Sometimes kindness does not come in big acts or poetic timing. It sometimes appear on an empty road past midnight, in the voice of a stranger who calls you "Aiyya".
It was around 1am in the morning when I landed in Chennai. The SpiceJet flight had been delayed by three long hours, and what was supposed to be a 10pm arrival had dragged deep into the night. The airport was half asleep, but the world outside still felt alive in fragments, autos lined up, drivers waiting for tired passengers, and a few murmurs of negotiation floating in the air. I had to travel about 30 kilometers from the airport, and what followed showed that even in a world driven by paper bills, there are still moments that feel human.
I had first booked an Uber, but the driver could not come inside the airport premises. He called and asked if I could walk outside, As I had luggage with me, I gave a No. The autos inside were quoting absurd prices like fifteen hundred for thirty kilometers. The cabs were worse, quoting two thousand or more just because I had arrived by flight. The way they priced you was not based on distance but on the assumption that anyone coming out of an airport must have money to spare. Frustrated, I dragged my luggage out to the main road, refusing to give in to that unfair bargain.
Once I reached the main road, I checked Uber again and to my surprise, the same ride I had booked earlier was still active. I called the driver, and he said he could come. He said "Oru 100 ruba potu kudunga aiyya", and I agreed. Soon he arrived, and I felt a sense of relief that after all the chaos inside the airport, I finally had a ride that felt right.
He arrived in an old auto, smiled, and addressed me respectfully as "Aiyya". It was a word I had not heard in a while, simple, humble and deeply rooted in village warmth. It instantly shifted the mood. The road was empty, and for the next thirty kilometers, our conversation filled the night. He must have been in his sixties, maybe a little older. He spoke of politics and the bad roads first, but gradually it became personal. He told me about his heart attack a few months ago and how, despite that, he had to keep working because his family depended on him. When he spoke about his grandchildren, his voice softened. He said their laughter was the only medicine that truly worked.
I could see his reflection in the mirror, his tired eyes lighting up every time he mentioned his grandchildren. Somewhere between the turns and speed breakers, he said Everyone has their own set of problems and We all live in the same pond. It was simple yet wise, an understanding that suffering does not discriminate and everyone is trying to stay afloat in their own way.
Then halfway through the journey, his phone rang. It was his granddaughter. Her little voice crackled through the speaker asking, “Thaatha, enga irukkinga? Eppo varuveenga?” His face glowed with joy as he gently replied, “Thaatha indha vandhiren ma, oru mani nerathula vandhuduren, nee thoongu ma". It was such an ordinary conversation, yet it had the kind of affection that makes you forget how cruel the world can be.
A few minutes later, he hit a speed breaker he had not seen and immediately apologised. “Aiyya, manichukonga, iravu aana naala kann sariya theriyala. Ungaluku edhum aagalaye aiyya?” I told him it was fine. He explained how reflective lines were missing and how, at night, things get harder to see. It was one of those small, honest moments that make you realise how everyone just wants to do their job with dignity.
When we reached my stop, it was around 2am in the morning. I asked him how much Uber showed. He said it was ₹450. I told him, “Anna unga nalla manasuku neenga solunga evlo venumnu". He smiled and said, “Neenga enna kuduthalum manasara ethupen aiyya. Ungalala mudinjadha kudunga.” I transferred him the money, he shook my hand firmly and blessed me, that smile of his stayed with me long after he drove away into the night.
It was not just a ride. It showed that even when everything feels mechanical, apps, fares, ratings, there are still people who move through life with heart. His kindness was not just in words but in how he carried himself, how he spoke, and how he lived despite the odds.
Moments like these stay. They make you believe that goodness has not vanished, it is just hidden in ordinary people, in the little things they do without expecting a recognition. It is in the way a tired old man still smiles at strangers, still believes in honesty, still lights up when his granddaughter calls.
Maybe that is what humanity really is. Not something to be found in revolutions or speeches, but in the conversations that happen between two people on a lonely road at 2am in the morning.
Because sometimes, all it takes to remind you of goodness is a man who calls you "Aiyya"
