A Tribute To An Honest Taxi Driver
In the loud sounds of an unknown city, a family of three is struggling to find a taxi to the nearest bus stop. The father is looking actively whereas the mother is taking care of her son and the luggage. That young boy was me. I was maybe 12 or 13 years old at that time, but aware of the tension between my mother and father. Life has given my family a lot to be thankful for and my parents were also content with that. They were distant, but content.
But the strength of a bridge is worthy only if it can survive under pressure, this not voluntary but necessary traveling, facing new situations and people is the pressure which is making them angry with one another.
A taxi driver stopped and placed our bag in the trunk, one bag I kept in my hand. Cold air is subdued in the taxi but fear inside my heart remain the same.
The taxi driver was a strong person, with broad shoulders, and a dense mustache. People with mustaches are mostly nice but they always intimidate me, maybe this was also his plan all along as he spent his days with unknown people from unknown towns.
He talked a little with my father asking generic questions like. where to? asked us whether or not we have visited the famous tourist spots but as he talked he sensed ice in my father's replies and stopped talking.
A journey of half an hour seemed like a long one when the only sound you hear is the honking of nearby vehicles.
He left us at the bus stop and we carried our luggage toward the sitting area while my father went to get tickets.
I and my mother were sitting quietly, maybe she was thinking about how her life has changed, thinking about old golden days and maybe deciding how to deal with what life is going to present her.
My father returned with the tickets and looked at us. I still remember that look which confirms that I am in trouble. He asked my mother where is the last bag which was earlier in my hand.
We started looking all over the place but within a few minutes, it was clear that we had forgotten that bag in the taxi. In such a big city where we don’t know anyone, it is clear that we not going to see that bag again in our life.
My father shouted at my mother that she is a careless woman, and she can’t do anything correctly. She was quiet before but now she also burst out asking why everything is her responsibility? taking care of the kids, taking care of her husband and now taking care of the bags. Earning money for his family does not cover all his duties.
I on the other hand am still looking for the bag that as if looking over the same position, again and again, will miraculously bring the bag back.
Some of the people started looking toward us. He told my mother sternly that - that bag has valuable items that’s why he kept it with us inside the taxi, but forget it now as she is a nuisance and loud mouth.He decided to walk off to cool himself.
But suddenly someone shouted from behind “Dada” (Brother). He was the same guy our taxi driver, A man who is not rich, a man who knew that we don’t have any way to find him, an honest man who came back to return us our bag.
The next thing I remember is that we all are eating in the food court of the bus stop. Our honest man was also with us, he told us about his family that his wife and children are living in the village and he only visits them during off seasons. I saw an understanding in my parent's eyes, that there is so much pain in the world and how little pain god has given us.
We stayed there one more day and he took us to all the tourist places in the city.
The man was not a typical hero but for me and my family, he helped us realized how we can celebrate and be happy with life has given us.
I always remember the hero - The Honest Man.
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# Tributes