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Rickshawwala By- Pratibha Kelapure At one time Pratibha's signature line read, "a mother, a poet and an engineer-- in that order." At the age of fifteen, she completed Rashtrabhasha Prachaar Samiti's Pandit degree with first place in the state of Maharashtra and discovered her passion for literature. Later on though she followed well traveled road to a science degree, marriage and move to bay area - California, where she has lived for past 22 years. She is a software engineer by profession, and a piece of code with imaginative, meaningful variable names moves her to tears. She retains a child's naivete, curiosity and sense of wonder about the world around her. Kindness is her philosophy in life.

My feet were wrinkled from being in rain water too long, my knees were covered in mud from he last fall in the playground. The ribbon in my thick braid was coming loose, and my school bag was slipping from my shoulders, raincoat, covering me and my bag, was about to burst at the seams, due to the weight of my bag. Anil was chasing a frog, with every jump frog and Anil both were splattering muddy water on my already dirty shoes. Neema and Madhavi were sitting under the fifth grade class window awning and enjoying a bite of sweet-sour wala pickle. We were waiting for rickshaw to come and pick us up. School was over half an hour ago. All the kids who lived close by were gone. Even Megh and Maya who lived in Rampur, were gone. Their parents had hired a tempo to come pick them up, since rickshawwalas refused to go that far. Waiting for rickshaw was a daily ritual for us. Some of us even looked forward to it. It was an extended recess. Going home meant getting cleaned up and doing homework. So any excuse was good enough to put it off, even waiting for rickshaw in muddy schoolyard! Today though I was a bit anxious to go home, I could not wait to taste latest batch of gajjar burphy my mother had made the night before. It wasn't cool enough to cut burphy pieces before I fell asleep. In another few minutes, and we would hear that familiar ghanti of our rickshaw. The ghanti was big and shiny, and the ring sounded almost melodic. Rickshawwala would ring it 'trin-trin-trin-trin-tringgggg!' about four or five times. He would start ringing it from two blocks away. As soon as we heard it, everyone would jump and gather at the gate, so that we could have the first shot at the cushion seat in the cab. The wooden pataris were too narrow and hard. Also the bar that held them together would hurt our necks. You could not keep your head straight while sitting on patari.

We waited for another half an hour, by this time I really had to go to the bathroom, the thought of sitting in the crowded rickshaw with all my rain gear made me sick. Neema and Madahvi were getting really annoyed with each other for some reason. Anil had given up on the frog and now he was trying to climb the roof of the fifth grade room. Some more time went by and finally we saw an empty rickshaw. It wasn't our shiny rickshaw, but an old rusted rickshaw. The rickshawwala was an older man with wet hair and skinny wrists. He was laboring hard to pedal. He stopped by and asked our names. Anil was the first one to go up to him, and tell him all about our waiting ordeal. The old man told us that our rickshawala could not come and he had sent a substitute instead. His son had a high fever and he was taking him to a doctor. The thought of riding that old rickshaw with an older driver made me really uncomfortable. How could he carry all four of us in the rickshaw, when he was having trouble pedaling an empty rickshaw? Reluctantly we climbed in. I didn't even mind the patari seat. Anil and Neema had already grabbed the cushion seats, while I was wondering about the older rickshawwala's ability to pedal. I missed our rickshawwala, it was the first time he had missed the pick up. He always came on time and always sang "badi der bhai nandlala" while pedaling. In my child's mind, I had never pictured him as having a family and responsibilities. He was our rickshawwala, and that was his calling in life.

Next day early in the morning I heard that familiar ring. Rickshaw had come to pick me up. I was the first one to be picked up, so this time I got my cushion seat without any struggle. Today Neema and Madhavi were not going to school, they had a family wedding to attend to. Instead rickshawwala picked up a new and older girl. She was wearing a white salwar-kameez uniform, instead of a blue skirt/white blouse uniform like me. She was carrying her books in her lap, not in a big bulky school bag like the rest of us. What caught my attention, was that she was covering her head with her dupatta. What a snob, I thought. Well, it will be for a day only, so I totally ignored her. It was a sunny day, there was no rain this morning. I wanted to hang on to the steel bar and watch the world go by. But rickshawwala, came behind the cab and started to cover up the cab with the canvas cover, which we used only when it rained. I started to unbutton the cover, but rickshawwala came running back. I insisted that I needed air and the view. It made me suffocate to sit in the covered cab. I started to jump up and down, shaking the whole cab. The new girl looked at me with this look that is reserved for bratty children. I threatened rickshawwala with Anil's frog collection. "just wait till Anil gets in. I will throw his frog in your lunch dubba. Rickshawala picked me up like you would pick up a cat, and put me back in my seat. Once again he closed the cover. Looking at me with a frustrated and compassionate look, he said, "Babiji, why don't you understand. There is a jawan ladki in the cab. There are goondas in the street. We have to protect her." well I did not buy his logic, but gave up and sat sulking in the coveted cushion seat all the way to school.

Time went on, I moved up a few grades. But rickshawwala stayed with us. He maintained his rickshaw well, and maintained his strength as well. He never seemed to get tired. The sound of his ghanti ring still maintained its melody for us kids. Once we hit the seventh grade, Madhavi started to change. I noticed that she was absent from school several days each month. She started to put on weight. Roundness on her hips made her skirts to ride up. Soon she started to wear saris for school. The older girls always wore saris, or salwar-kameez uniform for school. Neema and I were still running around and jumping rope around school yard, in our skirts, with our bruised and skinny knees. One afternoon Neema, Madhavi and I were walking to a store to buy some groceries. It was really hot and sunny. We were carrying our colorful umbrellas to protect ourselves from the Sun. Neema was singing her silly "bol radha bol" song. My mouth was watering in anticipation of Imali and guavas with chaat masala on it. We were careful to walk on the dirt road, which ran parallel to the concrete paved road, so as to avoid the traffic. Rickshaws, scooters, bicycles, bail-gadis, tempos, an occasional ambassador belonging to a doctor or perhaps to a government official, were crowding the road. There was no sense of "driving on one side", anyone could pass through any little gap that they could find. It was very responsible of us to walk on the dirt road. So when I heard a tring-tring ghanti behind me, I was startled. We did not expect any vehicles on the dirt road. Madhavi was on the leftmost side, the side closest to the main traffic road. The bicycle made a sharp angle shift and went to Madhavi's side, and the young man tried to fondle Madhavi. What a creep! a goonda! I suddenly remembered rickshawwala's words about goondas on the street. Madhavi screamed and we all started pounding our umbrellas on the goonda's head. In that scuffle, the goonda tried to escape, but Madhavi's dupatta was stuck in his bicycle chain. She let dupatta go and we watched it waving in the air as the bicycle sped away. We didn't even get a good look at the goonda. Somehow we managed to get home. No one said a word during the walk home. We didn't mention this incident to anyone at home or school. It was a secret among three of us. An ugly secret that none of us wanted to share. After that Madhavi stopped walking on the street with us. Neema and I still made our rounds to the mithaiwala and imaliwala, but now there was a sense of guilt associated with those excursions. We always walked as if we had eyes on all four sides of our bodies.

Over time we put that incident behind us. In the ninth grade Madhavi was shipped off to an all girls school. Neema and I continued to go to our regular school with boys. I was in eighth grade when we had a family picnic to Bheraghat. A tempo was hired. At the last minute four more neighbors joined us. The tempo could only take eight people. So it was decided that our rickshawwala will take my family and me, and the rest of the people will go in the tempo. Well, I did not like the arrangement very much. With Mamma and Papa in the rickshaw, there was no chance that I will get my cushion seat. I insisted that I wanted to ride my bicycle along side of the rickshaw. Papa agreed right away. It took some fast talking by Papa to convince Mamma. It was all settled. I was on cloud nine. It was my dream to ride to Bheraghat, and now it was made possible, because of rickshawwala.

It was one of those mild sunny days. The breeze was cool. With my ponytail bouncing from side to side and my bright red cotton dress, I took off on my bike. Every few hundred yards I would look back and wait for the rickshaw. Rickshawwala was shouting, "babiji, wait for me, don't ride too fast. Stay with us." I would stop and wait, and as soon the rickshaw was in sight I would start pealing. It was a new high which I had not felt in a long time. The high of beating that snooty Meena in jump rope game, was nowhere close to this. I was free, the air was fresh, the road was clear. Somehow the pedal would move a little bit faster with every new road sign. Soon I was floating on air. It was an out of body experience. I didn't know how far ahead I had come, and I didn't care. I knew the road and I knew I was on the right path. My eyes were only focussed on the next road sign and my feet were firmly planted on the pedal. My red dress was flying in the air and my hair was beginning to come out of my ponytail. My cheeks were beginning to feel hot. So far I had not seen any one on the road, except for an occasional tempo filled with touring families, with children facing the back and waving at me. The quiet was ringing in my ear. The smell of dry wood and melting tar was filling my nose. All alone, the queen of the road!

Suddenly I saw a group of people standing by the side of the road. Mostly all young men and a couple of older women. I figured their tempo must have been disabled and they must be waiting for a replacement. One of the men came to the road and waved at me. I hesitated for a moment, but decided to stop. I was a little tired and also very thirsty. I figured these people must have the supplies. I was only brave with my friends and nature, but strangers was another story. I was at a complete loss of words surrounded by all those strangers. With all that quiet I had experienced for last few hours, the words coming out of those ten mouths sounded like just a noise to me. I could not comprehend what any one was saying. I was frozen. A dark fear came over me. I started recounting all the stories of goondas told by the neighborhood matrons. The incident with Madhavi flashed before my eyes. I was angry with myself and with my parents for having put me in that situation. My throat was dry, and my eyes watery. I prayed to God to let me go home, and in return, I would never be this willful little girl again. I would become the proper, well behaved, obedient girl that I am supposed to be. I hoped for rickshawwala to come into sight. I felt really bad for pedaling so fast, when he had expressly asked me not to.

An older woman came to me and said something about 'Gulab'. I heard that and suddenly I realized that the reason that I didn't understand them because they were speaking in pahadi boli. I must have prayed really hard, because I saw the rickshaw coming up the road. I pointed to the rickshaw, and everyone clapped. I guess they were waiting for someone to help them. Rickshwawala came closer. One of the men said something to him in their boli. Rickhsawwala gave them the directions. After the group was on their way, rickshawwala turned towards me and said, "Babiji, they said that you are like a red rose." Mamaa proudly said from the cab, "my daughter is indeed a rose.". Papa just hugged me, he was smiling, but I saw a concerned look in his eyes. I am sure he was thanking Gods in heaven for keeping me safe. I knew I would get a huge lecture from both of them when we went home, but for the moment I was content with the hug and Mamaas gajjar burphy and a glass of water. I stayed with the rickshaw for the rest of the ride. The day turned out to be very beautiful. All the neighbors enjoyed the picnic and thanked my parents for arranging such a lovely outing. Within a year, Papa was transferred to a new city and we had to move. We always moved from city to city, and this was nothing new. Except this time, the parting was a lot more difficult. This was the place where I had become a young girl from a child. I had come out of the cocoon.

Years later, I got married and I went back to my town for a visit. As soon I got out of the railway station, who did I see? Standing there on the rickshaw stand was none other than our rickshawwala. I could not help but to run to him and touch his feet. For a brief time in my life he was my guardian.

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