When Empathy Met Dignity: The Weight of Luggage, The Worth of Labour

 

It has been years since those endless weeks of Covid lockdown, yet the memory has not dimmed. The silence of cities, the fear in the air, the arguments over timing, restrictions, and economic cost—all of it has blurred with time. But one image refuses to fade: the haunting spectacle of millions of migrant workers walking barefoot on highways, carrying bundles, children, and shattered hopes. Numbers and projections can be debated; this human tragedy could not. It was a wound to the nation’s conscience. Governments—both central and state—had the machinery, the information, the mandate. Yet, when it mattered, confusion reigned: should workers stay, should they leave, would they be cared for, or abandoned? In the end, the dignity and livelihood of millions were trampled, and even today one wonders whether the enormity of that damage has been fully understood.

I had written about it then:
https://anindecisiveindian.blogspot.com/2020/05/this-very-emotive-work-my-favourite.html

 

I recall it now not merely to relive that anguish, but to set the backdrop for this story—one that shows how the absence of empathy can wound society, and how, conversely, a little empathy in governance can become transformative. When administrators choose to act with humanity, the outcome can not only be just better policies but stronger people, stronger institutions, and a stronger nation.

This story is about the porters at stations of Indian Railways (IR)—the men the British taught us to arrogantly call “coolies.” A much-maligned lot, whom the Indian middle class often dismisses as ill-behaved and intrusive. We haggle with them for a handful of coins, blind to the sight of the human beast of burden walking beside us. We gloat when we beat them down by ten rupees, yet never pause at the spectacle of three tiers of luggage swaying dangerously on a bent human neck. Their sweat and strain are usually invisible to us; our bargain is paramount, more gratifying.

For years, the sight rankled me—not out of empathy, I admit, but because it looked ugly and lent our stations a shabby air. In 2005, while serving as Additional Divisional Railway Manager (ADRM) at Secunderabad, we decided to try something new. With the support of the DRM, who was eager to upgrade the division’s flagship station and enhance its ‘touch and feel’ points, we arranged ten airport-style baggage carts. These were placed on platform no. 10, free for passengers to use, just as at airports. The experiment, however, barely took off. Within days, the porters—fearing for their livelihood—quietly damaged the carts. The scheme collapsed, and I couldn’t help but feel we had let down the divisional head by bungling the effort. The idea was shelved, but not buried. I carried with me a quiet resolve: if ever a more conducive opportunity arose, I would return to it with a proper strategy.

Five years later, that chance came at Bangalore Division, which I headed as the DRM, with its four major passenger stations: City, Cantt, Yeshwantpur, and Krishnarajpuram. This time, the lesson was clear: piecemeal measures would not work. We needed to do three things—provide carts in large numbers, improve infrastructure for their use (smooth passages, functional lifts), and most importantly, bring the porters on board. It was never about appeasing the middle class or their stingy bargaining—it was about upholding the dignity of labour.

Arranging 300 carts across four stations required around ₹50 lakhs—money the railways had no provision for. I turned to the corporate sector, using goodwill to source carts under CSR, though at that time railways had no framework to accept CSR support. Since this was for the upliftment of porters, not well-paid employees, we could convince many large companies. Banks too pitched in. Infrastructure was the easier part; the real challenge was convincing the porters themselves. Poor, illiterate, scorned for decades, they were deeply suspicious. Why would the DRM, who symbolized the same system that ignored them, suddenly care? With more passengers now using strollies, their earnings had already dwindled. These new carts, to them, looked like the last nail in their coffin.

The breakthrough came through outreach. We met them at stations, listened to them, spoke to them as equals. At first, they refused to believe us. But slowly, trust began to form. I remember two meetings in my chamber with over fifty porters crammed inside. For them, it was unprecedented—to be treated with dignity, offered tea, spoken to as stakeholders rather than nuisances. Their two elderly leaders—men long past retirement age but still labouring because poverty offered no retirement—looked at us with deep scepticism. Their wrinkles were not from laughter or mirth but from decades of toil and contempt; No, Mr. Gratiano from the Bard’s The Merchant of Venice, spare me the wisdom that, “with mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come”.

We made it clear: fares would not change. They would still charge passengers the same, only now the burden would be borne by wheels, not their spines. More importantly, the carts would belong to them, entirely under their control. That assurance began to soften their resistance.

The porters eventually agreed, though not without misgivings. We launched the pilot at Bangalore City. I told my Station Superintendents personally that once the project was fully launched, any head-loading would be deemed their failure and they would face the music. The first batch of carts was handed directly to porters by the sponsoring organizations. At the launch, a journalist asked me, “If passengers still pay the same fare, what is the benefit to them?” My answer was simple: “The benefit is to the country. A country that does not show empathy to those who give their blood, sweat, and tears—a country that does not honour the dignity of its labour force—cannot march proudly to be a truly developed country. By giving these porters dignity, we were affording greater dignity to ourselves.”

The initiative worked. The stations in Bangalore division became the first on IR to eliminate head-loading. The porters, once suspicious, now extended genuine respect—not the grudging reverence born of hierarchy, but something heartfelt. For a while, it was a true win-win: cleaner, modern stations and labour treated with dignity.

But history is fickle. Within months of my transfer, the system began to slide back. Carts lay abandoned, and porters returned to head-loading. Perhaps the idea was ahead of its time, perhaps I failed to build safeguards for continuity, or perhaps railways—forever obsessed with merely running trains, not always too well—never cared enough for anything beyond. And so, the same old sight returned: men bent double under baggage, dignity defeated.

And yet, the story does not leave me. In 2019, years after retirement, I travelled by train—very rare for me, since I usually flew to manage time better—from Bangalore Cantt to Chennai. As I stepped onto the platform, pulling my strolley, a porter picked it up and walked beside me. I acquiesced reluctantly, thinking it a wasted ₹200. He stayed until the train arrived and carefully placed the luggage in my coach. I tried to pay him. He looked at me and said, in broken Hindi, “Don’t I know you, sir? No porter in Bangalore will ever take money from you.” Before I could gather words, he slipped quietly to the platform and the train pulled away.

Can there be a greater honour? For something I had always considered simply my duty, I was given the one award that outshines all medals and commendations—the respect of those whose dignity we tried, if only briefly, to restore. And perhaps that is the true measure of service: not in plaques or promotions, but in the silent blessings of the people whose burdens we help to ease.

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