling me “careless”.

I stopped travelling in his autorickshaw. We would come face to face on the city roads some times, but each wore a blank look, until one Wednesday.

 It was raining cats and dogs. I was stranded on the corner of a road near my house without an umbrella. I spotted two autorickshaws parked nearby. One was empty while the other — Balbir Singh’s — had three passengers. I asked the driver of the empty autorickshaw to take me to my office on Goniana Road. He refused my offer even though I was ready to pay twice the fare, because that particular stretch of road was virtually inapproachable during rain.

Balbir Singh sent his passengers to the other autorickshaw and pulled over his three-wheeler beside me. Not knowing what to do, I looked away. I remember his broad smile when he remarked: Chaddo gussa. Phir hisaab karr lavange (Let’s forget our differences, we can sort those out later)! I smiled back at him.