I have been hearing about Mumbai citizens’ apathy towards ordinary people lying injured on the road or victims of other unfortunate circumstances. But I had quite an opposite experience just day before yesterday. I must confess I had a learning experience of the true spirit of ordinary people on the road.
The day before yesterday, on the eve of Dhanteras, I was walking through a narrow bazaar street frequented by ordinary middle class people, with my grandson to buy him a toy gun. The Diwali festival rush was there and the traffic was moving at a snail’s pace. Suddenly an auto hit me from behind with quite a force in a bid to move forward and overtake other vehicles. I fell forward face down, resulting in a deep cut below my right eye which was bleeding profusely. Fortunately, and I thank Almighty for that, my grandson escaped unscathed. Though shaken, I had not left the six year child’s hand even for a second.
Within seconds almost fifty-sixty people surrounded me, most of them ladies. The street was so narrow, hardly two autos could move in opposite directions, leaving no space for pedestrians. The traffic came to a standstill because of this accident. A few ladies tried to help me up from the ground, but could not find enough space for movements. Out of nowhere, a rough, tuff looking man approached me and helped me stand up, roughly shoving other people around me. While steadying me on my feet, still holding me, the gentleman whispered in my ears not to leave the child’s hand even for a second under any circumstances and that I should hold my strength till he brought his bike parked a little distance away. There was chaos all around. One lady fetched a plastic stool from somewhere, made me sit on it and put my child on my lap. Another lady arranged some ice and put it on my injured cheek. One elderly gentleman offered his mobile for me to call anywhere or alternatively take me to a doctor and not to worry about money if I was not carrying enough. Yet another young girl, all of twenty probably, traveling in an auto offered to drop us to my place wherever it be as it was difficult to find conveyance in that market.
The gentleman who had helped me on my feet appeared with his bike, all the while shouting at people to clear the road. Four more persons started to monitor the traffic and cleared enough space for the bike to travel without trouble. The gentleman on the bike made me and my child comfortable on the vehicle and took us to our home. Not only that, he came up to my place, removed the ice, made temporary padding on the wound and bandaged it. Then what he said made immense sense: “Uncle, I just wanted to see the child safe home. I have my doctor. If you want I can take you to him. But I have a feeling every body is comfortable with their family doctor. So if you have one, I can take you to him.”
Fortunately, my doctor resides in the same complex where I live. Satisfied, the gentleman begged to leave, refusing our hospitality, except a glass of water, as he was getting late for his job. At the lift I asked for his name. “Feroze Khan”: he said. I thanked him profusely.
Now, I am a Gujarati Hindu. He must have noticed images of Ganesha and Krishna on our walls. The lady who provided me with ice was Maharashtrian, the man who offered his mobile and money appeared to be a UPite, The girl who offered to drop me home may be, was Christain, I don’t know. Feroze Khan, a Muslim. And yet, we were all one in that moment of crisis. Nobody cared who I was, a human being, that’s all. Who says Mumbaites don’t care? They do. Ask me.
The day before yesterday, on the eve of Dhanteras, I was walking through a narrow bazaar street frequented by ordinary middle class people, with my grandson to buy him a toy gun. The Diwali festival rush was there and the traffic was moving at a snail’s pace. Suddenly an auto hit me from behind with quite a force in a bid to move forward and overtake other vehicles. I fell forward face down, resulting in a deep cut below my right eye which was bleeding profusely. Fortunately, and I thank Almighty for that, my grandson escaped unscathed. Though shaken, I had not left the six year child’s hand even for a second.
Within seconds almost fifty-sixty people surrounded me, most of them ladies. The street was so narrow, hardly two autos could move in opposite directions, leaving no space for pedestrians. The traffic came to a standstill because of this accident. A few ladies tried to help me up from the ground, but could not find enough space for movements. Out of nowhere, a rough, tuff looking man approached me and helped me stand up, roughly shoving other people around me. While steadying me on my feet, still holding me, the gentleman whispered in my ears not to leave the child’s hand even for a second under any circumstances and that I should hold my strength till he brought his bike parked a little distance away. There was chaos all around. One lady fetched a plastic stool from somewhere, made me sit on it and put my child on my lap. Another lady arranged some ice and put it on my injured cheek. One elderly gentleman offered his mobile for me to call anywhere or alternatively take me to a doctor and not to worry about money if I was not carrying enough. Yet another young girl, all of twenty probably, traveling in an auto offered to drop us to my place wherever it be as it was difficult to find conveyance in that market.
The gentleman who had helped me on my feet appeared with his bike, all the while shouting at people to clear the road. Four more persons started to monitor the traffic and cleared enough space for the bike to travel without trouble. The gentleman on the bike made me and my child comfortable on the vehicle and took us to our home. Not only that, he came up to my place, removed the ice, made temporary padding on the wound and bandaged it. Then what he said made immense sense: “Uncle, I just wanted to see the child safe home. I have my doctor. If you want I can take you to him. But I have a feeling every body is comfortable with their family doctor. So if you have one, I can take you to him.”
Fortunately, my doctor resides in the same complex where I live. Satisfied, the gentleman begged to leave, refusing our hospitality, except a glass of water, as he was getting late for his job. At the lift I asked for his name. “Feroze Khan”: he said. I thanked him profusely.
Now, I am a Gujarati Hindu. He must have noticed images of Ganesha and Krishna on our walls. The lady who provided me with ice was Maharashtrian, the man who offered his mobile and money appeared to be a UPite, The girl who offered to drop me home may be, was Christain, I don’t know. Feroze Khan, a Muslim. And yet, we were all one in that moment of crisis. Nobody cared who I was, a human being, that’s all. Who says Mumbaites don’t care? They do. Ask me.
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