Shared Responsibility

My American blood was itching to boil. No wonder this was called a waiting room.
Seven of us were waiting for the eye doctor. Not one word was uttered. Nagaraj, my driver, and I were the first to enter the clinic for evening hours, so we knew no patient was before us.
One person after another walked in and quietly took his or her place on a plastic lawn chair. A thin male clerk leafed through papers. Where was the doctor? What was happening? I laughed to myself about the book I brought to read at the vision clinic, Malcolm Gladwell’s Blink.
Some patients were in pain, some were very old, some barefoot. I told my blood to stay cool, that I had no schedule and a good book. I began to think about why I was there. No way did I need an eye appointment as badly as these folks. Did I really need to ‘get a good deal on glasses in India’? My real agenda was to have Nagaraj get his eyes examined.
Nagaraj is 52, a small man with four children. He and his wife Indrama live here, at Taralaya, and work for the Naidu family, from whom I rent a room.
A few months ago I made a tough decision. I could no longer go into the city in a car driven by Nagaraj. Either he was gonna kill us or someone else. I especially feared for pedestrians. Night trips were harrowing. As if continuously announcing our arrival, Nagaraj honked way more than other drivers, and most drivers in India honk a lot.
In cabs driven by Saleem or Noushad, two lovely young Muslim men, the horn was never used. I was stunned by the silent rides, and how I didn’t feel exhausted after a taxi trip.
“Nagaraj can’t see!” I told Suja, my landlady. “I think he has cataracts or some problem with night driving. I just can’t go outside Whitefield with him anymore.” I was aware of the awkwardness of my stubbornness, but I felt unsafe in Nagaraj’s car. I cringed at the juggling of cars and other drivers to suit my occasional need to go somewhere (cashing traveler’s checks), how I inconvenienced those regularly traveling into town. I felt badly being the demanding, unreasonable American who stopped riding with Nagaraj. (Though privately, I knew my family would be happy hearing of my self imposed grounding.)
But last week, I saw how incredibly near sighted (pun appeared on its own just now, I swear!) I was acting. Though determined to not be selfish or self centered, that was exactly how I was behaving!
If I was scared, how must Nagaraj feel? He was the frantic, honking man behind the wheel, watching flashing lights and roaring lorries fly by! Was boycotting his car the only responsible action I could take? I began to think he might be really scared about losing his job, afraid to tell anyone he couldn’t see.
Why not get Nagaraj an eye appointment? What the heck had I been thinking? Or not thinking? Were my safety concerns confined to my butt alone? Granted, none of Nagaraj’s frequent passengers seemed to share my views. But still, did I not have a greater duty here, beyond protecting myself?
Finally, the eye doctor arrived, and I ended 55 minutes of rumination. We paraded into the examination room, where I shared my concerns about Nagaraj’s eyes. The exam commenced, Nagaraj perched like a small boy in the bulky chair, chin tucked tensely onto the testing equipment, his feet not touching the floor.
As the doctor worked, I continued to observe my thinking. Was I actually hoping this man had cataracts, to somehow validate my concerns? Just how big is this ego of mine?
I listened to Nagaraj’s attempts to see the eye chart. Whoosh! A consuming heat of pure love infused my chest, arms, back and eventually, my whole body. He looked so sweet and vulnerable, like my friend Michaela, when I took her for an eye appointment a few years ago. I felt so happy to be there, I wanted the doctor to do something, to help Nagaraj see better. After so many months of fearing rides with Nagaraj, we were now swapping fear for hope and taking action.
Turns out, Nagaraj’s five year old glasses aren’t strong enough, and that he has the very earliest signs of cataracts, nothing to be worried about now.
We stepped back into the waiting room. I assured the clerk I didn’t need an appointment and Nagaraj tried on frames. I called him Professor Nagaraj and Dr. Nagaraj or the Politician, as he put on one distinguishing pair after another. He settled on some light weight pale bluish-gray plastic frames. We placed an order for glass lenses, and were told to pick them up Tuesday. I told Nagaraj that donations collected from students at my yoga classes were covering the bill. “Yoga dollars!” he grinned.
I was happy, so happy, for Nagaraj. I swelled up with happiness, more like love, as I thought about his safety, job security and his family waiting at the farm. We smiled all the way home. With no common language, there was no chatting, but the unlike the strained silence of the waiting room, our truck was filled with joy.
Back at Taralaya, Nagaraj parked the car. “Thank you!” he said. I said all I wanted to say in return, “Thank you!” What a wonderful moment. Returning to the US in just two weeks, I’m glad glad glad to know Nagaraj will see better on the job.