One of those people is Shri Sunil Khobragade, whom I lovingly call Kaka. We are not related by blood. Yet he welcomed me into his life so naturally that, over time, I became part of his family. He worked as a conductor with Maharashtra State Transport. His work involved long journeys, collecting fares and issuing tickets to passengers. Amid those everyday duties, he noticed a young boy who needed help and chose to do something for him.
I first met him while travelling by an S.T. bus from Bhamragad towards my village, Kukkameta. There was no bus that went directly to our village. I had to get down at Mallampodur crossing and walk about three kilometres along a narrow path through the dense forest. This was a familiar journey for me. Travelling home meant a bus ride followed by a walk, carrying whatever belongings I had.
A police personnel who knew me was also on that bus. During the journey, he spoke to the conductor about me. He told him that I belonged to his community and came from a very poor family. He also said that, with some help, I could go far in life. I did not know what Shri Sunil Khobragade thought when he heard those words. He said little. When we reached Mallampodur crossing, I got down and continued towards home. At that time, I had no idea that the conversation would stay with him.
After the summer holidays, I returned to Gadchiroli for school. If I remember correctly, it was around 1998, and I was in the ninth standard. The journey from our area to the district headquarters took roughly six or seven hours. By chance, I travelled on the bus on which he was serving as conductor.
He gave me a ticket but did not take the fare from me. It was about one hundred rupees—a considerable amount for me then. I believe he paid it himself. I was happy that I could save that money for my educational expenses. I accepted his kindness without knowing that there was more to come.
When we reached Gadchiroli and I got down, he asked me to wait. I had a small tin box containing my books and two sets of school clothes. That box held what I needed for my life away from home. After completing his duty and handing over the fares he had collected, he asked me to come with him.
I picked up my box and followed. I did not know where we were going. He had not given me a long explanation, and I did not ask many questions. We walked until we reached his home.
His wife, whom I now call Kaku, welcomed us. She asked me to freshen up and gave me a meal. After the long journey, I ate to my heart’s content. Her welcome was simple and warm. I had arrived as a schoolboy whom her husband had brought home, but I was made comfortable without any fuss.
While speaking to him, I repeatedly addressed him as “Sir.” He was an adult who had helped me, and that seemed the proper way to show respect. After a while, he lovingly told me that he would not speak to me if I kept calling him Sir.
“Call me Kaka,” he said.
I began calling him Kaka, and that is who he has remained ever since.
It was a small change in how I addressed him, but it made a difference to how I felt. I could speak to him with less hesitation. He was offering me a place in his life, and I was beginning to understand that I could turn to him when I needed help.
Kaka asked about my studies and the difficulties I was facing. I told him that I had enrolled in a semi-English medium school. Until then, I had studied in Marathi medium at a small school in Bhamragad. Now, Science and Mathematics were taught in English, alongside English as a compulsory subject.
The change was difficult for me. I wanted to study well, but I was trying to learn subjects through a language in which I was not yet comfortable. Understanding the lesson and understanding the language became two tasks that I had to manage together. I knew I needed help, but paying for extra classes was difficult.
Kaka listened and asked how I could cope better. I told him that tuition outside school might help me understand the subjects. He did not immediately make a promise. Instead, he asked me to keep visiting his home, particularly on Sundays, when he would have a day off.
The next Sunday, I went to see him. After lunch, he told me that I could join tuition classes of my choice. He would pay the fees.
For a student with limited means, those words brought great relief. I could now seek the help I needed. I joined tuition, and his support made a considerable difference to my studies.
As a boy, I understood this mainly as help with fees. Today, I also understand the effort behind it. Kaka had his own household and family responsibilities. The money he offered came from his earnings. He had listened to a difficulty, considered what he could do and made room for my education within his own responsibilities.
He also continued to take an interest in my progress. As he came to know me better, he felt that I had the ability to pursue further studies. He introduced me to other people from our community and encouraged them to help. Some offered assistance, and some promises did not lead to much. But what I remember most is that Kaka was willing to speak for me. He wanted others to see possibilities in a boy whose circumstances might otherwise have gone unnoticed.
At that age, I did not fully appreciate how valuable such support could be. I was concerned with classes, books, examinations and the next expense. Looking back, I see that he helped make those worries manageable. He gave me practical assistance, but he also gave me the confidence to ask for help without feeling ashamed.
His home became a place I could visit with ease. Kaku’s care and Kaka’s interest in my studies made me feel that I belonged there. What began during a bus journey grew into a family relationship. I was no longer merely a passenger whose fare he had paid. I was a boy whose future mattered to him.
Over the years, my education took me far from those early journeys. I studied in Pune and later at Jawaharlal Nehru University in New Delhi. I went on to work in the national capital and eventually became a teacher at the University of Delhi. At each stage, my own effort mattered. So did the help that had made it possible for me to reach the next stage.
When I think of those beginnings, I remember the small tin box, the long bus journey and the hundred rupees he helped me save. I remember following him to a house where I was given a full meal. Above all, I remember his words asking me to call him Kaka.
His kindness has shaped my understanding of social responsibility. Education, position and influence can give a person greater means to help others. But the willingness to help does not automatically come with them. Kaka was a working man who recognised a need and responded within his means. He did not wait until he had more money or a higher position.
Our shared community background helped bring us together. The police personnel’s words drew his attention to me. What followed, however, required a personal choice. Kaka could have listened and forgotten. Instead, he remembered, welcomed me home and supported my studies. Through those actions, he turned an acquaintance into a lasting bond.
I feel fortunate that I met him when I did. A young person may have hopes and ability, yet still need someone to help with the next practical step. For me, one of those steps was learning to cope with a change in the language of instruction. Kaka understood that difficulty and helped me through it.
I have been part of his family since those school days, and my gratitude has only deepened with time. The young boy who entered his home could not have imagined all the places life would take him. But he had found someone he could rely upon.
Whenever I look back at my journey, I return to that day in Gadchiroli. Kaka finished his duty, asked me to pick up my tin box and took me home. I thought I was going with a kind conductor who had helped me during a bus journey. By the time I left his house, I had a Kaka.
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