N. Raghuraman's column: Need to rekindle the spirit of 'Covid-kindness'

One day in the late 1960s, I parked my bicycle outside a restaurant called 'Vishrami Griha' on the main road of Sitabuldi in Nagpur, to buy some gajars from an old woman sitting there with a toothless woman. As they started packing them, a waiter from inside the restaurant came out and handed them two hot idlis and a cup of sambar in a bowl of leaves. The old lady thanked him and said softly, I haven't even done my 'bohani' yet. The waiter replied, "The boss has said you don't have to pay." Then he added that he saw you haven't eaten anything yet and your breakfast time has long passed. The old lady looked towards the cash counter, where the owner of the restaurant, Mani Iyer, was sitting wearing his familiar white dhoti and half-sleeved shirt. The old lady looked at him and bowed her head in gratitude; Iyer just smiled and waved and got busy taking money from customers. When the old woman handed me the garlands, she whispered softly, "They are the form of God." I smiled and left. When I told this to my mother later, she said, 'When you can read the hunger on someone's face, then you should give him food'. Mani Iyer was a master at it; They saw the innumerable hungry faces that passed through their doors daily. Mother also followed the above words in her life. Every summer – before the monsoon – labourers would come to our house to paint the walls white and replace the traditional, handmade clay tiles on the roof. At lunch time I used to see them sitting in a corner, where they would take out dry rotis wrapped in newspaper and eat them with only onions and green chillies. Looking at them, I often saw tears in my mother's eyes. They used to make some gravy items for the workers in advance. While eating this homemade meal, the glow on the faces of those laborers was seen. Decades later, on the second day of the Covid lockdown, there was silence on the streets. Only the sounds of birds chirping were heard. Sometimes, a government vehicle would also pass by. From my flat on the eleventh floor, the world seemed very deserted. Then one day a neighbour called the intercom and asked a question: How will your security guards arrange food? In the rush to protect our families, many of us didn't even think about it. Immediately, our entire building was united. We created a WhatsApp roster and prepared a schedule of who would serve tea to the guards and who would arrange refreshments for them. It was a small, but concerted effort of 'Covid-kindness' that lasted for a few weeks and helped us survive for a long time. This Saturday, when I read about the rising cost of cooking, I was reminded of all these things. Small restaurant operators and street vendors have come under pressure due to the third consecutive hike in cooking gas prices. With global costs rising due to the ongoing conflict in West Asia, a 19-kg commercial LPG cylinder has increased by about Rs 1,000 to over Rs 3,000. The volatile costs of edible oils and labour coupled with the volatile costs of eateries—especially street vendors—are being forced to raise prices by 20-30% or reduce the volume of their products. It made me think that when a cup of tea already gets only two sips in the smallest cup, how much more can a street vendor reduce it? Now — more than ever — we have to look at those faces again, just like my mother and Mani Iyer did – and remember the kindness that fills the void when the economy can't. The trick is that even a small act of kindness can profoundly change not only the life of the recipient, but also the giver at times. This time, if possible, try it.