<p>My friend booked me an auto using the Namma-Yatri app, when I could not get an “Ola”, to return home. Unlike popular platforms which often squeeze huge margins, the Namma-Yatri travel would be reasonable. Margins would go to the drivers “cooperative”, instead of the exploitative “middleman”, and I was happy to try it.</p>.<p>I asked Ahmad, the driver, in Kannada about the traffic. He was blank and realising he was not a local, I switched to Hindi. Ahmad was from Gujarat. My conversing in Hindi eased him to open up. He exclaimed understanding Kannada was difficult, and he would never be able to learn it. I retorted that many auto drivers effortlessly spoke Hindi, English, Kannada, Tamil and Telugu. He must learn Kannada to respond to passengers. On seeing his skeptical face (in the rear view mirror), the language teacher-educator in me explained that he needed to listen to “Kannada” programmes on his mobile’s FM radio, where the jockey usually speaks a mixture of Kan-Hin-Glish, this would help him in gradually understanding Kannada. I had learned Kannada over a year; he would take six months, benefiting from passengers’ interactions.</p>.<p>His face rose and fell. In Bengaluru, he despaired, he could not get the food he was used to, in Gujarat. Telling him that there is a “Darshini” in every corner was futile, as roti-sabji, biryani, and chicken are not their fare! I remembered Nigeria in 1997, where, as a vegetarian, I had to survive on curd rice. The locals, amazed that I did not eat meat, fish or chicken, would ask “‘What then do you eat?”. We were passing by Johnson market and I pointed out “Khazana Food Paradise” which a colleague had commended for tasty and inexpensive chicken and other meat dishes. He stayed close by, and could visit Khazana once in a while.</p>.<p>I remembered an errand, and told him to reach me to my 80-year old mother’s home, nearby. Ahmad was perplexed. “Don’t your parents stay with you?” It seemed I was being cruel in making them live alone. I clarified; they wanted to be independent, and my sister lived in the same apartment. On arriving, I paid him a 100 rupees more than the app indicated amount, and told him he must have his Sunday lunch at Khazana. Overwhelmed, he shook my hand and said, “I hope we will meet again”. I suffixed “Inshallah”, and his eyes widened, “Are you a Muslim?”</p>.<p>I clarified I was born a Hindu but believed in the language of love rather than in faith. Ahmad quizzically shook my hand again and drove off, leaving me with the thought that one may take six months to learn Kannada, but learning to understand and express the language of love, is a much more difficult proposition. Though perhaps far more crucial for Ahmad and the human race.</p>.<p><em>‘Maa Vidvisaaavahai’ (let there be no animosity amongst us), a part of ‘Om Sahana Vavatu’ prayer from Taittiriya Upanishad, is Gurumurthy Kasinathan’s pseudonym.</em></p>
<p>My friend booked me an auto using the Namma-Yatri app, when I could not get an “Ola”, to return home. Unlike popular platforms which often squeeze huge margins, the Namma-Yatri travel would be reasonable. Margins would go to the drivers “cooperative”, instead of the exploitative “middleman”, and I was happy to try it.</p>.<p>I asked Ahmad, the driver, in Kannada about the traffic. He was blank and realising he was not a local, I switched to Hindi. Ahmad was from Gujarat. My conversing in Hindi eased him to open up. He exclaimed understanding Kannada was difficult, and he would never be able to learn it. I retorted that many auto drivers effortlessly spoke Hindi, English, Kannada, Tamil and Telugu. He must learn Kannada to respond to passengers. On seeing his skeptical face (in the rear view mirror), the language teacher-educator in me explained that he needed to listen to “Kannada” programmes on his mobile’s FM radio, where the jockey usually speaks a mixture of Kan-Hin-Glish, this would help him in gradually understanding Kannada. I had learned Kannada over a year; he would take six months, benefiting from passengers’ interactions.</p>.<p>His face rose and fell. In Bengaluru, he despaired, he could not get the food he was used to, in Gujarat. Telling him that there is a “Darshini” in every corner was futile, as roti-sabji, biryani, and chicken are not their fare! I remembered Nigeria in 1997, where, as a vegetarian, I had to survive on curd rice. The locals, amazed that I did not eat meat, fish or chicken, would ask “‘What then do you eat?”. We were passing by Johnson market and I pointed out “Khazana Food Paradise” which a colleague had commended for tasty and inexpensive chicken and other meat dishes. He stayed close by, and could visit Khazana once in a while.</p>.<p>I remembered an errand, and told him to reach me to my 80-year old mother’s home, nearby. Ahmad was perplexed. “Don’t your parents stay with you?” It seemed I was being cruel in making them live alone. I clarified; they wanted to be independent, and my sister lived in the same apartment. On arriving, I paid him a 100 rupees more than the app indicated amount, and told him he must have his Sunday lunch at Khazana. Overwhelmed, he shook my hand and said, “I hope we will meet again”. I suffixed “Inshallah”, and his eyes widened, “Are you a Muslim?”</p>.<p>I clarified I was born a Hindu but believed in the language of love rather than in faith. Ahmad quizzically shook my hand again and drove off, leaving me with the thought that one may take six months to learn Kannada, but learning to understand and express the language of love, is a much more difficult proposition. Though perhaps far more crucial for Ahmad and the human race.</p>.<p><em>‘Maa Vidvisaaavahai’ (let there be no animosity amongst us), a part of ‘Om Sahana Vavatu’ prayer from Taittiriya Upanishad, is Gurumurthy Kasinathan’s pseudonym.</em></p>