A Handful Of Grapes

A few years ago, in Dubai, I was waiting to hail a taxi to the airport to catch my return flight. I observed a taxi that was headed opposite to the direction that I wished to proceed. Seeing me, the driver stopped. He reversed the car and came towards me.

He was an elderly Bangladeshi with a long beard and short-cropped hair. More an Imam and less a taxi driver. He had an inviting smile on his face and after I settled down in the seat adjacent to his, he playfully asked me to have some grapes. I took the offer in jest, politely refused the offer and offered a smile in response.

After a while, he repeated the offer and pointed to his glove box. I opened the box and there was a plastic bag with a few bunches delicious juicy amber coloured grapes.

I took the packet, offered him some. That made him very happy. He prodded me not to feel shy and I took a few in my mouth. The soft explosion of the juicy flesh and amber juice in my mouth was a delight.

He mentioned that his previous customer was a bother and that he did not offer the grapes to him. His perspective was that he offered things only to good people. Needless to say, my ego was massaged and I started conversing freely.

I congratulated him on his national team winning the recent cricket test against England. His polite answer was that the rigours of life does not allow him to enjoy cricket or for that matter any sport.

I looked at him again. He must be above 50. A nice white beard. Cropped hair. Weary face and heavy belly which is common to most taxi drivers because they drive every day for 12 hours, usually for 10 months at a stretch. I must also mention that they do not have weekends or off days. If they are sick, they must apply for leave. The benefit they enjoy is that they get 2 months of vacation a year.

All other times, they drive, eat, sleep and drive again. They do not have a fixed salary and work on commission.

I asked him about his family. He mentioned 4 kids.

Then after a pause, he said that his elder son passed away in a motor accident.

I asked him how old his elder son was? The response was 22.

Assuming from the even tone of his voice that this must be an event from the distant past I asked him about when the incident had happened.

The answer was, “a few days back”.

Before I could react, he quickly added that he did not have the money to attend the funeral. Hence he could not go home.

We drove in silence.

Then, he broke the uncomfortable quietness. He mentioned that these days he carries some food and drink in his car to offer his customers.

Then, he quietly added, “I want to do something for him”.

We did speak a bit after that though I don’t recall much. He dropped me at the airport and stepped out to help me with my bags. I paid his fare and off we both went to continue our respective journeys.

For him, it would be another taxi ride and another and another. Essentially a lonely life with strangers like me joining him now and then.

And me? How privileged am I? I was taking a flight home. My wife and kids waiting to welcome me with a smile and my son, sometimes with shrieks of delight.

Whereas he will roam the streets of a great city in a car, often with only silence and thoughts of a family as companions.

My dear Taxi driver, Barid is his name, how wonderful a soul you have despite all that life has thrown at you? You, who could stop and reverse the car, smile and offer me a ride and gift me amber juicy grapes in memory your beloved son.

May your Son’s soul rest in peace.