I should’ve been more aware. I should have known better. I should’ve seen the sign, but I didn’t and we paid for it, literally.
Save-The-Day-Daddy
As we came out of Big Bazaar on Temple Road several men were lifting our scooter onto the back of a truck. I shot across the road, leaving my wife and daughter behind; was almost hit by a rickshaw. Didn’t see it coming. Didn’t care. Wanted to make sure our scooter wasn’t confiscated. Was going to convince the men to put it back. Big Me, Save-The-Day-Daddy would somehow talk them out of taking it away. But they couldn’t understand me and I couldn’t understand them. So I raised my voice; gesticulated. Told them I hadn’t seen the sign. One of the men, sitting in the passenger seat of the truck, was wearing a uniform. It didn’t register at the time that he could have been a police officer, which he turned out to be. He waved his hand at me as if to tell me to calm down. The rest of them wore plainclothes and had blank, expressionless faces. I didn’t know it at the time, but they were just doing they’re job, making sure they hit their quota of 10 motorcycles or scooters per hour to take back to the police station. They didn’t care that I hadn’t seen the sign. They didn’t even care that my daughter was crying, which was probably more to do with the way I was reacting than to do with what they were doing. Although, I have to say, to be completely unmoved by my daughter’s distress, seemed a little cold.
Giving chase
The driver lifted the handbrake and slowly began moving down the street searching for more illegally parked two-wheelers. I followed. I don’t know what was going through my head, but I was still convinced I would be able to persuade them to give us back the scooter. I don’t know what drove me on, but as the truck sped up, so did I. It turned left into a side street and accelerated. I ran after it, shouting. Now they were laughing at me. My flip-flops slapped against the dusty road as I sprinted after them. I looked over my shoulder and saw my family in the distance. A motorcycle trailed alongside them. Strange, I thought. Finally, the truck stopped and once again I tried to plead my case to the disinterested policeman looking down at me from his window. I used the guilt card first:
“You made my daughter cry,” I said.
He didn’t care or understand. I tried the sympathy card next.
“I didn’t see the sign.”
He said something back to me in Kannada, the local language and I had no idea what it was.
Locals to the rescue
A young man in his late teens/early 20s appeared at my side.
“Calm down. It’s going to be okay,” he said.
A part of me bristled at those words.
“My scooter’s on the back of that truck,” I said to the boy.
“It’ll be okay. Just calm down. They’re taking your bike to the police station. You’ll only have to pay 100 rupees to get it back.”
A few minutes later my family arrived with another young man.
“It’s okay, he knows Kannada,” he said pointing to the first boy talking to the police officer.
My wife asked me if everything was okay. I nodded and relayed back to her what the first boy had told me. My daughter wasn’t crying, but she was still upset and bemused at what had transpired. The first boy introduced himself as Aju.
“They’re going to take your scooter to the police station. When you get there you’ll have to pay nothing more than 100 rupees,” he said. He told me to calm down again and it’s only then I realised I was shaking.
“Okay, okay, I will.” But I could still feel my heart racing.
Aju had a few final words with the police officer then the truck moved on again and disappeared around another corner. Aju put his hands on my shoulders, looked me in the eyes.
“Are you okay?”
I nodded, but I was clearly shaken by the experience. He hopped on his friend’s motorcycle, turned the key; it revved into life.
Off to the police station
“Come,” Aju said, “we’ll go to the police station and wait for them.”
Aju saw me look at my family, “It’s okay. My friend will wait with them until we return with your scooter.”
“Will you guys be okay?”
“Yes,” said Rebekah.
I got on the back of the beautiful orange motorcycle. Aju moved quickly through the gears, negotiated his way through the busy traffic and potholes, missed one – I almost bounced out of my seat – and before we knew it we were outside Gokulam Police Station. Well, at least, that’s what I think it’s called. It was definitely a police station. As we drove there part of me wondered what I was doing getting on the bike and leaving my family behind. But, there was another part of me that knew everything was going to be okay and this was the right thing to do. For some reason I trusted these two young men.
The truck hadn’t returned, so Aju recommended we get a coffee at a café across the road. We sat at a table outside for 20 minutes talking and I discovered he was originally from Kerala in the south. He had come to Mysore to study a Bachelor in Business Management. His brother owned a hotel in Bangalore. Aju spoke of his love for business and motorcycles. He had seen me running after the truck while he was outside the mall next to Big Bazaar and been concerned. I thanked him several times while we waited to which he would always reply, “It’s my job.” I understood what he was saying. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve been helped by people when I’ve been in a foreign country and felt the same responsibility in my own country when I’ve seen someone in need.
Eventually the truck arrived and true to Aju’s word, there were 10 scooters/motorcycles on it’s back. We got out of our seats and argued over the bill for the coffee. I won in the end. He spoke with the police officer and I heard the words ‘misunderstanding’ and ‘family’ said a couple of times. One of the men on the back of the truck asked for my key and I handed it over. We walked inside and the police officer sat behind a desk and pulled out what looked like two receipt/invoice books.
“You have to pay 300 rupees,” said Aju apologetically.
Even though I'd been expecting 100, that's still only about six New Zealand dollars and whatever I had to pay, it was my fault. I gave the police officer the money and received the receipts in return. On the way out I handed the receipts to another police officer and was allowed to take my scooter.
Not a random act of kindness
I followed Aju back to Big Bazaar where I made sure I parked legally. We went inside the mall where we found my wife and daughter with Aju’s friend.
“This is Śhì Hăń,” said my wife, “Selva’s new friend. He’s been playing with her the whole time you’ve been away. He’s training to be a doctor.”
“Thank you, Śhì Hăń – and thank you, too, Aju. We would’ve been lost without you guys. I must have looked a fool,” I said.
They shook their heads, told us it wasn’t a problem. But it had slowly been dawning on me how ridiculous I must have seemed running down the street shouting at a truck. Not only that, I'd potentially put my family in harms way. I'd been lucky the police officer had only wanted a fine. Anything could've gone down. Thankfully Aju and Śhì Hăń had stepped in. They seemed a little embarrassed when we told them we wanted to repay their kindness with dinner and unsure they would be available over the next few weeks. So before we waved them off and drove away on our reclaimed scooter, we promised to stay in touch. I have a feeling we'll see each other again, but if we don't, their generosity of spirit will stay with us for a very long time.
The thing is, this isn't an isolated occurrence in India. We've been the recipients of a number of acts of kindness since we arrived. There was the elderly man who helped us negotiate the traffic-laden streets of Bangalore as he led us to Bangalore City Junction Station on our first day. The young man on the platform that wanted to help us find a train, even though we'd already booked one. Then there's Zareena, a local fruit stall owner who always gives Selva a couple of free bananas when we buy from her. Just the other day a man selling papaya gave us two free ones after we'd purchased three for 30 rupees. Sure, there have been a couple of dodgy rickshaw drivers that have ripped us off over the last six weeks, but when you put the money they've actually taken from us into perspective, really, it's only a couple of dollars.
India is a large country with over a billion souls that call it home and as westerners, sometimes it's such a culture shock when we first arrive, it feels almost alien. Not to the point where there are no similarities to be found: we all want a little money to live, food to eat, roof to live under, friends to play with, family and/or partners to love. So, while there may be cultural differences between us, what Aju and Śhì Hăń's did was demonstrate, once again, that at the very core of us all is a desire to want to help and connect. When we do, as we keep finding out, anything can happen.