RICKSHAWALLAH

In Lucknow, it was a hell-hot day of the last week of May 1969. The Sun blazed as if it was highly incensed at the happenings in this world and intended to reduce it to ashes. It was so hot that not a soul dared to move out if it had a shelter. In this land of penance and virtue, the birds and the beasts, whether in forest or a zoo, do find some sort of shelter but not the progeny of Gods who now inhabit this wonderful land.

Around mid-day a rickshawallah was leisurely pedaling his rickshaw towards Hazratganj on the University Road. He was drenched with sweat, his dirty and tattered kurta clung to his skinny body. His skeleton was covered with wrinkled black skin like a loose underwear, was clearly visible through several holes in his kurta. Most likely he was no more than forty years old, but had prematurely aged, for he looked an emaciated man of sixty.

Two corpulent men with bushy moustache, probably a quintal each, clad in spotless milk-white khadi stood under the portico of a bungalow. One of them shouted, ‘rickshawallah will you take us to Hazratganj? The rickshawallah stopped, wiping his profusely sweating forehead, and said,

Yes sir, will take you,

How much will you take?

One-rupee sir,

You, son of a swine, bloody looter, Hazratganj is not even a mile from here. We won’t pay you more than fifty paise.

Sir, the Sun-God is particularly furious today, it is a wonder that blisters are not appearing on my skin. Then there is an elevation of Hanuman Bridge. Sir, had I not a family of six to feed; instead of taking passengers like you for mere fifty paise, I would have preferred a nap under a tree. By paying few paise more, you would not feel any pinch, but it would enable me to provide two more rotis for my ever-hungry children.

You talk too much, no emotional blackmail, no, no we will not pay you a paisa more than fifty.

One of them growled that their driver did not show up, he yelled, don’t know where the bloody fellow is today. The other grumbled, Lucknow city bus transport service is so horrendous and so unreliable. For the past half an hour not a single bus was seen on this route. Transport department people are always demanding more money and better working conditions, despite causing so much public inconvenience, they don’t deserve anything. Yelling continues; damn these people, no national feelings at all. Here we are, we have dedicated our lives for the welfare of the downtrodden. Aren’t the so-called victims of social injustice not the worst of exploiters themselves. Feeling restless, the other man whispered, we are getting late for Seth Gudermal’s lunch invite at Chowdhary Sweet House. Later in the afternoon we have an important meeting also in the Council House.

We are getting late, seth Gudermal must be waiting for us at the restaurant. It is close to 1.00 p.m. now; at this time, we should have been with seth ji. Feeling frustrated, menacingly one of them yelled once again,

Tell me now will you take us to Hazratganj or not?

Sir, one rupee is the rate, give me eighty paise at least, I will carry you for the sake of my sinner belly.

Let us give him seventy paise and go to Hazratganj, one of them said. But the rickshawallah insisted for eighty paise. Feeling hungry for free delicious lunch, hurriedly the other person agreed to give eighty paise and they jumped on the rickety rickshaw.

The rickshaw was not built for the obese, they were not comfortable on the seat primarily made for the average Indian who are normally underweight and skinny folks. As soon as they sat on the rickshaw, the wheel rims almost touched the ground, even though the tubes were airtight.

Rickshawallah began to pedal and pull the excessively heavy load, certainly unusual for him. Pedal fast, we are already late, we don’t want seth ji to wait for long, said one of them. The rickshaw like its puller was in wretched condition, whose chain made constant rattling noise annoying the honorable passengers. The rickshaw hood was small for them, didn’t provide much of protection from the scorching sun to the gentlemen passengers.

The rickshaw moved slowly but steadily on the uneven road, at places tar had melted offering unexpected resistance to the rickshaw. Rickshawallah had managed to pedal on the level surface but now he had to pull them over the Hanuman Bridge a newly constructed bridge over Gomati River. Pulling rickshaw over the bridge literally became an ‘uphill task’. The rickshaw considerably slowed down, rickshawallh pedaled with all the strength All Mighty had given him. It was no less of a Herculean effort to pull the rickshaw uphill.

Frustrated passengers were getting impatient, constantly abusing, and cursing the rickshawallah. With this speed it will take years to reach Hazratganj, said one of them. We have agreed to pay whatever you asked for, still you are not pedaling fast, said the other one. Suddenly the chain got off the gear and rickshaw began to move backwards. Passengers began to shout at the rickshawallah; why your rickshaw is moving back. Rickshawallah jumped out of his seat and managed to stop the rickshaw. He carefully put the chain over the gear and began to pedal again. He realized it will be faster to pull the rickshaw by hand instead of pedaling. He got down and began to pull bare feet over the hot road.

A combination of fierce heat, frustration over being late, uncomfortable ride and growing hunger, they began to abuse and threatened the rickshawallah that they will not pay a penny to him if he doesn’t pedal his rickshaw fast. Rickshawallah pleaded his inability to pedal uphill, but the gentlemen were in no mood to show any mercy either to him or his rickshaw. Instead, they were either tracing the animal ancestry of rickshawallah or were themselves establishing relationship with his mother and sister. However, they didn’t fail to salute the statue of Hanuman Ji, the Hindu God after whom the bridge is named when they saw the temple.

Rickshawallah tried to pedal hard, but speed would not increase. His joints and muscles could bear no further strain, yet he continued to exert his weight on the pedals, once to the left and once to the right. He was constantly receiving abuses hurled at him unruffled as mother earth receives the hailstones from the sky. He was badly panting and gasping for breath and every moment it appeared, as if, he would drop down.

It was no more than few yards uphill from the Hanuman Ji temple when the rickshawallah dropped unconscious and the rickshaw began to roll back uncontrollably downhill. In front of the temple, it forcefully collided with a racing oncoming truck. All three died in the accident in front of the temple.

I wonder for how long Seth Gudermal waited for the gentlemen.