Keshab and his Rickshaw

That morning was unlike many other mornings for Keshab since that morning was the morning when he finally got his rickshaw repainted. It had been years, if not decades since his rickshaw had gotten a new layer of colour over it. People have seldom brushed off the fact that he needed to sell this rickshaw and buy a new one, an auto perhaps, many suggested, or maybe look for a completely different job, since he knew the streets of the city so well, he could very well be even a taxi driver or a bus conductor or even work for the municipality to put up street signs and directions across the city. But Keshab was not the one to change his rickshaw, let alone change his job. To all those who gave him good and better advice, he used to reiterate the history that his lineage had in helping people transit on the rickshaws and the sheer joy he used to get as he rode his passengers from one place to another.

This rickshaw, this particular one was very dear to Keshab, the one with a silver paint, which with time had given way to the browns underneath the paint, and a red hood, which had again, failed to keep its redness intact, the green horn, and the seat, the cover of which was cut from some movie poster, as a result of which, his crotch would spend most of the day over a pistol. It was his first rickshaw. After his father’s rickshaw came under a truck, he had sworn not to ride a rickshaw again. He had gotten a job in a factory, but lifting heavy weights was never his forte. Somehow, he scraped together some money and like many other unfinished promises that he had made to himself, he started rickshaw-ing people around.

Sometimes, intoxicated he thought to himself, that his family was slaves to the rickshaw empire, that they were cursed and could do nothing else but pull a rickshaw all their lives. After all, earning was less, he lost his mother due to not being able to accumulate the hospital fees, he never got married, and his dreams of having children – everything had gone up in flames due to this rickshaw. But in the sober morning, he would quietly sit on his rickshaw and go out. His anguish and anger and grief and disappointment were keyed by alcohol and confined by the darkness of the night, and the one mute, immobile audience – his rickshaw.

But despite so much apathy he never quit his rickshaw because of a certain very strong belief in him that it was through his rickshaw that he was giving back to the world. He had his regular customers who would call him whenever needed, then there were the new ones who would start by using the maps on their mobile phones, but eventually would surrender to Keshab and his rickshaw. But apart from all these, there were the lost ones, and Keshab and his rickshaw would automatically seek them out, find them and lead them to their destinies. Keshab found this part of his being very amusing and he also felt a certain vibration in his rickshaw whenever there was some lost soul around, for he knew that his rickshaw had magic in it, the magic to direct the lost ones to the right ways. Like his superb sense of direction, he used to believe that he, together with his rickshaw, had the power to direct anyone in the right direction, for humans are not always lost in the physical world, but the mazes of the mind and heart are often filled with conundrums with no answers.

Whenever someone sat on his rickshaw, he or she would enter a bubble where they could be at peace, they could be one with themselves, and somehow they discovered where they were going wrong, or if what they were doing or thinking was even wrong, they bumped on to the answers that they were looking for, they perceived the many challenges that lie ahead, and mystically they gather up the courage and energy to not give in but to believe and achieve, as Keshab ran his rickshaw towards the destination, his passengers would also arrive at their resolutions, with each turn that Keshab took, the passengers would see what lies before them, the next obstacle, the next fight and far beyond all this, they could see their dream destination, shining against the sepia sky. Keshab’s rickshaw had never broken down, never did it undergo any malfunction or breaking of parts that might hinder its movement – Keshab was certain that it was the same magic working, and he was certain he was of the fact that his rickshaw will never stop as were his passengers sure that they will eventually achieve all their targets, as long as Keshab paddled on, and the wheels of the rickshaw turned, everything was possible.

People often called him mad and out of his mind whenever he tried to explain his philosophy to them, but Keshab secretly gave the credit to himself and his rickshaw when that shaky little boy came out in the open one day as a gay person; or when that other guy who no one expected anything of wrote some novel or something so great that he was called to the far distant lands to read; then the mother who was rejected by society and thrown out of her village for being held as the reason behind her sick husband’s death, started her life afresh in the city with a tea shop near the bus stand; the 40-year-old man who went to college after losing out of his job for not having a degree; the girl who had run away from her family because of their constant opposition to let her study and even threatening to marry her off, going back to her house with a degree and a job – the examples are many.

That day, the day he repainted his beloved rickshaw, he found a passenger pretty soon. He was a new face in the surrounding, a young boy of 16-17 – t-shirt, jeans and bag, immersed in his mobile phone, headphones blocking the outer world. Keshab was happily pedalling along, smiling, happy in his thoughts, the rickshaw looking new, when suddenly something that had never happened before occurred as the chains of the rickshaw broke. Keshab jammed the breaks and halted his rickshaw. He got down and stared at his unmoving friend, as the young passenger got down, said something incoherently loud, and went away. Keshab just stood there, astounded, as did everyone else who knew that Keshab’s rickshaw never breaks down.

His astounded self, slowly gave way to fear, as he could feel all his imaginations and thoughts crumbling down in front of him, as did the bubble around his rickshaw that Keshab was so certain would never burst for he could again hear the sounds of the outside. His heart trembled as he slowly pushed his rickshaw to the side. He could see from the corner of his eyes, people laughing and jeering at him, for they had been proved right about his madness, his crazy claims. Keshab started pulling his rickshaw towards the repairing shop, and as he walked, the sounds of laughter echoed in his ears, as if the bubble was there still, but with a hole in it, through which the outside noise was coming in but not being able to go away. The sounds of taunts and ridicule kept reverberating as he cursed his rickshaw, his fear now being substituted by anger and disgust, but the more he swore at his rickshaw, the more the rickshaw refused to move as if its tyres were getting stuck on the smooth tarmac of the road. It seemed like the rickshaw had grown a sass of its own.

He somehow managed to pull it all the way to the repairing shop, where again he had to listen to how much this rickshaw needed changing and that he could do well with another one. He did not ride his rickshaw anymore that day. He just came back home and the roads of the world were devoid of Keshab’s rickshaw for the first time in decades.

That night was different for Keshab. He drank that night, for he wanted to enter the magical world of intoxication, and alcohol was his gateway to that world, the world where he could actually see the bubble around his rickshaw, his beliefs were no longer dreamy, but they were a reality in a fantasy world, rather than a fantasy in a real world. He talked to his rickshaw, as he acknowledged its moody and sassy behaviour. He knew, he repainted it without its consent and the rickshaw was acting like an adamant kid. It had been so many years that they are together, he thought, as tears moistened up his eyes, no one, he shouted inside himself, no one gave him anything, he built his entire kingdom by himself, day after day after day after day, he became his self employed self, not a slave to anyone, working for oneself, earning for oneself, his body beaten, his clothes shaggy and his shelter a mere shanty one, but the one thing from which he kept on getting the power and will to go on and on and on and on was this rickshaw – his Rickshaw.

Never for once, did he believe that his was an ordinary rickshaw, he knew deep within his heart that his rickshaw is magical and that it is the rickshaw that gave him the power to forge his empire amidst all odds. Never had it broken down, but today.

He also had his dreams as a child which he had accepted to never come true very early in his life. He had hidden them in a far remote corner of his heart and whenever those broken dreams and shattered hopes grew rebellious, he had found a friend in his rickshaw, to whom he had explained how everyone and everything except himself was responsible for his dreams not coming true, and through his dreamy intoxicated eyes, he saw the rickshaw agreeing to him. He knew his rickshaw would understand him – there was magic in it, he would whisper and laugh frolickingly.

After so many days, he thought, his rickshaw had earned the right to be a bit moody, a bit tired perhaps, as he got up and sat on its seat, and agreed to abide by its wishes. Keshab confessed that the rickshaw was his son, his daughter, his wife, friend and confidante, his family, his own self, his soul, there was no Keshab without Rickshaw and no Rickshaw without Keshab. Their existence depended on each other as they would cease to exist without one another. In a world of unknown similarities, they shared a soul of their own.

Keshab giggled as he knew that the rickshaw was aware of the fact that Keshab would never sell it for it was too close to his heart for him to do so, and thus like a naughty child, the rickshaw was exploiting him.

Amidst all of these cloudy thoughts and insobriety, Keshab had fallen asleep. Unconscious he lay on his rickshaw, unaware that in his body, his liver had rebelled and had stopped working. A sharp pain protruded through his stomach, as he shrieked out in the empty blackness of the night. He coughed up blood and to his utter fright, he saw his hands and legs trembling. He tightly hugged the rod attaching the seat to the footrest of the rickshaw and pleaded to the rickshaw to make the pain go away. He felt fire ants running tearing through his skin as he shivered in extreme ache and fits of sudden vibrations ran down his entire body. Keshab, not knowing what to do, lay there, holding onto his rickshaw.

For the first time, he felt powerless, he saw his rickshaw as merely a rickshaw, the intoxication was gone, and reality had settled in, his belief that had made his rickshaw magical was broken, there was no bubble, there was no extraordinary power, there was no magic, all that was left were heaps of ashes of untrue imaginations and broken pieces of shattered promises. The rickshaw had failed Keshab, as he slowly closed his eyes for the last time, lying on his beloved rickshaw.

* * *

It was a silent night, with no winds, no lights, as Keshab lay unconscious on his rickshaw. There was no movement anywhere, apart from the slow beating of a weak heart. Suddenly, there was a jerk, a shiver, the heartbeat fastened a bit, then another jerk, as if something was waking up, there was movement as some unusual thing happened, something that no one could ever believe, or maybe it was just belief only, but it happened, whether in intoxication or soberness, it happened – Rickshaw’s handles straightened, as it the soil underneath the tyres slowly felt it move, the breaks gave way and Rickshaw had pedalled its way through the open gates and was out on to the roads. Through the dark night, Rickshaw ran, carrying its unconscious owner, it turned the corners, and slowed down at the bumpers, as it took Keshab to the doctors. Yes, it was magic, but it was true. Rickshaw reached the doctor’s house and its horn kept honking until the doctor came out.

Keshab was taken in – his heart still beating, his rickshaw still breathing.