Memory lane mishap

Forgetfulness is a form of freedom, says Kahlil Gibran. I doubt

The other day, a domestic help who works in the building across the road from mine asked me if I could drop her off at a government office and then bring her back. Though I barely knew her, I obliged, as her destination happened to be near my workplace. Perhaps her employers had apprised her of my route.

The following day, she was at my place promptly at the allotted time. Once the preliminary social niceties were over, she asked me if we were going by car. I answered her in the negative, and I realised that she didn't know much about me either.

Soon, we got into an autorickshaw. We had a little conversation, through which I learned that she was new to Namma Bengaluru. She spoke in Odiya with a sprinkle of Hindi words here and there. She hoped to give her children a good education by utilising her domestic skills in this urban jungle. She was going to the office to check on the benefits she could avail of while in the city. I warned her that government offices were a time-consuming affair and possibly a futile attempt. However, she said she was ready to give it a shot, for whatever it was worth. I was impressed by her shrewd and pragmatic approach to life.

When it was time for me to alight, I told the auto driver to go a little further and drop her off at her destination. She looked at me quizzically. I dipped my hand into my bag, reassuring her that I would settle the fare. My hands did not find the wallet. I had left it behind. I was extremely embarrassed, distraught, and foolish. She was flustered, brushed aside my apologetic chatter, and refused to wait until I returned with some borrowed money to settle the fare.

I directed her to her destination and requested that she wait for me once her work was done so that we could return together. She did not reply. I felt awful, but I promised myself that I would make up for the gaffe. I was relieved to see her waiting for me in the evening. 

I inquired about her mission. She mumbled that nothing came out of her visit. I could feel her anger and helplessness, as well as mine. 

Once back home, I invited her home and paid her the fare for the onward trip, along with some snacks and sweets for her children. I hoped to compensate for the morning inconvenience. Although the lady had not once mentioned the money, she relaxed as she received the recompense.

 The poor soul had been silently cynical about my integrity while I had been completely drowned in my guilt. I thought of Kahlil Gibran's words, “Forgetfulness is a form of freedom.” Perhaps he forgot to add, until the memory of it lands us in a conundrum.