During a visit to Hyderabad, I met a cab driver whose presence stayed with me long after the ride ended. The moment I reached the car, he stood upright, opened the door with quiet grace, and gently closed it behind me. Once I settled in, he handed me a chilled bottle of water and offered a few chocolates, accompanied by a warm, respectful smile.

His hospitality surprised me because such attentiveness and elegance rarely appear in everyday cab rides. I felt curious. Who was this man who carried himself with such dignity?

As we drove on, our conversation unfolded naturally. He introduced himself as Mr. Sanjeev. For many years, he had worked as a driver for the Taj airport shuttle. His immaculate grooming and professionalism suddenly made sense. He spoke with pride about his only son, who had completed his education and built a successful career. Grateful for his father’s decades of hard work, the son had asked him to retire and finally rest.

Then life intervened cruelly.

Mr. Sanjeev lost his son in a freak accident at the age of twenty-seven. The loss shattered their world. His wife fell seriously ill, and grief settled heavily into their lives. To cope with both sorrow and circumstance—Mr. Sanjeev returned to driving. Work gave him structure when everything else felt unbearably fragile.

What moved me most was not just his story, but the way he carried it. His eyes held a quiet softness, a depth shaped by love, loss, and endurance. He defied every stereotype we casually associate with the word ‘driver.’ His grooming reflected a past of excellence; his presence revealed a heart refined by hardship.

That short journey became far more than a cab ride. It became a lesson in quiet strength—in how grace often grows from grief, and how kindness frequently carries the heaviest stories.

Note: This is part of The Cab Travel Chronicles – Why I Stopped Driving My Own Car: The Unexpected Gift of the Backseat