Kindness of Strangers

Men in Khaki
A postal accountant in Chennai, I underwent surgery to correct a prolapsed cervical disc in 2005. After that I had to wear a neck-strap for six months and it became difficult to even walk. Hardest of all was climbing stairs and crossing city roads. 
When I resumed work, I had to take a train daily to the city’s Egmore station. My biggest nightmare was crossing the busy road outside the railway station. 
To add to my troubles, there was a barricade on the road divider.

One morning, I was standing there as usual looking hopelessly at the maddening traffic. I had been waiting for over 10 minutes when a man in a khaki shirt came up to me. “Do you want to cross?” he asked.

I nodded yes.

He then took my hand and placed it on his shoulder. He walked with me, waving and yelling loudly at motorists to stop. Leaving me safely on the other side, he crossed back. He happened to be an auto driver waiting at the rickshaw stand for passengers.

M. Kannaiyaan—I learnt his name much later—looked out for me after that almost every day. If he was 
away driving his auto, one of his colleagues took his place to help 
me. This went on for six months until I recovered and was able to ride my scooter to work. A simple gesture but it made all the difference to me.    
S. Prasanna, Chennai

A Manner of Speaking
As a teenager, I suffered from an embarrassing speech disorder. I was afraid of speaking even to family members—uttering an audible sentence was a nerve-wracking experience. I was an outstanding student till then, but suddenly my grades began to drop. 
I couldn’t communicate with my teachers and friends. Later, I lost several professional opportunities just because of my voice. Even the doctors we consulted could not help. I just gave up trying.

After college, I got a job and was based in Delhi. In 1982, I fell ill with jaundice while on an official visit to Mumbai, and was going to see a doctor near the Gateway of India. The taxi I took had a Muslim driver who noticed the way I spoke. “What happened to your voice, sir?” he asked me.
I told him my story. He listened patiently and said, “I had the same problem but it got cured.” After being generally ridiculed, he told me how he finally went to a dargah and prayed fervently for help. A fakir accosted him there and ordered him to start speaking properly. “So, I started talking like a small child 
with tears in my eyes,” he said. “The fakir then forced me to stay awake and practise all night. I was even