MANI’S GIFT

I met Mani in Chennai. He greeted me at the airport with a big smile, assigned as my chauffeur for the cab service from ITC Fortune Chennai. It was the pre-COVID time of 2018. I was staying for three days, and Mani would be driving me to all my destinations.

The next morning, after an official meeting that ended around 4 PM, I craved tea. My friends and colleagues all know about my unconditional love for tea—it has no time, no weather, no mood specifications. It’s always tea time for me.

Chennai, as we all know, has three weather conditions: hot, very hot, and very, very hot. But that didn’t stop my thirst.

"Mani, where can I get a good cup of tea?" I asked.

To my surprise, Mani replied, "What kind of tea are you looking for, madam?"

I smiled. "A nice, aromatic, hot milk tea. From a local joint, somewhere popular."

Mani grinned. "That’s our kind of tea, madam."

I didn’t quite understand what he meant, but I nodded. "Alright, let’s go there."

He drove me to a bustling tea stall, packed with people. As I was about to step out of the car, Mani requested, "Madam, please wait inside. I will get it for you."

A few minutes later, he returned with a small glass of tea. I took a sip—it was perfectly brewed, the right balance of milk and tea, rich with flavor.

"This is just awesome!" I said, delighted.

Mani nodded, pleased. "Thank you, madam."

"No, I should be thanking you for this," I replied.

The next day, after wrapping up work around 2:30 PM, I asked Mani to take me to a good local food joint.

"Madam, would you like to try an authentic South Indian thali?" he asked.

I paused, realizing Mani was using my own tea formula on me. I smiled and agreed.

He took me to Annalakshmi for a traditional vegetarian thali. As I tasted the food, I knew immediately—I didn’t like it. I had a similar experience in Kochi before; I should have learned my lesson.

Mani asked, "How do you like the food, madam?"

I hesitated before answering, "It’s nice."

Mani smiled. "I bring my family here after temple visits."

Later, he suggested, "Madam, would you like to go on a pilgrimage? A day-long trip to five or six holy places nearby?"

It sounded like a wonderful plan, but my schedule was packed. "I wish I could, Mani, but I have work in the first half tomorrow and a flight at night."

He nodded in understanding.

On my last day, one of my meetings got canceled by 2 PM, leaving me free. I told Mani, "Take me to a local temple. I’d like to visit before leaving the city."

He drove me to a temple near a bustling marketplace. I entered, prayed, and came out quickly. As I returned to the car, I noticed a long line of people waiting outside.

I sat inside the car. Mani told me, "Have you visited the idol?"

I said, "Yes, it took me very little time because there was no waiting time."

I asked Mani, "Why are these devotees in line? Why are they not entering the temple?"

Again, Mani smiled and told me, "They are local, poor people. They work in the nearby areas. After work, they come to visit the temple, but they cannot enter straight the way you entered. They have different waiting times and separate doors to see the idol. It’s for people like us."

Then Mani asked me, "Madam, God—is He not for all of us? Does God also judge humans? Is it correct, madam?"

I had no answer then, and I have no answer now.

Mani dropped me at the airport with a smile and told me, "Remember me, madam."

I nodded, stepping out of the car, carrying not just memories of tea and travels, but a question that lingered—one that awakened something deep within me. A question about faith, fairness, and the barriers we create, even in the presence of divinity. A question that Mani left with me.

Perhaps that is Mani’s greatest gift to me—not just his kindness, but the unsettling truth that refuses to fade. Some questions change you forever, and this was mine.

Images are generated by AI