Just over two weeks ago, we landed in Lisbon, right into the catastrophic electricity shutdown across Spain and Portugal. We had no idea as we landed, of course. Once diembarked, we got on a bus that wound its way towards the terminal building ... and then we were stuck for half an hour. Nobody had any idea what was happening. A few police cars raced past, busy-looking airport staff walked briskly past, but nobody said anything to our driver, let alone the dozens of us passengers.

When we finally entered the terminal, the building was almost ghostly - a few generator-fed lights, all the shops closed, dark corners in every direction. Someone mentioned a shutdown, but it sounded then more like a rumour than anything else. Utter chaos at baggage claim: totally dark carousels, hundreds of people milling around with more arriving all the time as flights kept landing, no baggage being delivered, no information anywhere, no phone service. A cafe started offering people whatever they had and a line quickly formed. A long line.

Eventually a posse of policemen and women moved in and cleared all of us out. No bags would be delivered today, one cop told me, and our only option was to make our way home and reach the airline later. Those in the cafe line grumbled bitterly, but there was nothing to be done, because the police asked the staff to shut that down as well.

Ourside, more chaos: thousands of people trying to get cabs and buses.

So we started to walk, not even sure where we were going. Stalled traffic miles long, it looked like, trying to come to the airport. We walked the other way, perhaps half an hour.

A young man in a car pulled into a parking lot ahead of us. We walked up to him. Turned out to be a Uber driver, lucky to be able to make a U-turn out of the stalled jam across the road, now taking a break from the mess. We asked if he would take us to where we had to go. He demurred briefly, but then agreed. Took us all the way there, about a half hour ride. When we reached, we offered him money. He refused, saying "If you are happy, that makes me happy." (That is actually what he said.)

We finally persuaded him to take 20 Euros. He took the note, but said to us through his window "I'm so sorry. I should not take your money, you are happy and I am happy."

Why am I relating this little story? Because this taxi driver was Mohammed, immigrant from Bangladesh, just two months in Portugal.

And in this time of invective and hatred across borders, this Indian would like to make my judgements about Bangladesh and its residents not from people who urge us to hate, but from people like this Mohammed.

(Postscript: I once had a similar experience in Lahore. That story, another time.)