We Come Alone, We Go Alone — Life Lessons from Driver Murugan’s Bus Ride with Dr. Chari

🚌 “We Come Alone, We Go Alone” — A Ponmanipudi Bus Ride with Driver Murugan

The morning sun was soft over Ponmanipudi, but inside the yard of the old State Transport Depot, Driver Murugan’s bus gleamed like a peacock in full display.

It was his pride — the faded-green-and-yellow Rajanthooram Express, with tassels dangling over the windshield and “Murugan Om Muruga” painted in bold red Tamil letters.

Today, Dr. S.P.V. Chari had decided to take this bus instead of his car to Rajanthooram, where he was delivering a talk at a medical conference.

He liked the idea of “slow travel” once in a while, and more than that — he liked Driver Murugan.

The moment Chari stepped in, Murugan bellowed, “Ayya! You’ve come to bless my bus! Sit in the throne seat — the one with the least dust.”

The bus groaned into motion.

The radio crackled to life with an Ilaiyaraaja melody, and Murugan, adjusting his rear-view mirror, gave Chari a look that was half philosophical, half mischievous.

“Ayya,” he began, “you know… we come alone, we go alone… so why worry in between?”

Chari smiled. “That’s true. But I’m guessing you have a story behind that sermon?”

Murugan grinned. “Story-aa? Ayya, it’s a bus-load of stories. But I’ll tell you my biggest flop.”

The Great Murugan Transport Dream

Years ago, Murugan had saved for almost a decade to buy his own bus. He had imagined painting it bright blue, naming it Ponmanipudi Prince, and running a tourist service.

“When I told my wife Kanni,”

Murugan said, “you know what she said? ‘Muruga, buy a goat instead. At least it will give milk.’”

The bus passengers chuckled.

“I didn’t listen. Took a loan from my uncle’s friend’s nephew’s father-in-law. Bought the bus.

First trip — full load to Madurai. I thought I’d be rich in one year.”

Then, disaster. The engine overheated on the very first journey.

Passengers demanded refunds, and the tourist company canceled the contract.

Murugan spent the next three years working double shifts just to pay off the debt.

“And Kanni?” Dr. Chari asked.

Murugan laughed. “Ayya, every night at dinner, she’d ask, ‘So, how is our goat-less bus farm doing?’”

The Moral — Murugan Style

“But, Ayya,” Murugan’s tone turned softer, “that time taught me something.

Nobody came to help. Not family, not friends.

In the end, I had to face the debt alone.

That’s when I realised… we are born alone, we die alone.

So, why fill the middle with too much worry? Just do your job, eat your food, and enjoy one Ilaiyaraaja song every day.”

The bus hit a bump.

A boy in the back yelped. Murugan winked at Chari through the mirror.

“Now, see… my bus here may not be new. But every seat has a story, every passenger is my family for one ride. If I get love and laughter in this journey, that’s my profit.”

Dr. Chari sat quietly for a moment, feeling the wisdom in those dusty, humour-laced words.

By the time they reached Rajanthooram, the passengers — including Chari — had laughed at Murugan’s jokes, shaken their heads at his “business genius,” and silently admired his acceptance of life’s unpredictability.

And as Chari stepped off, Murugan called out, “Ayya! When you give your conference talk, just tell them — even doctors can take a bus ride once in a while. Cheaper than therapy!”

🌿 Reflection

Some wisdom doesn’t come from books or lectures. It comes from a bus driver who lost his dream, paid his debts, and still greets each day with music, humour, and kindness.

In Ponmanipudi, even a ride to town can become a lesson in living.