The Ride

It had been five years since Karthik’s father passed away.

And today, after all these years, he was travelling to a small town in Kerala to meet his father’s closest friend—the man Karthik had grown up hearing about so often, but had not seen since his father’s death.

The reason for the visit wasn’t a happy one. Uncle was in hospital.

Karthik got down at the railway station in the morning, finished some personal work in town and, after lunch, made his way to the hospital. He reached around three, just as the visiting hours began.

The meeting felt strangely familiar.

Perhaps because Uncle spoke about his father so much.

They talked about those days when they were young, about friendships, families and a world that seemed slower and somehow kinder.

Uncle spoke for a while about how different things were now.

“Those days, people had time for each other,” he said. “If someone had a problem, there would always be somebody around to help. Nobody asked what they would get in return.”

He paused.

“Now everything is about money. People have become impatient… and arrogant. Everyone is running. Nobody seems to have time to stop and look at the person standing next to them.”

His two sons were abroad. They loved him, Karthik knew that. But their lives were there. Between the two of them, they managed to spend perhaps two or three weeks with their father every year—taking turns whenever they could.

Even love, it seemed, had become something that had to be scheduled.

Karthik listened quietly.

There was something painful in what Uncle was saying, perhaps because he knew there was some truth in it.

They talked and talked.

For a while, Karthik forgot that he was sitting in a hospital.

Then, almost suddenly, he checked his phone.

5:30 PM.

His train was at 6:30.

He hurriedly got up, held Uncle’s hand and wished him a speedy recovery.

“I’ll come again,” he said.

He wasn’t sure when.

Outside the hospital, he looked at the row of autorickshaws waiting near the entrance.

The hospital was on the outskirts of town, and the railway station was quite far away.

His mind immediately switched into another mode.

How much will this fellow ask?

He was already mentally preparing himself for the usual bargaining.

He walked towards the first auto.

“Railway station?”

The elderly driver looked at him, thought for a moment and quoted an amount.

Karthik was pleasantly surprised.

It was much lower than what he had expected.

“Okay,” he said, and was about to get in.

Then the old driver suddenly turned around and shouted towards the fourth auto in the queue.

“Unni!”

A young man looked up.

“Can you take this ride to the railway station?”

The young driver smiled, nodded and slowly pulled his auto out of the queue.

Karthik looked at the old man, confused.

The old driver turned towards him.

“His father is in this hospital,” he said quietly. “He has more financial needs than many of us.”

Then he pointed towards the young driver.

“He deserves this ride. Can you take his auto?”

By then, Unni had brought the auto closer.

Karthik got in.

As he settled into the back seat, he heard the old man telling Unni the fare he had agreed with him.

No argument.

No drama.

No expectation of appreciation.

Just one man quietly making sure another man got a little more work that day.

The auto moved away from the hospital.

The evening air came through the open sides. A few drops of rain touched Karthik’s face. The road ahead was slowly disappearing into the soft grey of the evening.

He sat there silently.

A few minutes earlier, he had been thinking about a world that had become too busy, too selfish and too money-minded.

He had heard Uncle say it.

He had felt it himself.

But now, as the auto sped towards the railway station, Karthik found himself smiling.

He didn’t know whether Unni would make enough money that evening.

He didn’t know whether the old driver would remember him tomorrow.

He didn’t even know if he would ever see either of them again.

But he knew one thing.

Perhaps the world hadn’t changed as much as they thought.

Perhaps kindness had simply become quieter.

Perhaps humanity was still there—in hospital corridors, in crowded railway towns, in old men waiting for passengers, and in young men willing to share a little of what they had.

Sometimes, all it takes is one small act of kindness to remind us.

Brotherhood is still alive.

And so is humanity.