About two years ago, I stepped off a cycle rickshaw in front of my apartment complex, exultant — not once did I imagine it would be my last ride in a long, long time. Thanks to the pandemic, all my plans of circumnavigating Delhi aboard a rickshaw spluttered, coughed, and died.
I can foresee the derisive smiles coming my way for clinging on to a “relic of the past”. People tend to mistake cycle rickshaws, with their ramshackle frames (and often, equally ramshackle operators), as symbols of penny-pinching or the paucity of autorickshaws. Nothing could be further from the truth.
A cycle rickshaw, with its languorous pace, threads its way through traffic. Like a rugby ball that can only be passed backwards, it goes forward while consistently working its way backwards among the fleeting blocks of traffic that build up. Such is the way of the rickshaw.
Rickshawallahs themselves are a class apart. They tend to take off languidly, getting into their stride, casually shooting a wordless goodbye to their companions. With calves worthy of professional cyclists, they pedal incessantly, all day, in their inimitable manner — back straining to retain momentum, bobbing left and right about a central equilibrium, transferring all pressure from the balls of one foot to another with the finesse of a water dancer, tracing a perfect arch in every pedal.
Involuntarily, their hand will reach for the towel perfectly positioned around their neck, a makeshift “windshield wiper”, to stave off incoming waves of sweat. Amid the legion of honking cars, they remain cool as a cucumber, refusing to give way to furry eyebrows and acidic words. No other breed of Indian drivers are as willing to make a hairpin turn or plop down to manually adjust their vehicle, to let others pass. Parking the rickshaw to the kerb, they will catch a quick break, take a swig of water, and pass a friendly comment about the weather, politics or sports, to whomever is lucky enough to play their audience that day. Thence, the ride passes quickly, as these multitaskers of frightening ability keep an eye on the serpentine traffic, while engaging in lively conversation.
Funnily enough, their own seat is easily the least-used bit in a rickshaw. When not airborne, its rightful occupants usually prefer stepping off entirely to guide the rickshaw to a secure nook. The true raison d’être of the seat is to serve as a footrest for its master’s siesta, as he recline on the passenger seat, towel draped across the face, in the shady alcove of some generous tree.
There is an irresistible charm in the glossy, gaudy upholstery of a rickshaw’s passenger seat, floral motifs emblazoned on its retractable hood, and flashy movie posters plastered clumsily to conceal the rust underneath. Their gait is uncertain and wobbly, yet they inspire comfort, a certain lightness of being, that is wholly absent in autos or taxis.
Instead of zipping through the world, they immerse their occupant in it — the cries of an itinerant hawker, the gay jingle of a cycle passing by, the hot, dry breeze. They resonate with a persistent, soporific thrum distinct from the mechanical phat-phat of an auto.
Rain or shine, scent or smoke, blaring horns or a Babel of tongues, a rickshaw is a balcony seat to the cinematic panorama of life. The tempo of its rattling body, the bits of stained glass tinkling against its spoked wheels — such are its charms, irreplaceable and incomparable. From its elevated throne, one has a unique chance to revel in being left behind, being passed over.
Beat that, Uber.
abhiraj.singh2718@gmail.com
