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A Stranger in the Front Seat

Last year, during a visit to Coorg, I went sightseeing in a cab arranged by Club Mahindra. The driver, Sadanand, arrived neatly dressed, professional, and carrying himself with a quiet confidence that immediately put me at ease. As we began the journey, he politely requested,
“Madam, you sit in front only.”

My Kannada is limited — enough to understand simple sentences, but not enough to speak fluently. His English and Hindi were equally broken. Yet somewhere between my hesitant Kannada, his fragmented Hindi, and occasional English words, conversation slowly began to flow.

The roads of Coorg curved through mist and rain, and as we drove, Sadanand pointed out stories attached to every place we visited. At Abbey Falls, he guided me carefully down the slippery steps. At the Buddhist Monastery — the beautiful Namdroling Monastery, fondly called the Golden Temple — he waited patiently while I wandered through the peaceful corridors. We stopped at Omkareshwara Temple and later at a quiet garden tucked deep inside Coorg’s green stillness.

Everywhere we went, he accompanied me without ever making me feel hurried. There was no impatience, no perfunctory politeness — only a steady attentiveness that made the day feel uncommonly easy.

At some point in the afternoon, we stopped for lunch. It was a simple meal at a roadside hotel, but by then the awkwardness of strangerhood had faded. We sat across from each other talking in our patchwork of languages, sharing small stories between bites of food, and somehow the meal felt less formal and more companionable — like two travellers briefly meeting at the same bend in the road.

Rain, Photographs, and Small Acts of Care

The day unfolded under a soft, unrelenting drizzle. Without making a fuss about it, he somehow always managed to keep the Club Mahindra umbrella tilted over me while he himself walked half-soaked beside it. It was one of those quiet acts of care that says more than words ever can.

Throughout the journey, he kept insisting on taking my photographs.
“Madam, stand there… yes, near the flowers,” he would say with surprising seriousness, as though he had suddenly taken up the role of an official photographer. Sometimes he even suggested poses with such enthusiasm that I could not help laughing.

I returned the favour by clicking a few pictures of him too, and each time he saw them, his face lit up with almost childlike delight.

At the Golden Temple, after a brief hesitation, he finally said softly,
“Madam… one photo for me also?”

“Of course,” I replied instantly. “Come, stand here.”

He smiled shyly, adjusting his shirt before standing against the glowing backdrop of the monastery. After I showed him the picture, he looked at it quietly for a moment and then admitted, almost apologetically,
“I have come here many times… but never clicked a photo of myself here.”

That stayed with me long after the trip ended. How often we pass through beautiful places, helping others preserve memories, yet never pause long enough to place ourselves inside the frame.

The Offer of Sandalwood

On our way back, we stopped at a spice shop where he spoke to the owner in rapid Kannada and then turned to me with a satisfied smile.
“Madam, discount got,” he announced proudly, as though he had negotiated a major business deal on my behalf.

Later, we halted for lunch at a small hotel by the roadside. Next to it was a government handicrafts shop, and while waiting, I wandered in casually. Shelves of spices, oils, and wooden artefacts lined the walls, and in one corner I noticed sandalwood pieces neatly displayed. Out of habit, I messaged a few friends in Bengaluru, asking if they wanted me to pick up some for them. One by one, they declined.

That should have been the end of it.

But as we resumed the drive, Sadanand suddenly said, almost thoughtfully,
“Madam, why buying from shop? I have sandalwood tree at home.”

I looked at him, surprised.

“I will cut one small piece and give you,” he continued earnestly. “You can take it back.”

I laughed softly. “Oh no, that’s not necessary. We used sandalwood years ago when my in-laws were alive. Now I hardly use it.”

But he had already moved into planning mode.

“No problem, madam… I will make it small-small. Easy to carry. Before you leave, I can bring it.”

There was something deeply touching about the seriousness with which he thought it through — not because sandalwood was expensive or rare, but because his first instinct was to offer what he had. It was generosity in its purest, most unselfconscious form.

A Goodbye That Wasn’t Quite Goodbye

By the end of the day, we were both quietly happy, each carrying away our own version of the journey. He told me he had enjoyed showing me around Coorg and hoped the rest of my travels would go smoothly. I wished him and his family well too. Before dropping me back, he carefully noted down the name and number of an auto driver who could help me reach the bus stop for my onward journey, making sure I would not face any difficulty after he left.

I assumed that was our goodbye.

But the next morning, very early, my phone rang. It was Sadanand. He was already leaving for Mysore with another customer, yet he said he wanted to meet me once before going. Since I had changed rooms the previous night, I shared my new room number with him.

A little while later, there was a knock at the door.

When I opened it, Sadanand stood there with the same cheerful smile I had seen throughout the trip — and in his hands was a carefully wrapped item: a large block of sandalwood from his own tree. 😊

For a moment, I was too surprised to speak.

“You take, madam,” he said simply, almost shyly. “For memory.”

The gesture was so sincere that it touched me deeply. I accepted it with gratitude, and once again we wished each other and our families well before parting.

Somewhere between broken Kannada, broken Hindi, and broken English, we had managed to understand each other perfectly. From that brief connection came a gift far more valuable than sandalwood itself — kindness offered without expectation, warmth given without calculation.

I still carry that memory with me.

The Last Ride: Note to my readers

With this ride, the Cab Chronicles come to an end.

The roads will continue to wind through new cities and quiet villages. Cabs will keep moving, carrying strangers who may remain strangers — or, for a brief stretch of the journey, become something more human to one another through shared stories, laughter, silence, and small acts of kindness.

For me, this chapter closes with deep gratitude — for the journeys, the conversations, and the unexpected warmth found along the way.

Thank you for reading, and for riding along with me. 😊

A Note to My Readers: This is the last post in The Cab Travel Chronicles, a series of real-life stories from my daily commutes across Bangalore.

For more stories read – Why I Stopped Driving My Own Car: The Unexpected Gift of the Backseat