Rickshawala
He waved his hand to me, confirming himself as the driver for the Uber auto I booked. A young guy in his 20s, medium built, sat in the driver seat. I shared the OTP, he struggled starting the auto but after 2–3 tries it finally worked. The auto was old and rusty, perhaps one his owner could afford or might have taken over from his father.
His tattered brown jacket barely could protect him on a cold November afternoon in Gurgaon. The rear view mirror however depicted a different story. He smiled as he talked through his earphones half chewing the wire while keeping an eye on the road. A silly grin covered his face the entire time, but there were barely any words uttered. I could occasionally hear a chuckle, and sometimes he would run his hands through his dark brown hairs replying in mono syllables. The red moli (a sacred thread for Hindus) dangled from his right wrist. His neck was hidden through his hunched back. The Hindi letter for Om was visible on the top of his left hand.
I wonder what it is like to drive day in and day out wandering in the city and making a meager amount just about to survive. Ferrying people to every nook and corner in the city, day or night, whether it’s hot or cold or rainy, doesn’t matter if he’s sick or hurt, one has to drive if they ought to make a living for the day and sometimes even at the risk of getting mugged or attacked by his passengers.
