Driver
I think that is what his name was. I can't really be sure because I haven't met him in a long time now. And when I knew him, I knew him only for a few months. Dalapathy. Yes. That was his name. Not very common, even in the heart of Tamil Nadu. He seemed a pretty nice guy. I usually found him camping outside the house waiting for my Dad to leave for work. Since I was home only during vacation from my boarding school, I was usually free and aching for company. I would sit with him on the dusty steps that snaked through the apartment building in the housing colony. He would narrate tales from his life and his village, always with a flourish and always with a glorified ending. The protagonist in his story would invariably end up as a District Collector, signifying tremendous success. To set the record straight, the position of District Collector is pretty close to the entry point for the Indian Administrative Service(IAS) trained graduates, but was and probably is held as the gold standard for the educated Indian bureaucrat - succesful, wealthy, owning a car, the works. Of course I fell for his stories, hook, line and cliched sinker. Dalapathy, he was an extremely talented guy. Sometimes, he would get invited to play cricket with us kids on holiday. Though he was pretty much the same age as the eldest of the lot, he had such strength that he would lift our best bowlers for sixers effortlessly. But he would equally effortlessly drop the bat and run when someone called him to run an errand, so we stopped inviting him. Everytime we would call him to play a different sport, and everytime he would surprise us with his skill and strength.
On many mornings, I would see him talk to my Dad on his way out of the building. My Dad would shake his head, explain something, and leave. Dalapathy would sulk on the steps. After a while, one of the ladies in the building would summon him. Next minute he would be riding his bicycle to the nearest town for the errand he was summoned for. In my language, there is word for this kind of person - edupudi, the closest literal translation of which is bits-and-pieces-man. He was probably lonely when not running an errand, for he would humour my questions and give elaborate answers. Funny thing was, I never asked him why he himself didn't try to become a district collector, given that the protagonist of every story he narrated ended up becoming one. Sometimes, when we had to drive somewhere in the evenings, my Dad would ask Dalapathy to drive the car for us. I noticed that he enjoyed driving, being in control of the car, talking to people through the window for directions, smiling to himself all the time. Sometimes he would find me watching his face on the rearview mirror and he would acknowledge it with a wink and a smile. May be he was playing the role of the district collector in his mind.
When my family decided to relocate to a big city, Dalapathy was overjoyed, though I could not understand why. He helped us with the packing, ran all the errands, offered to drive us all the way. I suspect my Dad didn't want to entrust the overnight drive to a young boy who had got his license a couple years ago. So we had an older driver driving, but Dalapathy managed to tag along, I don't remember how. At the city, he helped us unpack everything and get setup. After a few days, he was still sticking around in the city, probably with a friend, or on the street, I don't know. I found him in a morose mood one morning. He had been talking to my Dad that morning. Did my Dad say something that made him angry. I asked him. He said it was nothing. I noticed tears in his eyes. I pestered him, but he refused to say anything. After a while, he was back to his normal self. Later that day, he asked me if I wanted to ride with him on the moped. Both my parents weren't home. I knew where my brother left his moped keys. So off we went.
On the way back, he stopped at a tea shop. Over hot tea, Dalapathi sat me down and explained to me what his ambition in life was. His dream. His ultimate goal. He wanted to be a driver. A chaffaeur. Yes. Thats all he wanted to be. Thats all he had worked for all his life. All the errands, all the curt dismissals, all the waiting. To be a driver. I looked at him with wonder. I understood why he had tagged along with us to the city. The poeple in the housing colony near his village were the only ones he knew who had ties with the city. We were his passport to achieving his dream. My Dad is usually the helping kind. If someone from a village, any village, stops at his doorstep, he/she would invariably get invited in for a meal, and my Dad would try to help the person find a job, any job, in the city using his friends and connections. Dalapathy probably knew this.
That night, Dalapathy bid goodbye to my family. The next time I went home on vacation, my Mom informed me that Dalapathy had committed suicide a few days after he had left us and gone back home.
All he ever wanted to be. A driver.
On many mornings, I would see him talk to my Dad on his way out of the building. My Dad would shake his head, explain something, and leave. Dalapathy would sulk on the steps. After a while, one of the ladies in the building would summon him. Next minute he would be riding his bicycle to the nearest town for the errand he was summoned for. In my language, there is word for this kind of person - edupudi, the closest literal translation of which is bits-and-pieces-man. He was probably lonely when not running an errand, for he would humour my questions and give elaborate answers. Funny thing was, I never asked him why he himself didn't try to become a district collector, given that the protagonist of every story he narrated ended up becoming one. Sometimes, when we had to drive somewhere in the evenings, my Dad would ask Dalapathy to drive the car for us. I noticed that he enjoyed driving, being in control of the car, talking to people through the window for directions, smiling to himself all the time. Sometimes he would find me watching his face on the rearview mirror and he would acknowledge it with a wink and a smile. May be he was playing the role of the district collector in his mind.
When my family decided to relocate to a big city, Dalapathy was overjoyed, though I could not understand why. He helped us with the packing, ran all the errands, offered to drive us all the way. I suspect my Dad didn't want to entrust the overnight drive to a young boy who had got his license a couple years ago. So we had an older driver driving, but Dalapathy managed to tag along, I don't remember how. At the city, he helped us unpack everything and get setup. After a few days, he was still sticking around in the city, probably with a friend, or on the street, I don't know. I found him in a morose mood one morning. He had been talking to my Dad that morning. Did my Dad say something that made him angry. I asked him. He said it was nothing. I noticed tears in his eyes. I pestered him, but he refused to say anything. After a while, he was back to his normal self. Later that day, he asked me if I wanted to ride with him on the moped. Both my parents weren't home. I knew where my brother left his moped keys. So off we went.
On the way back, he stopped at a tea shop. Over hot tea, Dalapathi sat me down and explained to me what his ambition in life was. His dream. His ultimate goal. He wanted to be a driver. A chaffaeur. Yes. Thats all he wanted to be. Thats all he had worked for all his life. All the errands, all the curt dismissals, all the waiting. To be a driver. I looked at him with wonder. I understood why he had tagged along with us to the city. The poeple in the housing colony near his village were the only ones he knew who had ties with the city. We were his passport to achieving his dream. My Dad is usually the helping kind. If someone from a village, any village, stops at his doorstep, he/she would invariably get invited in for a meal, and my Dad would try to help the person find a job, any job, in the city using his friends and connections. Dalapathy probably knew this.
That night, Dalapathy bid goodbye to my family. The next time I went home on vacation, my Mom informed me that Dalapathy had committed suicide a few days after he had left us and gone back home.
All he ever wanted to be. A driver.
posted by bigsur at 11:40 AM
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