In 2015, when Ola and Uber were still finding their feet in Bangalore, booking a cab often felt like playing a game of chance. Would it show up on time? Would the driver find the location? Would I have to explain the route in great detail? I’d grown used to the hiccups but never quite comfortable with them.

One day, I booked a cab to travel from Koramangala to my home in Kadubeesanahalli. The driver was a young, soft-spoken boy. He struck me as polite and composed, a rarity during those early days of app-based cab services. During the ride, he shared that he had dropped out of his education to start earning for his family back in the village. Driving cabs brought in more income, and he worked long hours—practically around the clock.

A couple of days later, I needed a cab again—this time at 5:30 in the morning. I was attending an Art of Living workshop at Sarjapur Junction. It was a foggy, cold Bangalore morning, and I was a little unsure whether buses would be running that early. So, I booked a cab.

To my surprise, standing outside my gate in a crisp white shirt was the same driver from earlier.

I smiled and said, “This is the first time I’m getting the same driver again!”

He laughed gently, “I slept in the car nearby, so I could start early and pick up nearby rides.”

As we drove through the quiet streets, I told him I was heading for a meditation workshop. When we reached the destination—a commercial building that once housed a Big Bazaar—he grew visibly concerned. The street was empty. No cars, no people, no security guards—just a fog-covered structure, cold and silent.

He paused, turned off the engine, and stepped out of the car. His eyes scanned the surroundings, trying to assess whether this was a safe place for me to be dropped off. His voice was hesitant but firm, “Madam, are you sure it’s here? Doesn’t look safe. No one’s around.”

I assured him gently, “The workshop is on the first floor, 80 people are attending. They’ve already started setting up inside.”

Still, he lingered.

It touched me. Here was a young man, barely in his twenties, who didn’t know me from before but wasn’t willing to drive off until he felt I’d be safe. He wasn’t being intrusive—just quietly responsible. His concern was genuine, his instincts protective.

I had to convince him again, point to the faint light filtering from above, and promise that I’d be alright. He finally nodded, gave me a long, reluctant look, and said softly, “Okay, take care.”

As I climbed the stairs, I prayed I hadn’t worried him in vain. At the top, to my relief, was a bright room buzzing with life—people setting up for the session, some already seated in silent meditation.

That morning, I carried a quiet warmth into my practice. Not from the meditation mats or chants, but from an unexpected act of kindness by a cab driver who saw me—not as a passenger—but as a person.

“The willingness to pause for someone is a rare gift in a city in a hurry. I found that same beautiful thoughtfulness not just with drivers, but once, surprisingly, with a Mumbai bus conductor.”

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