Cycle rickshaw escapdes

I am writing this on a Sunday- A day when I didn’t have to go to office, a day when I didn’t have to worry about whether my clothes are ironed. Amongst other things, it is a day when I didn’t have to take the scary cab to and from office. My office provides me with a cab drop and pick up to my house- They believe in mixing adventure with work. The driver is rash while operating his 8 seater Sumo, to say the least. It reminded me of those scary blue lines in Delhi. He switches on his kannada music channel in the FM, and then his driving follows the beats of the song, or I suppose so. Every time I see a cab which is turned upside down on the way (which is about 4 times so far), I begin to pity the astrologers who promised my mom that I would lead a healthy life till I am 95. This got me thinking about different modes of transport that I have been on-Car, Metro, Train, Aeroplane, Bus (both, Safe ones and Blue lines), Autos, Madras Autos ( they are a different category!), Shuttle services, Cable cars, Bullock carts, lorry, tempo traveller.
But, one mode which I missed out in the list, perhaps, easily one of my favourite is the Cycle Rickshaw of Delhi. Like the city, its cycle rickshaws also have a definite character to them. During college days, it was the primary mode of transport to the near by civilizations like Kamala Nagar. Only few parts of Delhi had the privilege of having Rickshaws. In many posh parts Rickshaws are not allowed. A ride in rickshaw can be a memorable experience. Often the rickshaws are designed for two people. The innovative students (who are mostly money starved) came up with a bright idea that three people can still sit in the rickshaw, provided the person sitting in the middle can rise a little bit, sit on the bar with his/her legs crossed. Normally, you get this uncomfortable honour, if you are fuchcha or if you happened to be thin, like me. A lot of interesting things happen on a rickshaw, both the patrons and the driver smoke and still manage to worm through the traffic, you can see people drinking, rolling narcotics in thin, long white sheets of paper. People even manage to make-out on a ric. You have different kinds of rickshaw pullers- Fat, thin, rude, forgetful, deaf, poetic, bohemian, Speedsters- but they all are from one particular eastern state of India. Atleast, most of them were.

I used to take a rickshaw almost everyday and I sometimes managed to engage them in a conversation with my broken Hindi, just to pass time. My standard queries used to be: where are you from? Where do you live in Delhi? How long have you been driving a rickshaw?( Invariably my reply used to be, Wareh wah or Sayee hain, getting him excited with my surprise about his long experience) Some bothered to answer, some went over bored, a few were gave mono-syllable replies. A lot of them seemed to have left behind their farms, of substantial size, and they sent money home. As Salil and Jakka put it in their movie, who knows what dreams did they leave behind in their worlds. If you want to see the evidence of mass migration and its true manifestation, old Delhi is the place (as far as I know).

I used to take a rickshaw from University to Indra vihar everyday. In the last year and a half, I used to take this particular rickshaw wallah very often. He never quarrelled for the price; it was a smooth ride so to speak. He also had an advantage- I would never choose anyone else from the queue it he was there. It sort of pissed a few others initially, but they understood the idea of customer loyalty later. Initially there was no conversation at all. Just the exchange of smiles- I got on- a quick stop at the cigarette shop on the way to get one C for the roads, get down- handover money- smile. Then on one winter night, while he was taking me back home, I got down at the mall road junction on the way to my house, excused myself for a minute and returned back with two kulfi’s. I had to get two because I had no change. I gave one to him and I had the other on the way. I got down- A smile and good night. It then became a regular thing, I used to stop at the signal and get him a kulfi, if I took him during the night and if I happened to have money. Then we slowly started talking and he told me that he was from Nepal and he had no family. There were times when I didn’t have money to give, but he would say that he would take it from me the next day. It was stunning because, for him, it is still a huge amount. When I used to insist that I borrow from my friends and pay him, he would say “ Adhmi pehele, paisa Badh mein saab!” (First the person and then comes the money) One of those incidents which made me question the way people are modelled in economics as rational maximising agents. Norms and trust play a big role, I realised. There were no written contracts, there was no enforcing mechanism, yet things functioned well. There were times when he used to get “stuff” for me. I have even smoked a joint with him.

Days went by. I didn’t get in to Delhi School of Economics and I finally realised that I had to leave Delhi. I had been dropping people to the railway station for sometime and most of my friends have left by then. I was feeling a little miserable. I suddenly felt like I was all alone and all those who were with me throughout that year seemed to have disappeared suddenly. It was the last evening and I was going back home and this chap saw me from far and rushed towards me and asked me whether I wanted to go home. I told him I was leaving the city. He was sad and he asked me whether I can find him a job back in my home town. He said he would come and work in my farm. When I got down he refused to take money from me for that ride. I was touched. You never realise how some people become a part of your life without any noise. I gave him a few hundreds, after a lot of persuasion he took it and I asked him not to spend it on alcohol.
I went back to Delhi after that twice, the first time I searched for him and I couldn’t find him. Some said that he has changed his stand. He was too trivial to be kept track of, for them. In my next trip, he identified me from far and came waved at me. I couldn’t recognise him; he had grown really thin; harsh Delhi weather seemed to have tested the man who is well past his youth. I was worried and gave him money to eat, but you could see that he was truly overjoyed to see me. He kept telling his colleagues that I was his mitr. He asked for my phone no and told me that he will save up and call me. He said life is getting difficult there and asked me whether I could get him a job in my farm. I got myself out of the uncomfortable situation by insisting that he take money from me to eat. . I was a little ashamed about my non-committal attitude.
I don’t know whether he is alive, whether survived the last summer and winter in that city. His name is Raju.