Sometimes, Humanity Waits Quietly at a Traffic Signal

Rekha Jad

rekhajad1969@gmail.com

Today seemed like yet another humdrum monsoon day—the pitter-patter of rain, drizzles punctuated by “ifs” and “buts,” and a sky that couldn’t quite decide whether to pour or pause.

I had been unwell for some time and not fit to drive for a couple of months, and now my own car had gone to the workshop for denting and polishing. So I was gingerly driving my father’s car, still unfamiliar and a tad uncomfortable behind its wheel. As I rolled to a halt at a traffic signal, I found myself caught in a serpentine queue of vehicles, engulfed by the blare of horns and the cacophony of snarling traffic.

And then, amidst that urban chaos… I saw two familiar faces.

Neha—the ubiquitous transgender person who has been a constant presence at that crossing for years—and Akash, the polio-stricken young boy who drags his lifeless legs through the maze of vehicles in search of a few rupees to survive. Despite a life that has dealt him a cruel hand, his smile still carries an inexplicable warmth.

Neha, as always, was resplendent in a garish sari, a carefully arranged wig gathered into a neat bun adorned with fragrant mogra flowers. Her face was generously coated with whitening cream, her teeth stained, yet she exuded a peculiar dignity. Ever since I read Arundhati Roy’s The Ministry of Utmost Happiness, I have found echoes of Anjum in every such person—individuals caught between binaries, burdened by conflicting biology, denied acceptance, and haunted by unfulfilled dreams, yet continuing to navigate life with remarkable resilience.

But this encounter was different.

Neither of them approached my window asking for money.

Instead, Neha smiled and asked, “Madam, where have you been? We saw you travelling in a cab a few times.”

Almost simultaneously, Akash looked up and asked, “Aapki neeli rang ki gaadi kahan hai aaj “ Aap itne din dikhe hi nahin. Hum dono ko aapki chinta ho rahi thi.”

The traffic light lingered on red, allowing a conversation that would have otherwise been swallowed by the city’s impatience.

I told them that I had been unwell and was not fit to drive for a couple of months, and that now my own car had gone to the workshop for repairs, after which I had been commuting by Uber.

As I instinctively reached into my handbag to offer them some money, they gently stopped me.

“Nahin… hum toh bas aapka haal poochhne aaye the. Agli baar de dena.”

And then came a cascade of blessings.

The signal turned green. I pressed the accelerator slowly, my eyes moist, my heart strangely full and my eyes focused through the rear mirror on the blurry images of the duo..

I drove on, but my thoughts remained behind at that traffic crossing.

What struck me was not merely that they remembered me. They remembered the colour of my car. They had noticed my absence. They had worried about my well-being. And they wanted nothing in return.

In a world where even neighbours often remain strangers and acquaintances barely spare a thought, concern came from two individuals whom society routinely overlooks—one trapped in a disabled body, the other in a body that society refuses to understand.

Human connections are mysterious. They transcend wealth, status, profession, gender, ability and every label we so proudly wear. Sometimes, the purest expressions of empathy come from those who possess the least, yet give the most.

Perhaps the poet ‘ Sudarshan Fakir ‘had never encountered souls like these while writing:

“Patthar ke Khuda, patthar ke sanam, patthar ke hi insaan paaye hain…”

Because not everyone is made of stone.

Some carry calloused hands, deformed feet, weather-beaten faces or bodies that defy convention, yet nurture hearts of astonishing tenderness.

That afternoon, amidst the blaring horns and impatient traffic, I encountered not two people living on society’s margins, but two extraordinary human beings who reminded me that compassion needs neither pedigree nor perfection.