The Rikshawala

THE RIKSHAWALA
(Short story)

The Howrah Mail arrived at half past four at Kharagpur. It being two hours late, Malat, and Arjun Singh, who went to the Railway Station to receive Manohar, had left for home. On arrival of the train, Manohar made himself sure that he wasn’t missing his sister and brother-in-law by going straight to the Riksha stand. At the stand he dispensed with the services of the coolie he had hired to carry his luggage. Only one Riksha was seen at the stand. A tall burly bespectacled Rikshawala offered his services to Manohar. Being not a bit displeased with the fellow, Manohar unhesitatingly fixed him up. Practised as he was to encounter pampered Rikshawalas, he felt unusually fortunate in having been able to find a rather sturdy one. “Take me to B-I type flats” asserted Manohar.

“I am ready, Sir,” said the Rikshawala in a heavy gargantuan voice. Lifting up the blue-covered leather portmanteau and the khaki hold-all, he kept them in his cycle Riksha. Feeling as thou a great burden had been removed from his shoulders, Manohar accommodated himself in a leisurely manner in the Riksha. It was a terrible journey he had made from Vijayawada to Kharagpur; all along the route, the Howrah Mail was overcrowded. He felt happy that he was out of the wood. There was another reason for his extraordinary happiness. He had set out to discover the dreamland of Kharagpur. He had read much about the great town of Kharagpur in the letters of his sister. Malati, Manohar’s sister, had an unfailing talent for descriptions. She was thoroughly convinced that Manohar wouldn’t visit her new home if she didn’t create some interest. Moreover, she pleased herself in creative descriptions. She did this by mixing fact with fiction. So far as her letters were concerned, the gradual transition from fact to fiction was an indefinable area. Kharagpur, she had written to her brother, was a big town. One could see long tracks of railways. Throughout the day smoke could be seen going up the chimneys. This nearly built up the atmosphere of the smoky city of Birmingham. There was the Railway Workshop. Waggons could be seen all around. For Manohar, it appeared as though his sister’s letters always spoke the truth. Then–she had written–there was the Indian Institute of Technologv, one of the biggest of its kind. This was an additional attraction. The Magistrate Manohar had been lured by the Mathematician brother-in-law. The computer of the I. I. T. had a wonderful attraction for Manohar, God-knows-for-what that overrided the call of the court.

All these–and a hundred others–unconsciously worked on Manohar. However he did not forget to recall that Malati had mentioned in one of her letters that Kharagpur was packed with robbers and thieves. There were the day-burglers that were dare-devils. The wayfarers were terribly afraid of the roadside, what appeared like, beggars. The saintly-looking beared men were invariably none other than the notorious highwaymen of the smoky town. The geography of Kharagpur assisted the many-faceted talents of these high-priests of the Goddess of Gold. The road from the Railway Station to the Institute Quarters lay through the hovels of these high-priests of Mammon. The road on the day of Manohar’s travel was a patched one–all gravel and fresh tar. The smell of the tar being hardly out, it appeared as though Manohar would drive on forever and forever. Experientially, Kharagpur appeared to be a God-forsaken and man-forbidden village-like town in that road. Riksha-pulling was an ordeal.

The Riksha wheels rattled on hissing and buzzing alternately. Occasionally the Rickshawala yodelled like the mountaineers of Tyrol, chirped and whistled for pure joy.

The Rikshawala wore a tolerably clean light blue trousers and a bush shirt in stripes of green and red. One would have thought–as Manohar certainly did think–that he appeared better dressed for a Rikshawala. Manohar was feeling priggish to break the silence, which was clearly upsetting.

“How far is it from the station to the B-1 type flats?” asked Manohar.

“Sir”, the Rikshawala started buoyantly, “it is about six kilometres. We have hardly covered two-thirds of the distance by now. Where are you from, Sir?”

“Well, I come from Hyderabad.”

“What are you there, Sir.”

“I am the City Magistrate,” said Manohar with supreme confidence as though law would defend him even in wilderness!

“Sir, do you have any relation or friend here at Kharagpur?”

“Yes, of course. My sister and brother-in-law are here.”

At this point, the Rikshawala stopped. Apparently, the chain slipped. After a little while, it was found that the front wheel had suffered a puncture The Rikshawala bent himself thoroughly and put the chain in its place. However, he had to find someone to repair the puncture. The whistler paused and had a long look at the customer.

This seemed unfortunate. Manohar didn’t expect any such thing from a Rickshawala. Manohar wasn’t able to know if it was a fact that he was witnessing or one of those tricks mentioned in Malati’s letters. He at once remembered that the station road was supposed to be full of robbers. It was also said that no Rickshawala could be trusted even during daytime. Finding no traffic on the roads, his fears increased with the hastening darkness. After pulling out a note-book from his briefcase, he noted down the colour and number of the Rickshaw. “L. K. 269. Thick green with white and yellow stripes on the sides and middle. Black rexine at the ; red for seat cover.” On raising his head to his surprise and dismay, he found the Rickshawala still gazing at him.

“Sir, what may be the price of your necktie?”

This question could have been considered apparently harmless under ordinary circumstances, but in this nightly context, it appeared provocative. As we have seen, the least provocation was likely to send Manohar on a wild goose chase. “Out with all my liberal views about the poor,” he mused within himself. “If a Rickshawala found a man alone on a dark wintry evening in a deserted road, you don’t expect him to treat you with cordiality,” he thought. “He is sure to rob you. Should he save your life, it would be a boon.” For quite a while, Manohar was tight-lipped. The Magistrate in him reminded him that the Rickshawala hadn’t said or done anything to presume or infer that he was a robber. Certainly Manohar didn’t want him to be one of those notorious highwaymen of primitive Bengal.

Wailing within, he cursed himself. He ought to have taken a taxi. Probably, he thought it would have been worse. To get such random thoughts was a sign of femininity. One must face realities, as and when they arose. After a particularly long interval, he told the Rickshawala: “The price of this necktie is Rs. 18.50 only. Does that satisfy you?”

“Sir,” the Rickshawala tuned Manohar rather reluctantly, “What is the name of the cloth of which your suit is made! It looks marvellous.”

This angered Manohar. “What damn fool are you?” shouted he, “You are wasting your as well as my time.”

By now he had the puncture repaired. It was nearing seven. Jumping and seating himself on the Ricksha, the Rickshawala pedalled himself away as fast as he could.

It was in the course of the next evening that Manohar carne out with his Sister Malati and Arjun Singh, his brother-in-law. They intended to go to Aurora for witnessing the film “Gaban.” On seeing them come out of one of those B-type flats, two Rickshawalas rushed at them. To our hero’s surprise and bewilderment, one of the two happened to be his former acquaintance. Arjun Singh seemed to know him well. Malati spoke to him in a sisterly tone. The Rickshawala was baptised as Bulbul in those parts because of his sprightliness. Pointing to Bulbul, Manohar told Arjun Singh. “We are old friends.” At the sight of Bulbul’s spectacles, Manohar felt an extreme sense of nervousness. “I have a dastardly hatred for specs” he thought. He remembered how a doctor had advised him not to wear specs since he had only a minor defect. It was his inherent dislike for specs that was all. The spectacles were often thought of as symbols of scholarship. It appeared to him as though the Rickshawala was more scholarly than the Magistrate.

As they reached the imposing theatre, it appeared as though they were rather a little too early. It was only half past five, whereas the film was to commence by quarter past six. The ordeal of travelling in a Ricksha was over. It made the Magistrate miserable to think of travelling in a Ricklha once again. Manohar was a thinker. It was only in one of those fits of miserliness that he had hired a Ricksha at Kharagpur. Manohar was a Magistrate only at Hyderabad and so he could easily get on with a Riksha in West Bengal. The law at Hyderabad wouldn’t know what he did at Kharagpur. Riksha or no Riksha, taxi or no taxi, or even a bullock cart, what did it matter. It made no difference for him at Kharagpur. Money was really power.

The inside of the theatre was looking dismal. Hardly ten members were present. The emptiness was appalling. But then the brother and sister could have a few free moments for confidential talk. December wasn’t at all good for children. Reena and Raju weren’t keeping in good health. Manohar started yawning. It was bad. Once he started yawning, there was magic in it. His neighbour too started it. For the superstitious Manohar, it was a sign of telepathy. If a Magistrate had asked our Mancharji to explain fully why he yawned, he knew that he would be helpless. His yawning was perhaps expiatory. Manohar thought that it was like bearing children without marrying.

The time was almost up for the film to start. In poured visitors. The advertisement slides were being screened. “Smoking cigarettes strictly prohibited. Smoke always Panama cigarettes.” “Drinking prohibited. Drink always Tiger Brand Brandy.” “Wait for the release of Ten Commandments. Book your tickets in advance. No more tickets. House Full.”

The lights were off. Almost all the seats were filled up except the two by Manohar’s side. Reena, who looked pampered with dieting, sat there. Raju also could find a seat. It was not long before they sat that a trimly-suited man entered. He was directed to sit in Raju’s place. Raju cried torrentially. He was to his Mummy. Another smart-looking, bouncing fellow came in. It wasn’t difficult to identify him to be Bulbul. Reena had to go to her Daddy’s lap.

A look at Bulbul showed that a metamorphosis had taken place in his dress. The necktie was Zodiac. The suit was gray terelyne. His hair was well-groomed. Manohar remembered that he had opened his purse right under the nose of that fellow. He had three hundred-rupee notes. A slide on the names of the actors and actresses was being projected then.

Manoharji was in great agony. It was sheer pusillanimity to tell his sister what was in his mind. The temptation to run away from the theatre seemed irresistible. But then it suddenly occurred to him that he was not at all a good runner. He wasn’t a good sportsman. It made him sick. He never found time for a few of those yogic exercises he had recently, learnt from Yogi Satya Rao. He further remembered that during his school days he had competed twice or thrice in running races but had always lost. The Rickshawala sat by his side. In sheer physical power, he defied the City Magistrate. What credentials did Manohar possess to talk to him? What could have been the designs of the Rickshawala in sitting by the side of the Magistrate? (Incidentally he remembered telling him so on the way from the Railway Station.) He hoped for the beet but was prepared for the worst.

The law was liberal. There was no law on earth to punish a Rickshawala who came and sat by the side of a Magistrate in a theatre. Democracy had its pitfalls too. If the Magistrate took the law into his hands, the state would collapse. Manohar realized that they were all his fears. There was no truth in what passed on in his mind. These suspicions and fears were however self-consuming.

Attempting to analyse his previous encounter with Bulbul, the Magistrate fell into a reverie. Was he really afraid of the fellow, who he thought was a robber and a thief? No. He wasn’t afraid of losing his three hundred. He had insured himself for a lakh of rupees. He wasn’t afraid of losing even his life. But he could not remove the thought of Bulbul from his mind. Bulbal the unreal, the ghost he had created in his mind, was more terrible than the real Bulbul, the calm and sweet man that sat by his side. Manohar thought that and he knew that Bulbul was only a peg on which he hung his thoughts. Even after sitting for two hours in the theatre, Manohar knew nothing of what passed on in the theatre.

The film being over, the lights were on. Manohar carefully noted that Bulbul rushed out of the hall at the fag end of the film. As Arjun Singh, Malati and Manohar came out, the two Rickshas were ready for them. The silence of Manohar about the film roused Malati’s curiosity. “Brother, did you like the film? It was so nice!” screamed Malati. Manohar simply nodded. All that did was to keep everything that happened an official secret. Bulbul went aside to light his cigarette, Arjun and Malati in a Ricksha and made their way home leaving Manohar to the care of Bulbul. Bulbul came at a snail’s pace to Manohar. Although Manohar’s anxiety increased, nothing could be done. When he imagined the long stretch of road that lay through the wilderness it seemed terrible. “Why this strange perplexity in me?” he reflected within himself.

“May I start the Rickshaw, Sir?” asked Bulbul.

“Yes quickly” replied Manohar as though he had not even breathing time. A thick film of clouds threatened in the sky. The stars were dim and they were far from home. Manohar silently prayed. “Lead kindly light amidst the encircling gloom.” Even after half-hour Bulbul was hardly out of the smoky part of the town. He was going at a leisurely pace and peddle. It was like passing through purgatory for Manohar – the journey from Aurora to B-I type flats.

The Rickshawala whistled once or twice, when they were in that long stretch of wilderness, and after the illuminated part of the town had been left behind. These whistles were like bullets to Manohar. They upset him completely.

“Sir” whined the Rickshawala, “Have you seen Nalgonda?” It was a familiar voice. The Rickshawala was one of his own kith and kin. In the midst of the saga of Manohar’s illness the mention of Nalgonda produced a magical effect. Manohar’s mind suddenly liberalised. The fear having left him, he telepathically felt nearer to the heart of the Rickshawala.

“Nalagonda was the place where I got myprimary education” asserted Manohar.

“Do you remember one Ramaswamy, who was your classmate?”

“Yes, Ramu and I used to sit in the first bench in teacher Veerappaji’s class.”

“Do you see any resemblance between me and Ramu, Sir? Asked Bulbul. It was pitch darkness. Manohar could hardly see himself. But then he recollected the face and figure of Ramu and compared it with Bulbul’s. Ramu had changed much just as he himself had changed. It was only an accident that he had recognized Manohar. As chance would have it Ramu and Manohar had met after twenty years. Manohar jumped out of the Ricksha and embraced Ramu. It was a reunion offriends after twenty years. It looked as though ages had separated them. It had never struck Manohar in the midst of his own fears and suspicions that the much dreaded thief, robber and highwayman, the Rickshawala was none other than his own dear Ramaswamy. Ramu and Manu used to play marbles when they were young. In a flash everything was clear to Manohar. As a punishment for his sin, he asked Ramu to sit in the Ricksha and told him that he would drive him home. Ramu refused but Manu insisted. “What foolishness! I am a trained Rickshawala. You are a Magistrate. Why should you peddle for me?”

“Do you think that God will forgive my sin if I didn’t punish myself?” asked Manohar. “I should take you at least for some distance. Moreover, it is dark. None will see me peddling.” It was not long after that both Manohar and Ramaswamy entered B-I for dinner.