BRUNSWICK — I recently got my car inspected in Brunswick, where I live now. The man looked to be in his 40s, with blond stubble on his face and dark grease on his hands; he took my keys and offered me a seat, a cup of coffee and free Wi-Fi.

My car is old and I was hoping he would not find any major trouble with it. I sat nervously in one corner of the shop and flipped through a magazine about Maine that had a big red lobster on the cover.

Reading about seafood and getting my mid-sized SUV serviced on a cold April day in Maine made me think of the time when I got my 100cc Honda motorbike serviced in Lucknow, the town where I grew up in northern India.

The setting was dramatically different. Instead of a big car, I had a small bike. The weather was almost always hot, sun beating down. The mechanic’s shop was on pavement, open to the sky, across from a popular chai and bun shop on a narrow side street. I checked the temperature on my phone. Brunswick was 40 degrees Fahrenheit; Lucknow was 39 degrees Celsius.

My mind wandered off to my hometown again. I used to zip around town on my bike, usually with a friend on the back. I took that machine – built like a dirt bike – into the smallest of alleys, swerved around cows casually ruminating in the middle of the road and jumped over physical medians.

I always had one mechanic for my motorbike. I still go to him when I visit my hometown. He knows me and my bike. His name is Hariya. He’s a lanky fellow and around 40 years old. A no-nonsense man, he smiles at me and gets to work even before I tell him what I want done. He revs up the engine to see how it’s sounding. Most often, I just need him to change the oil and service the bike.

I hand him the keys and walk off to plod around the main strip of the city, have a cup of chai and a samosa and come back in an hour to find my bike neat and clean. The cost of servicing the bike is usually three hundred rupees, $5.

After about 45 minutes, the man in Brunswick called my name. I went up and he said, “It’s good to go.” I waited for him to say more. He gave me a set of papers to sign. I asked him if everything was OK with the car. He told me there was a slight problem, but I didn’t have to worry about it just yet. I liked the sound of that.

Growing up in India, I lived for 30 years in one city – Lucknow. I never moved until the day I left India for the United States. I have been living in America for 13 years now and I have spent time living in half a dozen states so far – Virginia, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Michigan and now Maine. I have enjoyed moving around, although it comes with the hassle of finding and navigating a new place to live, new neighbors, a new set of doctors, new grocery stores, new everything.

One of the things I don’t enjoy about moving is finding a new mechanic for my vehicle. I never found anyone like Hariya in America. To me, my vehicle’s mechanic is like my doctor: It’s the trust that matters. Whether it’s my blood pressure or my car’s tire pressure, I want to feel comfortable in both situations.

Now in Maine, I seemed to have found that trust once again. My mechanic in Brunswick didn’t look anything like my Hariya in India, but I felt just as comfortable with him. I thanked him and drove off thinking that no matter what city, state or country you move to, trustworthy human beings come in all shades.

 

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