The Canvas Roof

It was a Tuesday evening, and a sudden August monsoon had turned the roads into rivers. I was crammed inside a shared auto-rickshaw, balancing my backpack on my knees just to keep it out of the puddles forming on the floorboard.

Next to me was a guy in a soaked, formal white shirt, desperately trying to protect his laptop bag. Opposite us sat an elderly woman holding a basket of fresh vegetables, and a school kid in a slightly oversized uniform.

Suddenly, a passing car sped through a massive pothole, sending a wave of muddy water straight toward the open side of our auto. Without thinking, the guy in the white shirt shoved his thick leather bag in the gap, taking the brunt of the splash so the elderly woman’s vegetables stayed clean. She didn’t say a word; she just smiled, reached into her cloth bag, and handed him a dry handkerchief to wipe his glasses.

We don’t need grand speeches to know what this country is made of. The India I still believe in rides in shared autos, silently shielding strangers from the mud.

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