Representative image of a watchman.
Credit: iStock Image
Latha Mohan
In most neighbourhoods, there is always one person who seems stitched into the very fabric of daily life. For us, that man was Ram Singh—affectionately known as Ramji.
Ramji lived just a few doors down, tucked away in the most unlikely of homes: an abandoned lift shaft on the ground floor of an apartment building. It wasn’t much, but it was his sanctuary. He hailed from a village in Uttar Pradesh, and his Hindi—peppered with a curious accent—was as distinctive as his presence. No one quite knew how he ended up in Bengaluru, but once he arrived, he never left.
Officially, Ramji was the building’s watchman. But his primary duty was washing the cars parked in front of each house. He could be seen scrubbing them with monk-like dedication, his hands moving with the rhythm of routine. From morning to night, he was at it, meticulously cleaning every car on the street.
In between washes, he would run errands for people -- buying groceries, walking someone's dog and such like. People were so eager to take his help that he became a gardener, plumber or mason depending on the need. He hardly ever said 'no' to anyone. His honesty, sincerity and innocence endeared him to everyone.
My husband shared a quiet camaraderie with him. Whenever Ramji dropped by, he was greeted with a warm cup of tea and a listening ear. That was when he would open up—sharing his worries, his stories, and sometimes, his secrets.
We trusted him deeply. So much so that we would hand him our house keys when we travelled, knowing he would care for our cats and water our plants. He, in turn, entrusted us with his savings, folded neatly in a plastic pouch.
In the 10 years we had known him, Ramji never took a single day off. My husband often urged him to visit his village, to take a break and reconnect with his family. But Ramji would always laugh and shake his head. It was intriguing, since most migrant workers long to go back to their village and spend time with their family whenever they can.
One day, after much coaxing, he finally shared why. Years ago, back in his village, a heated dispute among neighbours spiralled out of control. In the chaos, Ramji was caught in the middle, and the situation turned grave. Fearing legal trouble and social backlash, he fled—first aimlessly, then purposefully—until he found refuge in Bengaluru.
Here, he rebuilt his life from scratch. No family, no past—just the present, and the people who came to rely on him.
Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.