Every journey of the house has two people in the front. The driver’s only work is the road. The sarathi’s only work is you — from the evening before, through the terminal and the door, to the moment your own door closes behind you.
I
Two seats in the front
A driver, whose only work is the road. And a sarathi, whose only work is you. The world puts both jobs on one man and calls it a chauffeur; the house gives each its own seat.
II
Answerable by name
You know his name and face the evening before. He is the one person responsible for how you feel when you step out — not an app, not a helpline, not a rating.
III
Never a word about money
He does not take a payment, mention a toll, carry a card machine or hope for a tip. Nothing is asked of you in the car, by anyone, ever.
What he does, from the evening before to your door
The evening beforeHis name and photograph reach you, with the driver’s name and the car’s number. If you have told the house how you like the cabin, he has read it.
Before you come downThe car is cooled, the water is in the door, your music is ready or the cabin is quiet. He has checked the child seat himself, if there is one.
At the airportHe is inside, at the arrivals exit, with your name on the board. He takes the trolley and walks you to the nearest point a car may stop; you never hunt for a parking level. If your phone has no signal on landing, he finds you.
At the doorHe opens it, holds the umbrella entirely over you if the sky needs one, and confirms the way with you before the car moves.
On the wayThe temperature, the music and the conversation as you like them — including silence. A stop when you would like one. If anything happens to the car or the road, he is in touch with the house throughout and the house puts it right; you call no one.
At the other endThe bags, the door, and he waits until it has closed behind you. After dark, until your door, not the gate. Then a word to whoever you asked to be told that you are home.
For whom it matters most
A parent travelling alone, who should be met and seen to the door. A child, whose seat should be checked by a person. A woman at night, who should never have to wonder who is in the car. A guest from abroad, landing with no signal and four cases. A wedding morning, when nobody in the family should be carrying anything. Anyone, really, on the day the journey must not go wrong — see parents arriving, safety and the airport.
The word
Sarathi (सारथी) is the old word for the one entrusted with the journey itself — Krishna was Arjuna’s sarathi. The house uses it because “driver” describes a task and sarathi describes a trust. Every sarathi of the house is police-verified, trained in the house’s six rituals, paid properly and on time, and never asked to beg for a rating — which is why he never asks you for one. The people who do this work are on the sarathi’s own page.
What he is not
Not a guard: if you would like protection, the house introduces a licensed agency you engage directly. Not a guide: he knows the city, and says honestly what he does not know. Not the driver: he does not take the wheel, so that the one who does has nothing else to think about.
He hosts the journey: meets you inside the terminal by name, carries the cases, fits and checks the child seat, opens the door, keeps the cabin as you like it, stays in touch with the house throughout, and sees you to your door. The driver’s only work is the road.
Do I have to tip the sarathi or the driver?
No. Nothing is asked of you in the car, by anyone, ever — not a payment, not a toll, not a tip, not a rating. Everything is inside the written figure.
Can the sarathi sit in the back with us?
The front seat beside the driver is his; in a larger car he can take the third row so that your family has the cabin. Say what you prefer and the house arranges the seats before the car leaves.