When I last visited Kolkata, the thing that struck me was the sartorial preference of the city. Almost all the girls were in salwar kameez and the men in trousers! Unbelievable in a city where the predominant dress was the graceful sari and the milk white dhoti, which was elegantly held in one end. Despite the dhoti not being the ideally suited apparel when running was involved, the bhadralok showed amazing elan and nimblefootedness when it came to boarding the buses, as the evening approached and the great Kolkata offices disgorged their vast masses of babulog.

They saw their buses a good 100 yards away, made a dash for them and with dexterity, perfected with years of practice, boarded them, leaving us ~ much younger folk stunned and even, applauding. Then there were feats of crossing the roads, Kolkatastyle. One just joined the human torrent and, with it, crossed to the other side of Chowringhee. Try to do it on your own and you would risk losing a limb, if nothing more!

A green horn, I landed in the great city one evening. In the foolish confidence, that is part of youth, I had not booked any accommodation, and had to get one before night fell. I engaged a taxi, driven by an old Sikh gentleman. We went from one hotel to another, from one guest house to another. I was stumped by the charges. We had driven about 50 km and nothing seemed to suit my pocket. I had to stay in the city for about three months, and, what a fool I was, not to have planned my stay. Seeing my plight, the gentle driver suggested that, as the night was rapidly approaching, his house was welcome.

I could not believe my ears but then he was sincere. But I tried to make another and last attempt before I accepted. Fortunately, I got a place in a hotel near the Howrah railway station. Noisy, but clean and modest in charges. After me luggage was unloaded, I asked the taxi fare. The meter had registered 90 km by now. The answer I got, floored me. He said that as I was new to the city and, therefore, a guest of Kolkata, he would not charge anything! I rubbed my eyes in disbelief.

Taxi drivers generally have a notoriety attached to them, specially when they encounter someone like me, new to a big city. I tried to argue with him, but to no avail.

He said the city had been so kind to him when he came to it 50 years back and had consistently been so, that it was time to pay back a bit of his heartfelt gratitude, and there was no better way than to show a little kindness to a distressed first-time visitor to the city.

Let the first impression be good. I asked him how could I ever pay back his kindness. He said there was no need. The only thing I ought to do is help anyone in genuine distress and difficulty and I would be paid back more than fully.

He explained that the great gurus had enjoined as much time and again in their teachings and all of them made great sacrifices in the spirit of true service to humanity, without any distinction of religion, belief or caste. I was deeply touched.

Apart from the formal lessons I learnt in Kolkata, this was the greatest lesson of my life that I learnt from a true practitioner!

Excerpted from All I Need To Know, I Learnt It In Kindergarten.

V.P. Menon was a significant political figure during India's struggle for independence. He was the highest ranking Indian in the Viceregal establishment, and it was to him that Lord Mountbatten turned for the final drafting of the charter plan for independence. Unlike most of the leaders Menon was a rarity - a self-made man. No degree from Oxford or Cambridge graced his office walls, and he had no caste or family ties to support his ambitions.

Eldest son of twelve children, he quit school at thirteen and worked as a labourer, coal miner, factory hand, merchant and a school teacher. He talked his way into a job as a clerk in the Indian administration, and his rise was meteoric - largely because of his integrity and brilliant skills in working with both Indian and British officials in a productive way. Both Nehru and Mountbatten mentioned his name with highest praise as one who made practical freedom possible for the country. Two characteristics stood out as particularly memorable - a kind of aloof, impersonal efficiency, and a reputation for personal charity.

His daughter explained the background of this latter trait after he died. When Menon arrived in Delhi to seek a job in government, all his possessions including his money and I.D., were stolen at the railroad station. He would have to return home on foot, defeated. In desperation, he turned to an elderly Sikh, explained his troubles, and asked for a temporary loan of fifteen Rupees to see him through until he got a job. The Sikh gave him the money. When Menon asked for his address so that he could repay the man, the Sikh said that Menon owed the debt to any stranger who came to him in need, as long as he lived. The help came from a stranger and was to be repaid to a stranger.

Menon never forgot that debt. Neither the gift of trust, nor the fifteen Rupees. His daughter said that the day before he died, a beggar came to the family home in Bangalore asking for help to buy new sandals, as his feet were covered with sores. Menon asked his daughter to take fifteen Rupees out of his wallet to give to the man. It was Menon's last conscious act.

This story was told to me by a man whose name I don't know. He was standing besides me at the Bombay airport near the left baggage counter. I had come to reclaim my bags and had no Indian currency left. The agent would not take a traveller's cheque, and I was uncertain about getting my luggage and making my plane. The man paid my claim-check fee - about eighty cents - and told me the story as a way of refusing my attempt to figure out how to repay him. His father had been Menon's assistant and had learned Menon's charitable ways and passed them onto his son. The son had continued the tradition of seeing himself in debt to strangers, whenever, however.

From a nameless Sikh to an Indian civil-servant to his assistant to his son to me, a white foreigner in a moment of frustating inconvenience. The gift was not large as money goes, and my need was not great, but the spirit of the gift is beyond price and leaves me blessed in debt.

On several occassions, when I have thought about the story of the 'Good Samaritian', I have wondered about the rest of the story. What effect did the charity have on the man who was robbed and beaten and taken care of by a Good Samaritan? Did he remember the cruelty of the robbers and shape his life with that memory? Or did he remember the nameless generosity of the Samaritan and shape his life with that debt? What did he pass on to the strangers in his life, those in need he met?

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