The Rickshaw

The Monsoons had just taken over. Leaving puddles within muddles, men looked into their reflections. Some women too, had the same demeanor as they looked at the reflection of their men.

The day slowly had passed through. With my lurches in my stomach, I ached, closer to the end of the day, but was stopped prior to the night, by a friend in the evening.  It is heard, that he said, “I think we should study with our examinations approaching. We have dallied within the attractions of dope, and now it’s soporific.” I agreed, but the day continued excitedly at the edge of the day, and its talks. Finally, the hour struck close to the leaving. The exit had to be made from a very obtrusively enclosed room which spuriously felt large enough when inside. I always wondered if making love, to someone I took fancy, would chance upon entering it. We made it to the stairs, somehow I never liked using the elevators even though they had polished wood plies plying to make it more sober never the less it wasn’t my choice, sheltered by plastic sheets that were damaged in each metal frame that held it.

Making back to the streets, wasn’t that hard a job on a likely unfed day too, the only barrier that seemed to be was the new wave of monsoon mosquitoes swarming about in shapes of men, as well as that of an insect. The tea stall was hardly a yard away from the main gate of my society. Me and my companion swift in gate, made it there before we realized it. Then the customary act, of peeping in through the columns of many a assorted tobacco powers gilder with flavors, made a crunch of plastic that I truly adored.  “Bhaiya, ek Navy Cut, ek Classic Mild or do chai” (Fellow, I need single cigarettes of Navy Cut and Classic Mild, as well as two cups of tea). People had been telling me not to smoke the former cigarette brand, because there were rumors that renowned hospitals had already forbidden its patients for they could not be cured. I was acceptable to that on measures of notable quantities of Nicotine. Within no time, we sat on our favorite spot, a cemented and grilled cover of a septic tank that had its elevation well enough for a proper seat.  

Soon my wandering eyes met a valiant blue shade, generously made piqué to my imagination.

Silently, twirling with tires on its front gape, the chrome on the front wheel. Wishing, it would go next to where I needed it to charging, no money for my wishes. The guy on the seat, sipping his chai (tea), like any master of his fate. This took me back to my days in Mussorie, when on a cold night of August I rode a rickshaw, how my bad hand at it, almost drove it to a trench. Little did I realise that I was narrating that account to my friend who had chosen to docilely follow me through.

"Bhaiya, kisi ki marzi pe nahin jeeta hoon, jitna mehnat utna kaam." (Brother, I live according to my own wishes, my work fetches me my income. My employment is my will). I smiled back in grace and so did my friend. This made me recollect, as once my Dad had told me, The one who works the most, is the one who earns the least. I think his context mean pure physical taxing labour. In a country with billions of people. I think somewhere the value of this nation has been distributed. So much so that the one who lives life of a many places and a life so desperately wanted by the ones on the epitome of prosperity, was so despised.

Like a many questions never answered, showed naught anywhere on his face. From what I remember now, his glistening showed from the humid summer afternoon. His grace, his smile. Like a answer to everyman needs, dwindled away in the smoke of an Industrious life.