The Ride Home

Balamurugan had been driving his auto for over twenty years, through crowded streets and quiet lanes, in the sweltering heat and the calming monsoon rains. Today was no different, but there was something about the way the evening light hit the city that made him smile. It wasn’t a big reason — no grand event had occurred. Just the familiar rhythm of life, the occasional laughter of children playing cricket on the side streets, and the soft murmur of people going about their day.

As he drove through the bustling market road, his mind wandered back to the days when he had just started this job. His auto, the one he’d lovingly named Ramya, had been with him for many years, and together, they had seen all kinds of people — from tired workers and late-night travelers to cheerful students and chattering families.

Today, a young boy with a backpack had hopped in and sat quietly, staring out of the window. They hadn’t exchanged many words, but when the boy got down, he gave Balamurugan a small smile and said, “Thank you, uncle. I had a good ride.”

That simple acknowledgment had filled his heart with warmth. It was moments like these — little, fleeting moments of human connection — that kept him going. He glanced into his rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of the world behind him. The roads had changed, the faces had changed, but Balamurugan’s journey continued, with joy in his heart and a smile on his face.

As he turned onto the next street, he felt a breeze through the open sides of the auto, and for a moment, everything felt perfect. Life, he thought, was a collection of these simple rides — some long, some short, but always moving forward