The Man who collected more than Garbage

Sibi Shaji , Biju Dharmapalan

 In a world that celebrates loud victories and glittering accomplishments, where headlines are reserved for billionaires, celebrities, and politicians, there still exist stories—quiet, uncelebrated ones—that illuminate the very essence of what it means to be human. This is one such story. A story that began not with fame or fortune, but with a simple question:
“What great lessons has life taught us?”

While most of us look for answers in thick books, self-help talks, or spiritual retreats, some of the deepest truths often lie in everyday lives, hidden in plain sight—in people we pass by without a second glance. And one such truth walked the muddy paths of a small village in the form of a man named Shivanna.

Shivanna was the village’s municipal garbage collector. He wasn’t the kind of person you’d stop to admire. Every morning, like clockwork, he would move from house to house, hauling trash with a quiet, rhythmic dedication. He wore the same faded uniform and cap, pushing his cart along the lanes, often before the sun had fully risen. People knew the sound of his handcart’s wheels before they recognised his face.

To most, he was invisible—just another sanitation worker doing his job. A necessary presence, but not someone whose name you’d bother to learn.

But for a handful of children in that village, Shivanna was everything.

Each evening, as the heat of the day gave way to the gentle hum of dusk, Shivanna’s world transformed. By the village park—just a modest patch of green—he would gather a small, lively crowd of children. These weren’t kids with school uniforms or lunch boxes. They were the children of construction workers and daily wage labourers—families who moved often, lived in makeshift shelters, and for whom formal education was a distant dream.

With dust-covered feet and eyes full of curiosity, they ran to Shivanna not for sweets or money, but for something far rarer: love and attention.

Shivannawould squat under a tree, his garbage cart now set aside, and pull out tattered books, notebooks, and crayons from a bag. With a wide smile and the patience of a saint, he began his lessons—teaching alphabets, counting fingers, drawing houses and animals, and singing rhymes that echoed through the park like laughter on a good day.Sometimes he carried a small cake, carefully wrapped in a newspaper, to celebrate one of the children’s birthdays. He never forgot a single one.

It was never about what he gave them materially, though he often bought stationery and snacks with his meagre wages. It was about how he made them feel. In a world that constantly overlooked them, Shivanna made these children feel seen.

Shivanna lived alone in a small, thatched hut at the edge of the village. The structure leaned slightly to one side, with a roof patched together with tarpaulin sheets. He had no electricity, no television, no luxuries. No wife or children either. His own life was quiet, solitary, and by most definitions, poor.

Yet his evenings were filled with the chatter of young voices, the rustle of pages, and the warmth of smiles. He never once complained about what he lacked. Instead, he shared what little he had, like a man who believed he had more than enough.

What Shivanna gave those children couldn’t be measured in rupees or possessions. He gave them the confidence to speak, to dream, to feel that they mattered.

And then, one day,Shivannadidn’t show up.

At first, the children waited. Maybe he was just late. Maybe the cart had broken down. Maybe he was just tired. But as the sun dipped below the horizon and the sky turned dark, their hopeful eyes turned to worry.

The next day, the village learned he had been admitted to the hospital. Illness had crept in quietly, just like he had once crept into their hearts. A few days later, news spread like a whisper through the lanes: Shivanna had passed away.

There was no grand obituary, no garlanded photo on a news channel, no public tribute.

But something extraordinary happened.

On the day of his funeral, as the coffin was carried down the narrow village road, a group of children followed it—barefoot, heads bowed, eyes wet. They didn’t fully understand death, but they understood love. And they knew the man who had loved them most was gone.

Some held the notebooks he had given them. One child carried a half-finished drawing. Another clutched a small birthday cap from a past celebration. They didn’t have flowers, but they had memories. And grief.

The village, watching silently, finally saw Shivanna—not as a garbage collector, but as a teacher, a caregiver, a beacon of compassion. In his death, he taught them a final, unforgettable lesson.

We often equate worth with status. A job title, a bank balance, a professional designation. But Shivanna, with no formal education, no accolades, and no possessions, left a legacy that many can only dream of.

He didn’t lead protests or movements. He didn’t write books or give TED talks. But he transformed lives through his presence. In the quietest of ways, he taught us what dignity, compassion, and purpose look like when no one is watching.

Why This Story Matters

Today, we’re all glued to our devices, lost in curated timelines and the pursuit of digital validation. We forget to look up and notice the people who make the world run—the cleaners, the drivers, the street vendors, the helpers. Shivanna’s story reminds us that real heroes don’t wear capes or hold microphones. They carry garbage bins. They wipe tears. They teach the alphabet under trees.His life was not extraordinary by any societal standard. But in its simplicity, it held a depth many fail to achieve.

In the children he taught, Shivanna planted seeds—of knowledge, of confidence, of kindness. Seeds that will grow into something greater, long after he is gone.

Let’s Be More Human

Let this story not just be read and forgotten. Let it stir something within us.

Let’s be the person who notices. Who smiles at the cleaner. Who talks to the security guard. Who spends a few extra minutes with someone who needs it. Let us measure people not by their paychecks but by their humanity.

The next time we see someone collecting garbage, maybe we’ll look a little closer. Maybe we’ll remember Shivanna—the man who had nothing, yet gave everything.

Because sometimes, the greatest lessons of life don’t come from those who stand on stages. They come from those who kneel down in the dirt, to tie a child’s shoelace, or to teach a forgotten child how to write their name.

(Dr. Sibi Shaji is the Controller of Examinations ,Garden City University and Dr.Biju Dharmapalan is  the Dean -Academic Affairs, Garden City University, Bangalore  and   an adjunct faculty at the National Institute of Advanced Studies,  Bangalore

The post The Man who collected more than Garbage appeared first on Daily Excelsior.

News