Crossroad

India — humidity, heat. Decorated trucks piled high to the very limits. Speeding, honking tuk-tuks. Entire families squeezed onto a single tiny motorcycle. The scent of spices clings to everything, and the noise, the constant noise, is overwhelming. I’ve visited India multiple times on business, but as a European, it’s something you never quite get used to.

And yet, despite the incredible traffic, some intersections are not controlled by automated systems, but by a person. A human decides when the light is red or green, and who gets to go next.

In Hyderabad, in the middle of a chaotic, multi-lane intersection, a young man with cinnamon-colored skin sat in a small booth, surrounded by exhaust fumes and noise. With a serious expression, he managed the traffic flow by pressing buttons, his warm brown eyes intensely scanning the crowd.

Crossing the intersection, I struck up a conversation with him. A bit of small talk, and then I asked whether he liked his job; a little condescendingly, if I’m honest. After all, in Europe, this task would be done by a relay the size of a fist.With bright, proud eyes, he said: “It’s a big responsibility, but I love what I do.”And just like that, I felt a pang of shame. He was exactly where he was meant to be.

I wasn’t.