The Unpaid Price of Respect

I had gone to the passport office in Delhi to get a passport for a friend. In those days, there was no facility to fill out forms online. The passport office was rife with touts and agents, who openly charged money to sell, fill, submit, and finally secure the passport. My friend needed the passport quickly, but we did not want to get entangled with the agents. We arrived, stood in line, managed to get the Tatkal (urgent) application form, and filled it completely. Several hours had passed, and now we only needed to pay the fee.

We joined the fee collection line, but just as our number was called, the clerk (“Babu”) shut his window, announcing that the time was over and we should come back tomorrow.

I pleaded with him, explaining that we had spent the entire day there and that only the fee submission remained. “Please, just take the payment,” I requested.

The clerk became irritated. “Am I responsible for you spending the whole day? The government should hire more people! I have been working since morning.” I begged him repeatedly, but he refused. He insisted that the working hours ended at 2 PM, and since the clock had struck two, nothing more could be done. I realized he had likely been prioritizing the agents’ work all morning, but as soon as a non-agent application came up, he started making excuses. Yet, we were adamant about completing the work without succumbing to corruption or paying a bribe.

I understood that if we left, we would lose another entire day tomorrow, as the agents surrounded every counter, making it nearly impossible for an ordinary person to get through. My friend was disheartened and suggested we leave. I stopped him. “Wait, let me try one more thing.”

The clerk had picked up his bag and stood up. I said nothing and quietly followed him. He walked to a canteen located on the third or fourth floor of the same office. He took his lunch box out of his bag and began to eat slowly, all alone. I sat down on the bench opposite him. He looked at me and made a displeased face. I simply smiled.

I asked him, “Do you bring food from home every day?” He replied reluctantly, “Yes, I do.” I said, “You must have a lot of work. You must meet many new people daily?” He misinterpreted my statement and started boasting, “Yes, I meet high-ranking officials—IAS, IPS, MLAs, you name it. Big people wait in front of my chair.” I noticed the pride and arrogance on his face as he spoke. I listened silently.

Then, I asked, “May I share a piece of bread (roti) from your plate?” He didn’t seem to understand what I was saying but simply nodded in affirmation. I picked up a roti from his plate and began to eat it with his curry. He watched me silently. I praised his food and complimented his wife for being such a good cook. He remained quiet.

I prodded him further. “You sit on a very important chair. Big people come to you. But… do you respect your position?”

He was startled. He looked at me and asked, “Respect? What do you mean?”

I said, “You are very lucky to have such a vital responsibility, dealing with so many powerful officers. But you do not respect your position.”

“How can you say that?” he challenged.

I explained, “If you truly respected the work you were given, you wouldn’t be so rude. Look at yourself: you have no friends. You eat alone in the office canteen, you sit at your chair dejected, and you try to stall people’s legitimate work instead of helping to complete it.

“Suppose someone reached your counter exactly at two o’clock. You didn’t even consider that they might have been standing in line all morning before you abruptly closed the window. When I requested, you told me to ask the government to hire more people. What if I did ask the government to hire more staff? Wouldn’t your importance diminish? They might even take this work away from you. How will you meet IAS, IPS, and MLAs then? God gave you an opportunity to build relationships, but sadly, you are ruining them instead of capitalizing on them.

“My work will get done—I can come tomorrow, or the day after. It’s not like the work won’t ever happen if it’s not done today. If you don’t do it, another clerk will tomorrow. But you had a chance today to make someone grateful to you. You missed it. You will earn a lot of money, but if you don’t earn relationships, it’s all useless. What will you do with the money? If your behavior isn’t right, even your family will be unhappy with you. You have no friends; I can see that. Look at me, I never eat alone at my office. I was hungry here, so I came to eat with you. Is living a lonely life really a life?”

Hearing my words, his eyes welled up. He said, “You are right, sir. I am alone. My wife had a fight with me and went to her parents’ house. My children don’t like me either. My mother gives me four or five rotis in the morning, but doesn’t talk much. I eat dinner alone, and I don’t even feel like going home at night. I don’t understand where I went wrong.”

I gently advised, “Connect with people. Help someone if you can. Look, I am here for my friend’s passport. I already have mine. I pleaded with you for my friend’s sake, selflessly. That’s why I have friends, and you don’t.”

He stood up and told me, “Go back to my window. I will submit the form today.”

I went downstairs. He accepted the form, took the fee, and the passport was issued within a week. The clerk asked for my number, I gave it, and I left.

Years later, on Diwali, I received many calls, and I answered almost all of them, wishing everyone ‘Happy Diwali.’ A call came from an unknown number. “This is Ravindra Kumar Chaudhary speaking, sir.” I didn’t recognize the name immediately.

He continued, “Many years ago, you came to my office for your friend’s passport, and you shared a meal with me. You told me to make relationships instead of money.” I instantly remembered. “Ah, Chaudhary Saab! How are you?”

He replied happily, “Sir, you left that day, and I kept thinking. I realized that many people give me money, but no one ever sits down to eat with me. Everyone is busy with themselves. The very next day, I went to my wife’s parents’ house, pleaded a lot, and finally brought her home. She was still upset. When she sat down to eat, I picked up a roti from her plate and asked, ‘Will you feed me together?’ She was shocked. Then she started crying. She came back with me, and the children came too. Sir, I don’t earn money now. I earn relationships. I complete the work of whoever comes to me. I called to wish you Happy Diwali today. Next month is my daughter’s wedding. You have to come. Please send me your address. My wife and I will come to meet you.”

He continued, “My wife had asked me, ‘Where did you learn this habit of earning relationships at the passport office?’ I told her the entire story. You never met her, but you built a relationship in my home. Everyone knows about you. I wanted to call you for a long time, but I didn’t have the courage. I took the opportunity on Diwali. You must come to the wedding to bless my daughter. You built this relationship. I believe you will come.”

He kept talking, and I listened. I never imagined that the value of relationships would outweigh money in his life, but my words had proven true.