THE RICKSHAW RIDE: Short Fiction by Balwant Bhaneja

Balwant Bhaneja

O

utside the Cantonment Railway Station, the usual swarm of bicycle rickshaw drivers chased Jane and Rosie for the fare. “Rickshaw memsaab, Rickshaw!”  Over the past week, the drivers peddling their cabs had come to recognize the girls as the English tourists from the Taj Guest House.  Their leers and lewd comments annoyed Jane.  Unlike Rosie, Jane refused to put her foot on a rickshaw. She preferred to walk to the guest house which was just half an hour from the station.

Seeing gym-fit students in London and Oxford pushing their slick “pedicabs” for summer jobs had not bothered her much.  However, in the 112 degrees Fahrenheit heat of Agra, to witness a human dragging another human with the sweat rolling down the drivers’ sun-burnt gaunt faces, it was the vilest thing she could ever imagine to have witnessed. It confronted Jane with the reality of the grueling effort some people had to expend to earn a living.

Rosie was bemused. “You are weird, Jane.”
Unlike Jane, Rosie thought that those buggies were cute – the toy-like carriages festooned with colourful garlands she had always imagined in the Orient, their canopies sheltered passengers from the hot mid-day sun. Watching the colourful glossy pictures of Bollywood stars and effeminate Indian gods and goddesses under the tarpaulin dome of the carriage, what a wonderful way to ease a weary traveller!  Rosie would have loved to be sitting in one of those, with her feet up, watching the world go by.
Jane curtly responded, “You think I am weird?”
“Yes, you are.” Rosie retorted, “This is Indiaah, Jane.”

It was Jane’s enthusiastic response to a travel ad in TheTimes that had convinced them for their dream holiday.  It was to be a holiday with a difference, on a shoestring budget – a treat at having completed their MBBS finals. But now two weeks later in the land of Maharajahs, Jane had felt drained out. She couldn’t reckon if it was the heat, the people, or the blazing sun that was making her depressed and homesick.  In July, the parched ground of Northern India baked like a roti.  If only she could do something to get rid of that uneasy feeling which had slowly crept inside her. She was glad that they were heading back home to UK.
As they moved out of the train station perimeter, a couple of cycle rickshaw drivers kept up their pursuit. “Madam, only 40 Rupees – verry cheap. Taj Guest House long way.” The drivers repeated. The girls ignored them, the sound of the rickety chain and the swirling pedals continued. Jane and Rosie exchanged glances wondering what to do with the two men plying the vehicles by their side.

Jane had a quick look at the drivers. The older one, middle aged, – his bushy handlebar moustache made his dark leathery face look imposing. The other driver, much younger, could have been his brother or son, with a head of glistening oily hair; he listened to the music blaring from a transistor radio dangling by the mirror of his cycle.
Rosie glanced in Jane’s direction with entreating eyes wondering if Jane would, for once, cave in and let them ride the rickshaw.  Jane could see a mischievous twinkle in Rosie’s eyes.
“Go ahead, if you want to ride so desperately.”  Jane pretended to be angry.   One of Jane’s aspirations after studies was to serve in conflict areas as a physician, she had always wanted to volunteer for “Medecines sans frontières“.  Come wind or rain, once she made up her mind, nothing deterred her. The world saw this in her obsession to power walk along the Thames every evening or doing thirty laps on Saturdays in the Westminster swimming pool.
The younger driver tried his persuasive skills one last time, appealing in exasperation, “Madam, try the rickshaw. Free ride for memsaabs to the Guest House.  No kiraya for English girls!” The rickshaw driver’s offhand remark annoyed Jane.  She turned around to face up to the man: “Okay, we will take the rickshaw.”
“What!” A meteor might have struck Rosie.
“But on one condition,” Jane intervened in her businesslike tone, “that we drive the rickshaws, and you be OUR passengers.”
The big smile on the drivers’ faces dissipated.

Rosie broke into laughter: “You sly fox!”

The men looked bewildered. The older rickshaw driver sought to affirm what he had just heard. “Memsaabs want to drive the rickshaw?”
“Yes!.” Jane replied emphatically.

“Madam, we can not do that.”
Jane shrugged her shoulders.
The girls kept on walking, while the two men not wanting to lose the fare continued  following them on their vehicles.
“Madam, that is not allowed.” The older driver tried to explain.
“Why not?”
“The police will fine us, madam.”
“There is no police here.” Jane refuted imperiously, looking around.
The rickshaw drivers looked at each other, not knowing what to say next.
The younger driver interjected, “Accident? Very very costly.”
Rosie sweetened the deal, “We’ll pay you each thousand rupees for us to cycle to the Guest House.”
“Thousand Rupees!”
“Yes, and will pay for any damages in case of a accident.” Rosie added.
The two men spoke to each other in their local language. Obviously, it was an offer too good to refuse.

The deal negotiated, Rosie chose to drive the younger man’s rickshaw, while Jane took the rickshaw from the man with the handlebar moustache.
“So now gentlemen, take your seats please.” There was kind of hesitating awkwardness on the part of drivers in accepting their new roles as passengers.

Shouting at Rosie, Jane threw the challenge.

” Hey Ros, now let’s see if you are as good a driver as a passenger. Let’s see who reaches the Guest House first!”

“Who else but me, Jane.” She chuckled.

Jane pushed the pedal forward but it would barely move.  Unlike the ten-gear mountain bike she had in her Fitzrovia flat, the pedal of this bike seemed to weigh a ton.  She could feel the sweat emanating around her cheeks dripping down her face.  She looked at the other rickshaw. Rosie in the driver’s saddle was struggling, but had managed to move the carriage.

The rickshaw men sitting at the edge of the back seats in their respective vehicles despite light traffic on the smooth but steamy tar road, were uneasy. Not wanting to let the women topple their carriages, they kept on shouting instructions on how the girls should manoeuvre — how to brake and balance the cab. Only thing Jane wanted to focus upon was to get the damn thing moving. It was far more difficult than she had anticipated. As soon as the pedal would rise up, she would feel her calves strained pushing the pedal down. Finally, the vehicle started to budge, first slowly, then gaining momentum. A gentle rhythm began to develop.  Jane breathed a sigh of relief.  If only her parents could see her.  “Weird Jane with her harebrained schemes,” they would have remarked.  Jane could look in the side mirror her rickshaw man sitting nervously in his seat. Wanting to reassure him, she looked back.
“Don’t worry. It’ll be alright.” Then, wanting to impress her man, she lied. “I have driven rickshaws in London. We call them pedicabs. Did you ever hear of a pedicab?” The man either did not understand or ignored her comment. The deep furrows in his forehead continued to glisten with sweat. Seeking to divert his attention, Jane asked: “Is that man your brother?”
“No, a Padosi.  My neighbour,” the man replied.
“From Agra?”
“Yes, Madam “.
Jane watching the traffic in front asked, “Where do you live?”
“Near the railway station. Slums- Jhuggi Colony.” She had seen a vicinity of shanty huts close to the train station with rickshaws corralled under an old huge leafy tree.
“Married?”
The man nodded.
“Children?”
“Yes”
“How many?”
“One boy, two girls.”

Jane laughed. Just like her own family. Continuing to pedal, she did not know why she remarked, “In my family, three also – two brothers and I.” She wanted to say Jill, Mark and Jane, but kept quiet. She could feel the intense heat piercing her skin. To keep her mind away from the grind, she reminded herself she would be back home with her parents in Coventry in two days’ time. Then the memories of her childhood holidays with Jill, Mark, Mummy and Daddy, the holidays on the lakes of Loire flashed across her mind. On those camping holidays she would cling like a baby monkey onto her Daddy’s back as he swung off the rope from a high tree to jump into the creek. Daddy would shout at the top of his voice a bellowing imitation of Tarzan’s “YO’ oooooo!” His hands would release the rope, their bodies hitting the cold blue water with a big splash. She had followed in the footsteps of her comical father.  Among her friends she was known for her perfect impersonation of the Tarzan yowl.
From the corner she heard Rosie’s voice catching up to her, “Com’on Jane, time to buck up!” Rosie rapidly approaching her at the steeper section of the road, was about to pass her.  Not wanting Rosie to be ahead, Jane stood up off the saddle and her foot pressed on the pedal.   Suddenly she could feel an unrestrained burst of energy from within rushing upwards. Tears were welling up in her eyes. To her amazement, her lungs wanted to expel a large burst of air out from her mouth. Her lips curled into a shape of ring, and she belted out the same childhood Tarzan yowl –  “YO’ooooo!!!”
Rosie while pushing her bike burst into laughing. This was the second time Jane had surprised her today. The rickshaw men, though bewildered, were equally amused. They were familiar with the jungle man, perhaps having seen Tarzan screaming high and low  in his ragged underwear, in the cinema houses of Agra.
While pushing hard on the pedal to catch up to Jane, Rosie shouted, “You no Tarzan girl, you Jane.”
Her young rickshaw owner supporting his driver lady, repeated: “You no Tarzan Madam, You Jane”.
Jane hollered back, “No, me Tarzan. I Jane.”
Taking the cue, Jane’s rickshaw man made an equally partisan pitch, “She Tarzan, you no Jane.”
Rosie chided, “You Jane.”
Suddenly, Jane, having climbed the ridge, found her rickshaw gliding down the hill ahead of Rosie. The Taj Guest House was in sight. Raising her fist clenched in air, Jane shouted, “Ros we did it, we did it!”
Jane could see her rickshaw driver in the mirror. Reposed like a maharajah, with his right hand sprawled over the backrest of the colorful linoleum seat, he was twirling his handlebar moustache.  She knew he was no longer worried about the English girls toppling the vehicle. Jane wondered if both men that evening on returning home would tell their families about their mad white passengers and their antics. A big smile spread across her face.  The heaviness that had made her feel unhappy throughout the day had suddenly gone.

It was long since Jane had felt that light and carefree.   Her rickshaw driver, his head thoughtfully tilted, sat proud in his new position as the royal passenger.

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Balwant Bhaneja was born in Lahore and left India in 1965 for Canada. He has written widely on politics, science and arts. His recent books include: “Peace Portraits: Pathways to Nonkilling” (2022), Creighton University and Center for Global Nonkilling, USA; “Troubled Pilgrimage: Passage to Pakistan” (2013), Mawenzi/TSAR, Toronto;  a collaboration with Indian playwright Vijay Tendulkar, entitled: “Two Plays: The Cyclist and His Fifth Woman” (2006), Oxford University Press ,India; “Quest for Gandhi: A Nonkilling Journey” (2010), Center for Global Nonkilling, Hawaii, USA.  As a playwright, his works have been produced by BBC World Service (English adaptations of The Cyclist, Gandhi versus Gandhi), Ottawa’s Odyssey Theatre (Fabrizio’s Return), and Maya Theatre (The Cyclist), Harbourfront, Toronto.

Balwant Bhaneja in The Beacon