Driving away the tears in India

Five days in India recently left me with many stories to share.

The most touching interaction came about with my driver for the week. His name is Raj. He is 30 years old, he has a three-year-old daughter, and he is very sad. His wife of 10 years died three months ago, leaving him to care for their daughter – and to wander through life – alone. Or so he feels. His parents died when he was only a few years old. He has a sister who he is also looking after, and who doesn’t work. Like him, she is uneducated and has no skills to speak of.

But at least he drives.

Raj landed a job as a company driver for the car firm my company hired, and he works long hours. He took a higher paying contract that requires him to be on call all the time. So he earns a little more money, but his time is limited with his daughter. He tells me he is determined that she will get an education, so he is trying to save up money for that. But he is pessimistic about his chances.

Twice before he had managed to save up a decent amount of money, but circumstances took it away. First was his sister’s wedding and dowry, which Raj tells me he helped pay. After that money was spent, he again managed to put more away, but then his wife became ill with uterine cancer and he spent all he had on her medical treatment. But he didn’t have much, and the medical treatment wasn’t great, he says. He blames himself for his wife’s death because he wasn’t able to buy her better medical care. Now he works long hours to support his daughter and her future, as well as his sister.

And so he drives. Every day. All day. He taught himself to speak English and he practices it constantly. And he mourns.

Raj tells me he wants to marry again – to find someone with whom he can share his life – but he feels he is damaged goods within his culture. No woman wants a widower – they all want bachelors, he says. I tell him to hang in there – he will find someone, but he is still in mourning and he needs to give it some time. He doesn’t see that right now – just darkness; and the occasional joy he gets when he does spend time with his daughter. He told me a story of buying her an ice cream on a recent day – and how she laughed and smiled while enjoying the ice cream. But those moments are few now.

He feels guilty that he doesn’t see his daughter much, but he is determined to provide for her education and care. And so he drives. It strikes me that he is driving himself away from a sad past, and like all of us, is driving toward the future – what will be – without really seeing the road clearly. Tears are a powerful blinder. But they are also cleansing if we can wipe them away. Sometimes we can’t. And so we move forward only vaguely aware of what’s around us. Raj is doing that now. His moods are up and down as I see him in the morning and again in the evening. I try to help clear his vision with some nurturing words and kind conversation, but he is in control. He is driving.

I listen as he shares his story and asks me questions about my work, my travels, my family. We drive along a strip of highway where motorbikes are parked on the side, with young “lovebirds” as he calls them sitting astride the bikes kissing and hugging. I find it very humorous to see these young couples together on the motorbikes sharing private moments while hundreds of cars go by. I start to comment on it, but I know the scene only reminds Raj of his wife and his situation. So I hold back. It seems everywhere he looks he sees reminders of how his life has changed, and he takes no joy in what he sees. I talk with him about why we have to suffer such tragedy in this life – it’s part of something much bigger, and it’s all a test for us, every day. Surviving it will make you stronger, I say, but it’s not an easy road. Maybe this pain is preparing you for some bigger opportunity in the future. Raj doesn’t buy it. He’s angry. He feels cursed. He hates God. And still he shows up for work every day – for his daughter’s sake – and he drives.

But he talks a lot, and he has learned a lot talking to people that he drives each day through the streets of Mumbai. I wonder if he might have potential beyond driving for a living: he shows initiative, he has the gift of gab, and he wants to learn. I mention his name to some people in the office to see if there’s something more for him there. I didn’t tell him I’d done that, but I hope my mention sparks a new opportunity in some way for him. The odds are long. And if an opportunity does arise, he’ll have to seize it. He’ll have to drive it.