I parted with her at the market. Rain worsens the situation of dusty roads. Humans. Over time, they have evolved into pro-hypocrites. They will stomp and complain about a dirt-spot in a hi-fi mall but they will ignore the filthy muddy roads filled with vehicle smoke and tobacco-spits along the side walk. This is what makes us humans of earth. isn’t?
Well, I told her that I’ll take the metro but I walked right past the station gate towards rikshaw pullers. Let me tell you something about them. These thin, dark skinned beings can be spotted at any transport junction (especially where middle class people in clean clothes move in and out of different vehicles). These hard working men (always men) go about paddling all day, transporting one or more men and women with weights always more than their own in large tri-cycle carts a.k.a Rikshaws. Every trip earns them some money in tens. This money collected all over the day either goes to raise a family to who has one or goes in cheap desi(local) alcohol to fill the sober-gap-of family in others. These Rikshaw-pullers go around roads looking for passengers (who agree with their transport fee) or find passengers looking for them on a busy bus stop or metro exit. I’ve used their services too, quite a number of times. Every time, I find it hard to not think about this human who is pulling me on tri-cycle cart. Sometimes, I try to have a conversation. Nothing significant ever came up but I’ll warn you about one thing. Never ask a Rikshaw-puller that since when he had been doing this. It offends them. They feel as if you are questioning their credibility in their own home. Yes, these roads are their home. Roam about the same roads late into the night and you’ll find them sleeping in their Rikshaws. Their life’s earning parked under that over-bridge, on the sidewalk or any tree, if they can find one. Rikshaw pullers, sleeping in a very uncomfortable position. If you really observe them. Thoughts are inevitable.
I walked towards a lean, dark and bald man. He was holding the handle of his tri-cycle with one hand. The other hand waving and calling me from distance.
“Sector-19?” I asked, “will go”, “how much?” “forty!” “Nah, take thirty!” “No, look for another!” and with the wave of a hand he shook me away and looked for another customer in the crowd. He knew it was a busy market street right next to a metro exit and another customer should be right behind me.
I strolled further, passing by Rikshaws parked in rows waiting for lazy humans and take them to places. Places which are mostly at walking distances. Crooked appearing Auto-drivers standing in a group chewing and spitting paan, cracking jokes and gossiping. I was looking for any one with a complying face. This old man’s eye caught me searching. May be he looked older than he really was. Bald head with white hairs on sides and back. A longer hair patch on the back of his head indicating he was Hindu if not particularly Brahmin. It could also imply that somebody might have died in his family a while ago and he had his head shaved except that hair tail to protect his religious identity. He already called for me from a distance, more by his eyes than hands. “Sector-19?” “Let’s go!” “how much?” “THIRTY!”
Now, this old man somehow read my mind or my face. He knew about the resentment I had made up. His white hairs shining off his experience. Thirty. This wasn’t a guess. Rikshaw pullers always ask for more money at first. Later, they come to terms with customer’s price. This is a custom mandatory to seller-consumer services in India. Observe any market places or transport stands outside those full glass malls. You’ll find people bargaining for as less as ₹5 ( $0.07 ). His face flooded with wrinkles. His collar bones sticking out of his chest. He looked too weak too paddle a tri-cycle let alone transporting people in them. " Let’s go" I said feebly He turned his rikshaw around and I sat on the raised seat behind with a part of mind getting blank and the other part racing with thoughts. He began pulling the human carriage first over to the road by his feet and later got on and started paddling on the usual road. He paddled, trying to hide any extra-efforts his body had to make. Thirty Rupees. I thought to myself. Should I had given that younger puller forty and saved this old man from the load? Sympathy. In the wrong place. I began to imagine scenarios like always do, searching for reasons to support my choice. The choice of letting this old man pull a much younger man on his tri-cycle cart. I did the right thing. Isn’t?
Ever since the birth of capitalism and jobs, humans have taken up positions based on their so called skills in the “work pyramid”. Milkman delivers milk. Accountant deals with accounts. President runs a country. A labor carries load on his back. A Rikshaw-wala-man paddles his Rikshaw. Every human providing some goods and/or services. No consumer cares for that human as long as they receive their goods and their services. These providers are no better. They have assigned and resigned themselves to their part in the society. Should a consumer care about the provider? In everyday life we seldom do. May be, you, my reader, do care.
The money I’ll be giving this old man for his service will go to help him in some way. It will help him survive this city or help him put his sober worries aside. I was in agreement with my decision now. Soon, he took the turn in sector-19. I asked him to stop much before where I actually had to go. He stopped right in front of a temple I had earlier mentioned to him. I got off and handed him his ₹30. He didn’t count it, just folded the notes in the palm of his hand and made a gesture. A gesture you’ll find people doing around temples or people with gods on their mind. A gesture beggars do to ask for money. The rich do to thank god for money. He did it like the latter. I was contented. No matter what that money does for him. I’ve seen the money being received happily. I bid him thanks and left.