The aircraft prepared to descend to land at Bengaluru's Kempegowda International Airport. Looking eagerly out of the window, Ajit Hegde had mixed feelings on seeing the city of his birth. He now lived in the United States having gone there as a kid of six months since his father was a software engineer in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. He was excited about seeing his grandparents as only a kid of 10 can be, but he wasn't sure what India would be like. Friends at school who had visited had told him stories full of contradictions. They spoke of the wealth of the billionaires and their life style which was better than most people enjoyed in the United States. Also of the filth in the streets of Bengaluru. "Get used to darkness. The lights don't work half the time," said one. "Haven't you heard of their power cuts? Things that you take for granted here just don't work there."
The Hegdes had planned this trip for long. Ajit had hoped that their visit would coincide with Diwali, a festival he loved even though he had no personal experience of it. He only remembered the stories his grandparents had told him about the fire crackers, the illuminations, and how Lord Rama, the embodiment of good, had triumphed over the evil. He was disappointed that their India trip wasn't during Diwali but at least they were going.
Unusually for them, the Hegdes were making a trip to India after seven years. Ajit's parents, Ramesh and Malathi had been too caught up in their work. So this was one vacation the whole family looked forward to most keenly.
All through the long flight which had a stopover at London, Ajit thought of what Bengaluru would be like. He didn't have any memories of their last visit. His grandparents had visited them in the US three years ago. His Dad's father was a gentle old man who always told him stories. He also remembered his grandma with her dimpled smile and soft hands which had patted him to sleep on innumerable occasions when he was younger.
For much of the flight he read the version of the ancient epic "The Ramayana" written specially for children. This epic they said, had been written by the sage Valmiki in the 4th or 5th century BC. Oh, wow! That was a long, long time ago, thought Ajit. He wondered what they wrote with in those days. Today he read it off his iPad as the Airbus 320 hurtled hundreds of passengers like him from one continent to another. He completed the chapter he was reading and put away the iPad. He wondered what he would ask for if he was given three boons like Kaikeyi in the epic.
As each flight arrived, the long line of taxi cabs inched forward to ferry the passengers arriving at Bengaluru from different countries.
Pasha was one of the many drivers in that queue. He had fever and a bad cough for the last two days but he couldn't take time off from his work. He didn't own the cab, he merely drove it for a livelihood. Of course he prayed that he would own his cab one day but that day seemed so far away. Healthy or sick, summer or winter, rain or sunshine he had to work every day of the year. If he didn't put bread on the table, there was no one else who could in his family.
Contrary to popular perception amongst many about Muslims, Pasha didn't have four wives and a dozen children. His wife Tasneem and he had only one child, a daughter called Shabnam now 12. They had decided long ago that they would have just one child to give her a life better than their own. Tasneem's biggest regret was that she was relatively uneducated, "I could have done so much had I been sent to school but Abba had eight other children to care for. Besides they never considered it necessary to educate a girl child. Her job was to get married, have children and look after her home and family. I want Shabnam to speak English and become a Government officer. Now a days it looks as if more people know English than any other language in Bengaluru. Abbas says they have special schools to teach people to pronounce words correctly. Can you imagine that?" Pasha replied, "Let our finances improve. We have just paid a hefty amount for Shabnam's school fees. When we do better, I'll enrol you in a course to learn English. Then you can work as a sales girl or a shop assistant. I know you have wanted to do this for long."
"Those days are gone. That was a long time ago. When I saw the girls working in the posh shops in Commercial Street, I often wished I could be like one of them. I envied them. They looked so smart compared to me. But forget all that now."
Pasha knew he had to consult a doctor one of these days. His wife had been after him too, "How much can your body take? Last night you moaned in your sleep. What with all that coughing, you must be totally worn out. Please see a doctor. Don't neglect your health like this." She made him promise he would see a doctor. He agreed only to buy peace. Who could afford the tests that would follow? The medicines prescribed would be too expensive. Everything costs so much these days, he thought. Yet there were some who threw money around. It angered him when he saw such people. He would attend to his health when his finances improved, he decided.
On arrival at the Bengaluru airport the Hegdes were pleasantly surprised they got out of Immigration much faster than they had expected. "Wow! That's an improvement from past years," said Ramesh, "It used to take ages to clear Immigration. Earlier, they pestered you out to get bribes."
"They say things have improved. Let's hope we have a good trip. I am looking forward so much to this break. I know your parents will fuss over us," said Malathi.
"Enjoy every moment of your trip, you deserve this break," said Ramesh hugging her. As a lawyer working for a corporate giant, Malathi had been under stress for the last few months. People were losing jobs with the economy sliding. She had managed to retain hers even as some colleagues were fired.
Malathi said, "We should have agreed when Suresh offered to pick us up. Last time we had hell with the taxiwallas swarming all over us. I hated the experience. Things like these that make you dislike life in India."
Suresh, Ramesh's younger brother, a management consultant lived with his parents along with his wife and daughter.
"Why bother him at this ungodly hour?" said Ramesh. "My friend who visited recently said the pre-paid cabs were pretty reliable. We'll head for that queue." The system worked. "One more pleasant surprise," said Malathi with a smile. Cab after cab reached the queue. Eager to get home, the waiting passengers jumped into them.
"Here we go. The next guy is ours," said Ramesh. A white Renault stopped where they waited. The driver was a thin, scrawny fellow with a bad cough. Their suitcases were loaded into the cab. Ramesh did most of the loading as their driver didn't seem keen on helping them. This surprised Ramesh. Usually the drivers did the loading expecting a bigger tip at the end of the trip.
"Did you notice him?" Ramesh whispered to Malathi. "He looks so disinterested, as if he is doing us a favour. Anyway, it's the luck of the draw. In the pre-paid system you get what comes your way."
"Let's not make a big deal of this. The guy must be a bit tired. And he's no Hercules. After all it is 3.45 a.m. here. The chap must have woken up after having waited for God knows how long," she replied.
His attempts to chat with the driver also failed. "It's nice to be in Bangalore. Actually it's now called Bengaluru, right?" he said. There was a non-committal grunt from the driver. "How long will it take for us to reach Indiranagar?" he asked after sometime. He and Malathi sat in the back of the car while Ajit sat up front with the cab driver. There was no answer as the driver concentrated on the road.
"Maybe he can't understand English or the way you speak it. Try asking him in Kannada," said his wife. He repeated the question in Kannada saying each word slowly.
"40-45 minutes, depends on the traffic, there isn't too much today, we are in luck," said the driver. The car zoomed along the six lane highway.
"Dad says the real estate values where they live have gone up even more. He keeps telling me I should have invested much more here long ago. Maybe he was right"
"But why? We have a nice apartment where your parents and Suresh's family stay. Why would we want one more?"
"Looks like nothing appreciates more than real estate in Bengaluru. Not even the fabled gold. I saw an advertisement on the plane for a 2500 square feet apartment in our area. Can you guess the price?"
"I have no idea."
"It's upward of Rs 3 crores. One crore being 10 million, this is Rs 30 million or $500,000, if you take Rs 60 to the dollar."
"Oh, wow!" said Ajit quite excitedly.
"That's cool. Let's give it serious thought," said Malathi, thinking her father-in-law had been right after all. Even their home in the US would never appreciate like this.
On hearing the figures, Pasha felt the cold anger shaft his gut. 30 million rupees! He had never seen more than 25,000 rupees in all his life. He thought bitterly that even if he worked like this for the rest of his life he would get nowhere near these astronomical figures. These people with their funny accents talked as if money grew on trees. In frustration, he stepped on the accelerator sending the car racing ahead.
After initially enjoying the long drive from the airport, Ramesh was anxious about how the driver sped. "Hello, I asked you how long it will take but we are not in any great hurry. Drive carefully," he said as the driver took a sharp turn. Malathi bit back a scream as they came inches of hitting the car next to theirs.
"Hey! Steady there. What's the rush?" shouted Ramesh. Pasha didn't reply, staring straight ahead at the road as if in a trance.
"This is getting scary," said Malathi. "We thought we had made such a wonderful start to our trip. That's why I said we should have asked Suresh to pick us up."
"Don't start on that!" said Ramesh.
"Sir, after dropping you I must reach Rajmahal within 30 minutes to take someone to the airport," said the driver, as if justifying the haste.
"How far is Rajmahal from our house?" asked Ramesh, the engineer in him ready to make some calculations.
"About 10-12 kilometres, but the traffic is already increasing. In Bengaluru the distance don't matter, the time taken for each trip does," replied the driver, coughing once again.
"At this speed, you should make it well in time," said Ramesh. Later he regretted why he had made such a smart Aleck comment. It was all very well for him to speak without knowing the pressure the driver was under.
Pasha yawned and when he took off one hand from the steering to cover his mouth the car swung drunkenly from their lane to cut into the next lane.
"Watch out! Get us home safely and I'll see that you are well rewarded," said Ramesh remembering how in India the promise of a big tip invariably worked.
Pasha replied, "I have been on duty for 18 hours without a break. I snatched a few winks waiting at the airport but my turn came long before I expected. It happens sometimes. On some days we wait for hours together. On others, like today, we get a fare fairly soon."
"Gee, 18 hours! That must be tough on you," said Ramesh. "How much do you make for all this driving?"
What Pasha would have replied remains unknown as the car hit the road divider which he hadn't seen, at more than 80 km per hour. The front wheels thudded into the divider. The car rocketed over to the other side of the road. There was a scream of breaks as the ongoing traffic, most of them bound for the international airport, tried to avoid crashing into Pasha's car. Some did, one didn't. A speeding bus hit the rear end of their car and they were almost airborne again to land with an almighty crash against a big tree on the edge of the highway.
Some motorists stopped their vehicles to help. They called for an ambulance. Pasha and Ajit sitting in the front bore the brunt of the crash. Miraculously, Ramesh and Malathi in the back got away with a few bruises but a huge amount of trauma. Ajit and Pasha, which turned out to be the driver's name as per his id card, were rushed to the nearest hospital.
The doctors were cautious in making their assessment. "Ajit is ok," they reassured Ramesh and Malathi. "He has a few fractures but we are concerned about his eyes. Glass splinters have damaged the cornea in his eyes. We are doing all that we can."
Malathi collapsed on hearing the news. "My God! Does it mean my boy will never see again?" She shuddered to think of the consequences of this accident.
Later they heard the driver was in a critical condition. There were doubts whether at all he would survive.
Elsewhere in the city, the world had collapsed for Pasha's family when a police Sergeant called up Tasneem to tell them about the accident. Her brother, Abbas, who worked as a gym trainer, rushed to her help. A senior Police Officer, a regular at the gym was sympathetic on hearing Pasha's story. Thanks to him, they kept Pasha in the hospital. They did what they could but could not save Pasha who breathed his last three hours after the crash.
A case was filed against Pasha for rash and negligent driving, but his employers fearing their reputation of their cab service managed to change it to an accident due to brake failure. The driver was dead. What worse punishment could he have got in any case?
Tasneem wasn't educated but Shabnam read the posters in the hospital. They explained that you could donate your eyes upon your death. They were of no use to you any longer but could give sight to someone else. The crucial part was to remove the corneas within six hours of the person's death.
"Abbas, Pasha would have liked me to do this for him. Please tell the doctors we wish to donate his eyes. May be someone somewhere can have a better life through Pasha's eyes." Tears flooded her brother's eyes, seeing her desire to help others despite her own tragedy.
He checked with the doctors, she signed a form as Pasha's next of kin and the hospital's experts removed the cornea from both the eyes without disfiguring the face in any way. The eyes were moved to the hospital's Eye Bank.
Ajit was recovering from his other injuries but he was losing his eyesight. The doctors recommended a corneal transplant be done. Fortunately the eye bank had a stock of freshly harvested cornea. The operation took place the next morning and Ajit's damaged corneas were replaced with those from the Eye Bank.
Ramesh and Malathi couldn't possibly stay longer than the two weeks they had planned for however much they wished to. There was no choice but for Ajit to stay on in Bengaluru with his grandparents. In any case, the medical treatment in India was equally good. The doctors probably had more practical experience with more such cases than their counterparts in the United States.
As time went past Ajit began to improve. The doctors had warned his grandparents that it would take at least six months for the eyes to get used to the new cornea. "It's only in the movies that the patient sees the doctor clearly and smiles minutes after the operation," joked one of the surgeons. "I wish it were true but it isn't like that in real life." Ajit's sight gradually improved and now six months later the doctors removed the sutures.
When he saw his grandparents he was overjoyed. Outside out on the streets, people were bursting crackers and fireworks lit up the skies. He saw bright lights of different colours illuminating many buildings. The entire city had a festive atmosphere.
He asked his grandfather, "What are all these lights for? Why are they firing crackers like we do on the Fourth of July?"
His grandfather said, "This is the festival of Diwali, my child. The one you so wanted to enjoy. It signifies the victory of good over evil, of light over darkness. Answering our prayers, God has made it possible for you to see again."
As the donor remains anonymous in the eye donation process, he had no clue who the corneas which now enabled his grandson to see the world around him originally belonged to.
You and I know they actually belonged to Pasha. Wasn't it fair that they reached Ajit, the victim of the accident which happened through no fault of his? And, didn't it signify the reason why Diwali was celebrated as the victory of light over darkness? Remembering a part of his favourite sloka from the ancient Vedas, his grandfather recited, "From the unreal, lead us to the real. From darkness, lead us to light."