The unsung heroes of our convenience economy
Tonight, I ordered something small on Blinkit. Just groceries, nothing to it. But when I opened my door, there was this man—maybe in his 40s, maybe older. Balding, looked tired, like life had run him over a few times.
He handed me my bag and smiled, this tired smile that honestly hurt to see. I gave him a tip—just some coins, barely anything. He said "thank you" in this soft voice. And I, lost in my own head, mumbled "you're welcome."
The second the door closed, it hit me: I'm the one who should be thanking him.
He's out there, probably the only one earning in his family, late at night, feet dragging, heart heavy, just so someone else can have it a little easier. Maybe he's got kids who just want what other kids have—phones, shoes, whatever people in my city, Udaipur, show off about.
And yet, I stood there thinking about my own small dreams—my bike, my "goals," blaming the government, blaming society, blaming everything. Meanwhile, guys like him just keep moving, working, not complaining, holding their families together with so much pressure.
I don't know why, but after that moment, I felt something burning in my chest. Sadness, guilt, maybe something like anger—at myself, at the world. I keep wishing I'd gone back, given him a little more money, or at least said something that made him feel seen, like "Uncle, mujhe aapka shukriya ada karna chahiye."
Why didn't I do it? Why does it always hit later, when it's too late?
I keep thinking: If I had the power—real power, not just money, but the ability to change things—what would I do? It's not just about tips or charity. It's about dignity. It's about making sure people like him don't have to work themselves to the bone while their kids grow up thinking they have to show off to fit in.
It's about basic respect, skills, chances. Why isn't anyone fixing this? Why aren't we?
India is huge. There's so much talent. But sometimes it feels like the people who work the hardest are the ones nobody really sees. So here's a quiet promise to myself—to see, to act, and to not get numb.
Maybe you feel the same?
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