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My friend, Gangaram

This story was written in Dubai several years ago.......

Many years ago, I met a very interesting person called Abboy in the Indian city of Madras (now called Chennai). He was an MBA from India's best management school - the Indian Institute Of Management, Ahmedabad. He appeared incredibly intelligent, bordering on the eccentric.

During the course of our business discussion he embarked briefly on a philosophical path. He told me that he believed that God had a ledger of all credits and debts that we incurred during our lifetime and that debts, whether in a past life had to be paid off in this one and that circumstances would ensure that the person to whom we owed money in a previous life would appear suddenly to claim their dues in this life time.

I mentally dismissed this as being crazy and forgot about it.

I was forced to recall this gentleman's words a few days ago.

I was flying between Mumbai and Dubai and was in the check-in queue when a person suddenly appeared next to me and requested me to fill in his embarkation card. He was an illiterate worker, he explained, and couldn't read or write English. He gave me his passport as also the embarkation card. I filled in the form and gave it to him and thought no more about it. He joined the next check-in line.

When I boarded the aircraft, I was surprised to see that his seat was the one next to mine. This was a little strange as the statistical chance that he would sit next to me (he having been ina different check-in queue)  must have been very small!

I greeted him again. As the flight got underway I learned that he was an illiterate construction worker in Sharjah (an Emirate that neighbors Dubai). I gave him a little lecture about the shamefulness of being illiterate. "I'm not fully illiterate" he told me "I have studied up to 2nd standard in English medium". He took a magazine from the rack and proceeded to show me his knowledge of the English alphabet.

He got about 50% right (but I didn't tell him that).

Very soon the drinks trolley came and he was a little apprehensive about asking for a drink - I could see that he was keen to have a drink but uneasy that I should be critical of this. I asked him in the local language what he would like to drink and after a little hesitation he said that he would like a whisky. "Make those two whiskeys" I told the stewardess and soon we were talking like old friends.

He told me the horrors of life as a construction worker. He told me of the inhuman conditions that he worked under. He told me of his gut wrenching sorrow at his having been away from his wife and family for the last seven years. He told me of the way the construction companies routinely cheat their workers - they promise leave with air fare every two years but ask the workers to buy the tickets themselves and keep a a photocopy of the ticket in their files to 'prove' that they have complied with the rules and regulations.

"How much do you earn?" I asked him. "Dirhams 750 a month" he replied (about US $ 200). "Why don't you leave and go back to India?" I asked “you can get as much there". "But I can't save as much there" he replied. "I live a wretched life here so that I can send whatever money I can back to my family in India. That's how I am able to educate my two sons and how I have been able to get one daughter married."

One can't argue with that logic.

By the time we landed we were friends. He wasn't a construction worker to me; I wasn't the general manager of a software company to him.....we were friends.

He was amazed at the new airport terminal in Dubai. What he did not know was that to a poor worker the new terminal is a money trap - the old terminal had easy access to the road outside and it was simple to walk out and catch an inexpensive local (share) taxi rather than the very expensive airport taxis. This is not possible in the new airport because the roads have been altered and new flyovers are in place.

"How will you get to Sharjah?" I asked him. "By taxi" he replied. "I will share a taxi with some others who are going to Sharjah".

At the Immigration queue, he frantically tried locating people going to Sharjah. But he was unsuccessful. I calculated that if he hired a cab, he would need to spend at least Dirhams 50 to get to Sharjah - a huge sum for him.

When the luggage came, I saw that his meager belongings consisted of his clothes and other personal belongings in a white cloth cover that his wife had hand stitched for him.

He appeared too poor to be even able to afford a suitcase.

At the duty free shop I asked him whether he wanted to buy anything (especially liquor). "No thank you" he said "If I buy liquor and drink it every day, I'll get accustomed to it. I'd rather not buy anything". "I'll buy two bottles for myself in your name then" I told him (Dubai then allowed 2 bottles per head). He cheerfully agreed.

When we walked out of the terminal building I could see a worried look come into his eyes. This was not the old airport that he was used to. He didn't know how to get home.

On an impulse I called a cabbie and asked him how much the taxi fare to Sharjah would be. "About Dh. 50" he said. I gave him the money and told him to drop my new friend home. I could see the look of confusion in his eyes but I didn't want the scene to get emotional so I just bundled him into the taxi and quickly left.

On the way back I got to thinking about Gangaram and suddenly heard the voice of Abboy very clearly:

“You have to pay your debts, whether in this lifetime or the next".

Maybe he was right after all.

Whenever I now pass a truck carrying construction workers back to their labor camp I look up to see whether I can spot my friend Gangaram amongst the tired huddled up figures.

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