I wanted to experience the work that many of us depend on every single day but rarely acknowledge. The kind of work we casually label as “menial,” while enjoying its convenience without a second thought. So I registered myself as a Rapido captain, willing to offer on-demand rides on my scooter whenever I chose to.
I did this not for content, not for sympathy, but to live—even briefly—the life we choose not to see.
It took several days for Rapido to verify my documents and credentials. When the account was finally enabled, I switched on the app on a Saturday. Within minutes, my phone buzzed.
My first ride had arrived.
“Uncle, You Don’t Look Like a Rapido Captain”
My first customer was a teenage boy. He hesitated when he saw me. I was dressed casually, in a long-sleeved polo T-shirt, jeans, and Crocs. I did not look like what he expected a Rapido captain to look like.
When I nudged him gently, he hopped on.
A little into the ride, he asked, “Uncle, you don’t look like typical a Rapido captain.”
I told him I was doing this for a “hands-on” experience.
The drop was barely one KM. I asked him why he booked a ride when he could have walked.
He replied softly, “I am late today. Usually my mother drops me. She couldn’t. I have a test in the next 10 mins.”
That sentence stayed with me. Convenience is often mistaken for laziness. In reality, it is sometimes the thin line between coping and failing.
When Language Becomes a Bridge
The second ride was with an IT professional from Bihar. He did not understand Telugu. I could not speak Hindi. So we met in English.
The conversation flowed effortlessly. Careers, cities, work pressures. I sensed his surprise, not at the conversation itself, but at who he was having it with.
Somewhere along the way, we unconsciously assume intelligence, articulation, and ambition disappear the moment someone wears a service uniform.
They do not.
An Engineer Without Direction
The third rider was an engineering graduate searching for a job. His voice carried hope and fatigue in equal measures.
We spoke about interviews, expectations, and rejection. When he got down, I realized something unsettling. Education may give us degrees, but it does not guarantee dignity, direction, or stability.
On the road, everyone is simply trying to reach somewhere.
Three Hundred Meters of Anxiety
An IT professional booked a ride for just 300 meters to the nearest metro station.
Three hundred meters.
I did not ask why. Maybe those 300 meters stood between being late and being reprimanded. Between holding on to a job and losing it. For many people, punctuality is not about discipline. It is about survival.
An Entrepreneur Healing Himself
One of the most interesting rides was with an ex-entrepreneur from Chandigarh, currently undergoing therapy. The first thing he asked me was my age. When I told him, he was visibly shocked.
We spoke about failed ventures. Mental health. Vipassana. Silence. Stillness.
When he asked what I did for a living, I told him the truth. When he realized I was doing this to put myself in the shoes of a Rapido captain, he paused.
Then he asked for my number.
“Let us stay in touch,” he said.
Sometimes strangers offer more understanding than acquaintances ever do.
A Parcel, a Mistake, and Humanity
Next came a parcel delivery. The customer had (mistakenly) booked a ride instead of a parcel service. FYI, a ride costs cheaper than parcel delivery.
I waited for ten minutes outside a gated community. When he arrived, embarrassed and apologetic, he offered to cancel.
I refused.
I asked him to ensure the receiver collected it promptly. He thanked me repeatedly. That gratitude felt heavier than the parcel itself.
Decency costs nothing, yet it is increasingly rare.
Entitlement at Twenty
A girl, about twenty years old, booked a ride and gave the wrong pickup location. She guided me endlessly, five directions, zero effort. She waited inside her house the entire time.
At the end of the ride, she scanned the QR code, nodded, and walked away.
Something felt wrong.
I stopped to check whether I had received the payment.
I had not.
I went back to her. She said she was still trying to pay and that there was nothing to worry about. I showed the scanner again. This went on for a few minutes. Finally, she called her mother and said, “Mom, I do not have money. I am sending a QR. Can you send fifty rupees?”
Her mother paid.
The girl showed no guilt. No embarrassment. It seemed business as usual to her.
Silent Judgment
A municipality worker booked a ride from a slum area. When she saw me, my clothes, my laptop bag, she cancelled silently.
I was willing to drop her. She was unwilling to trust me.
Bias does not belong to one class alone.
When Thirty Rupees Feels Heavy
After dropping a job-hunting rider on a tiring Saturday afternoon, I felt very thirsty. I stopped near a sugarcane vendor. A glass costed 30 rupees.
I could not bring myself to spend it. I never had any second thoughts when I had to spend on the finest food and drink. But this time, my conscience did not allow me to spend. Instead of cane juice, I settled for a ten-rupee water bottle.
That was the moment I realized I was no longer observing this life. I was living it. Counting. Calculating. Choosing.
After 22 rides, spread across two weeks of heat, sweat, dust, and aching limbs, riding under the sun and through traffic while exhaustion settled into my bones, I earned ₹892.81.
That money felt priceless, because it came with a truth I could no longer ignore:
The real warriors are not the ones who speak about hard work from comfort.
They are the ones standing on the road, waiting, riding, delivering, absorbing impatience and disrespect, day after day, without complaint. They may be fighting a battle you know nothing about. They are not unskilled. They are not invisible. They are showing up every single day, choosing dignity over despair, and refusing to give up.
The next time you book a ride, be prompt, be clear, be humane.
It’s not courtesy; it’s how you respect a fellow human being.
