Ramesh Pal, the driver of UPSRTC bus UP-32-AN-7823—which plies the Kanpur Road route—has been doing the exact same thing for the past 19 years: shifting into gear in the morning, and hitting the brakes in the evening.
People simply addressed him as "Driver-sahib." There was no grand backstory, no miraculous tales. At home, there were his wife's thyroid medications to worry about; his son was searching for a job after completing his ITI course; and Ramesh himself suffered from a persistent shoulder pain that flared up the moment he gripped the steering wheel.
Ramesh never aspired to be extraordinary. All he wanted was to somehow manage the final EMI payment for the old scooter he had purchased on installments.
**The Rosary from Mankameshwar Ghat**
It happened during the last Mahashivratri festival. Due to the massive crowds, his bus got stuck along the banks of the Gomti River. When he stepped out to grab a cup of tea, he noticed a Naga Sadhu—a wandering ascetic—sitting wrapped in a blanket just outside the Mankameshwar Temple. The Sadhu’s hands were trembling in the biting cold.
Ramesh took off his own jacket and handed it to him. The Sadhu reached into his cloth bag and pulled out a black *Rudraksha* rosary—a five-faced (*Panchmukhi*) bead string with a well-worn thread.
"108 times. Count them precisely. 'Om Namah Shivaya.' No rushing, no lingering."
Ramesh laughed. "Baba, I don't have the time. In a bus, the only thing that rings is the horn!"
The Sadhu pressed the rosary firmly into Ramesh’s palm. "Shiv doesn't demand your time. Whenever you sound the horn, let the bell ring within your own heart."
Ramesh took the rosary back to the bus and hung it near the speedometer.
**Three Times 108**
The very next morning, at the depot—before even starting the bus engine—he counted them for the first time. *Om Namah Shivaya...* one bead, then the next. By the time he reached the count of 108, his breathing had settled into a slow, steady rhythm.
He established a strict routine for himself—following the Sadhu's instructions precisely: no more, no less.
108 counts in the morning before starting his shift; another 108 during the 20-minute midday halt at Charbagh; and a final 108 at night, after returning home, washing up, and just before going to sleep.
For the first fifteen days, absolutely nothing changed. The conductor asked, "Have you turned into a devotee of Lord Bhole?" Ramesh offered no reply.
But gradually, his grip on the steering wheel began to lighten. Previously, whenever a motorcyclist cut in front of him, an expletive would fly out. Now, a mantra would spontaneously rise to his lips—*Om Namah Shivaya... 34, 35...* And his foot would reach for the brake first, and the horn only afterward.
The doctor halved the dosage of the blood pressure medication he had been taking for two years, just a month later. "Are you taking less stress these days?" he asked.
Ramesh would reply, "No, Doctor, I just count."
**Small Acts of Shiva's Grace**
His luck didn't turn overnight. It unfolded gradually—much like Shiva himself.
One day, on a bus packed with schoolgirls, a student left her bag behind. Ramesh stopped the bus at the next halt, got off, and walked two kilometers back to retrieve the bag. The very next day, the girl's mother visited the depot to offer sweets as a token of gratitude.
The following week, his application to renew his old driving license hit a snag. At the RTO office, he encountered the very same officer whose mother he had given a free ride on his bus during a rainstorm the previous year. His paperwork was processed without the need for a middleman or tout.
In the third month, his son, Anshu, had a job interview, but his shoes were worn out and torn. Ramesh didn't have the money to buy a new pair. That very evening, a passenger left her purse behind on the bus. Ramesh honestly turned it in to the authorities.