He gripped the handle-bar and guided the rickshaw through the tiny gap between the pavement and the string of other cycle-rickshaws with an ease that, for the inexperienced eye, could have been easily mistaken for recklessness. As the road curved and widened, he hopped onto the pedal, and with one Zidanesque step-over, put his right leg on the other pedal across the bar and perched onto his seat. The rhythmic creaking of the chain soon prevailed over the cries of the other men—their voices, some hoarse with the shouting, seemed to fade away.
By the time he was half-way through, sweat dropped from his body like water from ice-cubes in the open. Tiny sweat beads on the back of his neck glistened and shone like miniscule gems—his shirt was completely drenched. He crouched, drawing strength from every muscle in his thighs and gritted his teeth in grim determination. The traveler in the back bobbed along like a cork in the sea, immersed in his own sea of thoughts. The rickshaw-wallah pedaled along, his breathing growing heavier with every yard.
And suddenly, he felt he could go no more. His old bony limbs, unable to bear the strain, gave away. He got off the rickshaw and panted loudly; his head cast downwards, towards the ground, white hair shimmering in the afternoon sun, hands still on the handle-bar. As the breathing slowed, he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. He turned his head, slowly as ever, and found the passenger who quickly thrust a 20 rupee note in his hands and walked away. He nodded his head ever so slightly as a mark of acknowledgement—it was the most he could do then.
******
With his turban rolled up into a pillow, he lay down on the pavement, below the peepal tree, watching the fine sky from between the leaves. The incident earlier that day had left him a little shaken—but he guiltily admitted to himself that it was not unforeseen. He had been working for too long and age was no longer on his side; nor was the weather. The sun seemed hell-bent on sapping the little energy his frail body could store up. His tired eyes blinked slowly a couple of times, before they gave in and closed.
A world was shut out, but another opened. The smell of bhel puri wafted from the chaat shop across the road; the odd crow let out a shriek from above; cars and bikes, few at this time of the day, honked as they passed—motors on full throttle; students from the college ahead chatted noisily, as they walked by; children, from the small colony of workers that had made the pavement their home, cried—only to be hushed and pacified by their mothers; and the radio from the paan-shop, for a welcome change, hummed a lullaby. And this world too slowly faded away to a more interesting one of dreams and fantasies….
He woke up when he felt someone tug at his moustache. Two small, fragile palms ran over his unshaven cheeks. He liked the easy, simple gestures—one that could come only from a child—but pretended to be flustered as he rolled over, his face turned away; eyes tightly shut. The hands now were placed firmly on his shoulders as they tried, in vain, to turn him. He grunted and rolled back to face the child. The hands clapped in glee and a pure, innocent voice cried in victory. There was a quick shuffle of tiny feet and he felt a near-weightless body bounce up and down his stomach. Eyes still shut; he mumbled and grumbled, apparently annoyed but, playing his part to perfection, much to the delight of the child.
It all stopped as suddenly as it started. He no longer heard crisp, dry leaves crack under the shuffling feet; nor did he feel the child jump; he just felt a head placed, sideways, on his chest and a body on his stomach that rose and fell with his breathing. He put his hand affectionately over the bare brown back of the boy. And for those few moments he felt happiness that relieved him of all pain; that made him forget all that had passed since dawn.
This was how they lived—the rickshaw-wallah and the child from across the road. They never came across each other at any other time of the day; their conversations were muted; their eyes rarely met....
******
By the time he was half-way through, sweat dropped from his body like water from ice-cubes in the open. Tiny sweat beads on the back of his neck glistened and shone like miniscule gems—his shirt was completely drenched. He crouched, drawing strength from every muscle in his thighs and gritted his teeth in grim determination. The traveler in the back bobbed along like a cork in the sea, immersed in his own sea of thoughts. The rickshaw-wallah pedaled along, his breathing growing heavier with every yard.
And suddenly, he felt he could go no more. His old bony limbs, unable to bear the strain, gave away. He got off the rickshaw and panted loudly; his head cast downwards, towards the ground, white hair shimmering in the afternoon sun, hands still on the handle-bar. As the breathing slowed, he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. He turned his head, slowly as ever, and found the passenger who quickly thrust a 20 rupee note in his hands and walked away. He nodded his head ever so slightly as a mark of acknowledgement—it was the most he could do then.
******
With his turban rolled up into a pillow, he lay down on the pavement, below the peepal tree, watching the fine sky from between the leaves. The incident earlier that day had left him a little shaken—but he guiltily admitted to himself that it was not unforeseen. He had been working for too long and age was no longer on his side; nor was the weather. The sun seemed hell-bent on sapping the little energy his frail body could store up. His tired eyes blinked slowly a couple of times, before they gave in and closed.
A world was shut out, but another opened. The smell of bhel puri wafted from the chaat shop across the road; the odd crow let out a shriek from above; cars and bikes, few at this time of the day, honked as they passed—motors on full throttle; students from the college ahead chatted noisily, as they walked by; children, from the small colony of workers that had made the pavement their home, cried—only to be hushed and pacified by their mothers; and the radio from the paan-shop, for a welcome change, hummed a lullaby. And this world too slowly faded away to a more interesting one of dreams and fantasies….
He woke up when he felt someone tug at his moustache. Two small, fragile palms ran over his unshaven cheeks. He liked the easy, simple gestures—one that could come only from a child—but pretended to be flustered as he rolled over, his face turned away; eyes tightly shut. The hands now were placed firmly on his shoulders as they tried, in vain, to turn him. He grunted and rolled back to face the child. The hands clapped in glee and a pure, innocent voice cried in victory. There was a quick shuffle of tiny feet and he felt a near-weightless body bounce up and down his stomach. Eyes still shut; he mumbled and grumbled, apparently annoyed but, playing his part to perfection, much to the delight of the child.
It all stopped as suddenly as it started. He no longer heard crisp, dry leaves crack under the shuffling feet; nor did he feel the child jump; he just felt a head placed, sideways, on his chest and a body on his stomach that rose and fell with his breathing. He put his hand affectionately over the bare brown back of the boy. And for those few moments he felt happiness that relieved him of all pain; that made him forget all that had passed since dawn.
This was how they lived—the rickshaw-wallah and the child from across the road. They never came across each other at any other time of the day; their conversations were muted; their eyes rarely met....
******
A week had passed and the old man found it harder and harder to go on. He dreaded the day for it brought nothing but pain; he dreaded the nights, for the pain drove his sleep away. Incidents like the one earlier were becoming more frequent and not all passengers were considerate. Several refused to pay and he had to go on an empty stomach to compensate. Hunger, fatigue and a sense of world-weariness overcame him.
The future looked bleak. He couldn’t stop riding the rickshaw—he had been doing it since he could remember and if he did stop, he would rot away to death—alone and unemployed. He couldn’t think of anything else he could do to earn and he was too old to learn something now. But, it was high time he moved on. And as he lay down under the tree, musing thus, staring at the sky that looked like twinkling stars between the leaves, a small smile lit up his lips and he closed his eyes…
The child crossed the road and positioned himself by the old man. He grabbed the silver-white hair and messed it up; played drums on the bare chest; bounced away on his shrunken stomach. He got no response. He stopped, and put his head on the old man’s chest. With every passing moment he pressed his ear, harder and harder, against the body. Much later, with a shrug of his shoulders, he silently walked away; his brows knitted in a frown.
He tugged at his mother’s sari, and when she refused to respond, bit her knee. She let out a wail and asked, harshly, “What is it?”“The tabla is not playing inside the old man’s chest anymore"
The future looked bleak. He couldn’t stop riding the rickshaw—he had been doing it since he could remember and if he did stop, he would rot away to death—alone and unemployed. He couldn’t think of anything else he could do to earn and he was too old to learn something now. But, it was high time he moved on. And as he lay down under the tree, musing thus, staring at the sky that looked like twinkling stars between the leaves, a small smile lit up his lips and he closed his eyes…
The child crossed the road and positioned himself by the old man. He grabbed the silver-white hair and messed it up; played drums on the bare chest; bounced away on his shrunken stomach. He got no response. He stopped, and put his head on the old man’s chest. With every passing moment he pressed his ear, harder and harder, against the body. Much later, with a shrug of his shoulders, he silently walked away; his brows knitted in a frown.
He tugged at his mother’s sari, and when she refused to respond, bit her knee. She let out a wail and asked, harshly, “What is it?”“The tabla is not playing inside the old man’s chest anymore"
******
The old man had moved on to a better world. A world of wider roads and lesser motor-vehicles; of polished rickshaws and pleasant weather; of untiring bodies and customers who didn’t bargain; of free, delicious bhel puris and silent afternoons; a world where children remained children and never grew old; a world where the nasal singer didn’t scream through the radio from the paan-shop every time he wanted a nap and some peace….
