Counter Point - September 11, 2002

Every issue, every event - global, national and local - has a point and a counterpoint. You are given the point all the time in news and analyses. Now, get the counterpoint

I have good reason to celebrate the official end of summer. My cabbie's back. He went home after 22 months for 55 days. Towards the end, he developed a back and shoulder problem and stayed in bed for two weeks. Then the doctor said he couldn't travel. He was only too happy to get the medical certificate and extend his leave.

He's come back after a good four months. He's got his car back, all cleaned and repaired, and is looking forward to being on the roads of Dubai again.

It's fun to work long hours, he told me, if you get passengers. "It is the going round and round with an empty car that I hate. I keep thinking how much will I make today, how much commission will I get at the end of the month, how much will I be able to send home. Now that I've seen my children, I don't just want to give them food and clothes and shelter. I want to give them a good education. But for that I need more money."

He looked and sounded worried, so I tried to make him remember happier things. "What did you do during your holiday?" I asked him.

"Met my family, ate, slept, visited a few places and spent all my money, khallas," he replied. Four months summed up in one sentence.

"I'm sure you did more than that," I told him. He racked his brains, thought for a while looking ahead on the road, and said, very quietly, "I played with my children." (He has a lovely six-year-old daughter and a bubbly one-and-a-half-year-old son.) "This time I had more patience," he continued. "I shouted at them a few times, but I did not hit them even once. This time, they played more with me."

I said good. We drove a few kilometres in silence.

"I miss them," he said, suddenly. For a second, I didn't know who them was. I was lost in my thoughts. I was about to ask when I stopped. Of course, them meant his family - his children, his wife, his parents, his brothers, his sisters.

"Yes, I know," I said as gently as I could. It is particularly bad when you come back after a holiday. I miss my sister who lives in India too.

"But your children are here," he pointed out, almost gruffly. I fell silent.

Yes, my children are here. I can see them grow day after day. I've heard their first words, been there when they took their first steps. I may be away during the day, but we talk on the phone and my evenings are for them. They are not strangers to me. More importantly, I'm not a stranger to them.

Not like my cabbie who was seeing his son for the first time. Not like my cabbie who couldn't be with his daughter on the first day of her school. Not like my cabbie who had to be introduced to his children...

We were about to reach my office when he brought out something from his pocket. A bright Polaroid snapshot, taken in a tourist destination. He and his wife at the back, the two kids in front.

Everyone dressed in their best clothes and smiles; the little girl clutching her brother's hand tightly. "Don't they look like me?" he asked proudly. "Yes," I said, even if they didn't.
Because he needs to keep his dreams alive for another 22 months.