The View from the Backseat: A Tale of Two Taxi Occupants

  The driver flashes his lights and pulls up to where I just crossed the street.  I get in the back, ignoring the seatbelt.  "International Airport, Arrivals," I remind him of the same information on the small LCD screen in front of him.  We pull away from the Mall containing Chili's.  "No shopping?" the taxi driver asks, used to the opulent display of wealth from the Dili-wallas emerging from the Temple to the Rupee.  "No, only food," my use of Hindi instantly gains his attention.  I would be startled if I were him and the gora in my taxi managed to pronounce some of my language.  I continue to give and receive information in his native tongue.  "I was waiting to go to the airport to pick-up my parents coming from America. Where are you from?  How long have you been in Delhi?" My questions must seem strange.  Do his other passengers ask him for such information?  My next question and both of our answers cause both of us to pause. "What is your age?"  "I am 21," he responds.  21.  He is two years younger than I.  He is two years younger than I, and he has come to Delhi, the giver of jobs, and found a good job--Taxi-walla.  I am humbled as I consider the differences in our two lives that have come about only because of where we were born.  "And you?" he asks, interrupting my contemplation.  "23."  "Really, only 23?"  He is confused and rightfully so.  23.  I am two years older than he.  Yet, I sit in the backseat of a taxi, able to pay the fare and the 540 rupees to buy my mom the flowers he helps me find.  I can't be 23.  I am doing business.  I am away from my family.  How can I be only 23?  This question is the same one I ask myself.  I was born in Georgia in the United States of America; he was born in Bihar, India.  Our similar age belies the differences our countries of origin have caused in our lives.  Experiences like this taxi ride seem to happen on a day-by-day basis.  I am humbled by what I have received and what I am given by those around me.  Humbled.  "How can my life be what it is?"  Still, I am thankful.  I am thankful to have the opportunity to live in India.  I am thankful the Father has brought me here.  I am thankful for the friendships and acquaintances that have shaped me.  I am thankful for a taxi ride to the airport to remind me how little of what I can do depends on things that I can control.  Who decides to be born?  Can I choose the place of my origin?  I cannot, but the Author of this Grand Narrative can.  I rest in the truth that the resolution to the plot is in His hands.  And, as there is nothing new under the sun, every great story's resolution has flown from His Story.