The Dream Chariot

 OCCASIONAL JOTTINGS

The Dream Chariot

Dr. C. V. Ananda Bose

No.  He was not there.  His friends and compatriots were also not there.  In fact, the place where they would wait has been ‘eaten away’ by a swanky App Cab alighting and boarding point. 

I didn’t know what I expected to see as my motorcade made a turn around the Five Point Crossing before halting.  I offered my floral tributes at the famous statue of Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose at the Shyambazar Five Point Crossing.  The celebrated posture of Netaji on horseback gives us hope and urges us to move ahead, progress towards the distant horizon of equity, all-round development, social justice, peace and security. 

I once again glanced at his then reserved place across the street at the corner – maybe he would still be standing there and as always beaming at us with confidence.  No.  He was not there. His friends and compatriots were also not to be found. 

My motorcade then steered towards 124A, Bidhan Sarani, Kolkata 700004, to the State Bank of India, Shyambazar Branch, where I used to work in my early 20s.  

Within days into my ‘second coming’ – in my early 70s now – to my State of choice, West Bengal, and the place of love, Kolkata, I decided to trace back the five intervening decades and visit that Branch office.  

Nothing seemed familiar in that area though.  The area had developed.  Metro stations were there, app cabs were plying, the yellow taxis of course.  It was still one of the most prominent localities of North Kolkata.  

I left the SBI Branch office after meeting the officials and employees there and returned to my motorcade.  

I didn’t glance at his reserved area.  I was certain now that he won’t be there. 

* * *

From the Shyambazar Branch of SBI our mess was about 30 minutes journey on foot.  While Arnab, Venkatesh and me would prefer to walk, exploring the ever-changing hue of the vibrant localities along the way, Subramanyam, Pinaki da and Shyamal da would make a fuss about it and preferred to travel in a vehicle.   Nevertheless, the walkers among us would sometimes prevail over the other group, highlighting the importance of physical exercises, connect with the environment and mental clarity that walking endows us with.  

Pinaki da would grumble – “Ananda is at the root of all our troubles.  Why give your body the trouble when you can always travel without exertion?”  

“Dada, at your age and overwhelming physical proportions, walking is most suitable for you to get back in shape.”  I would feebly interject.   Arnab and Venkatesh would support me. 

“Well, unlike in yours, no one in my family taught me to sweat it out without purpose.” Subramanyam would take a side. 

“But walking is itself the purpose.” We would say in chorus. 

Shyamal da would maintain neutrality. 

“Walking is good.  But occasionally we should also not ignore the romanticism of rickshaw travel.” Shyamal da would say pointing at the rickshaw stand across the street near the corner. 

And finally, we divided three days in the week for walking and three days for rickshaw travel. 

Problem was Pinaki da.  His gigantic frame would lord over the rickshaw leaving not much space for a co-passenger, except me with my slight built that I took pains to maintain. 

And we had to save money too.  None of us wanted a full rickshaw for himself. 

So, it was always Pinaki da and myself in a rickshaw like Goliath and David riding together in harmony.

Problem was the rickshaw pullers.  As soon as they saw Pinaki da lumbering towards their stand, they would pretend to have just descended from heaven and undecided as to what they were doing there with their rickshaws.  

Not Osman. 

Glistening with sweat, Osman was lean, dark, muscular, tall and had an aura different from his comrades at the stand.

* * *

During an adda at the mess, I narrated to the colleagues my first brush with the hand-pulled rickshaws.  My first solo trip into the outside world was while I was in the eighth standard. Without bothering about the objections raised by the women folk at home, dad sent me to Kottayam to fetch some medicines. I got down from the bus at the civil station junction. The initial experience was that of uniformed advocates on rickshaws proudly on way to courts. Those were hand-pulled rickshaws. The driver, rather the ‘dragger’, would ring a bell to clear the traffic. I had an urge to travel by this interesting vehicle. So, I too proudly sat on it. As the rickshaw reached a mount, the puller alighted and began dragging it up, the passenger included. I felt pity for the poor guy. After paying his bill, I got down and walked my route. 

* * *

Pinaki da would trudge straight towards Osman and without uttering a word climb up on his throne and would command– “Come Ananda.”

And I would squeeze myself beside him. 

Osman was a jovial character.  As if powering up,  he would give a sound “Huth” and start pulling the rickshaw.   Osman and his rickshaw were not two different entities.  They were one.  It had to be so.  For a hand-pulled rickshaw did not come with brakes; did not come with a motor; did not come with a steering wheel.  The man and his ride had to be one as the rickshaw made its way through the traffic – winding its way along the busy roads, narrow congested lanes, safely.  Manual propulsion and raw muscle were the only source of power for this type of transportation.  

While Pinaki da munched on the groundnuts from a thonga – packet made of newspapers – I watched  Osman with fascination. Osman would navigate the rickshaw as if he was pulling a strand of hair from butter.  Smooth, no jerking, no bumpy ride and he would silently converge on a person or a vehicle from behind and at the nick of time make a slight deviation bypassing the other safely.  And brake – that was a fascinating thing to watch.  He would just halt his muscular foot on the ground and raise the handles a bit bringing the rickshaw to a sudden but soft halt.   If it was not for Osman, with a passenger like Pinaki da in the seat any other rickshaw would stand the risk of toppling over.  

Osman was about 40 years old then, and immensely powerful. 

Osman would make the journey interesting.  He would narrate stories of old Calcutta, its former mafia dons, how the markets were built, the rise of ultra-leftism and how the State machinery was coming down heavily on the rebels, and so on. 

Remarkably, though being nostalgic, Osman would never lose concentration on the road.  His eyes were glued to the path ahead, alert, agile.  His muscular body was in constant connect with his rickshaw and the road. 

Inquisitive by nature, I would ask Osman about his antecedents.  Osman said he hailed from a village near Murshidabad.  His family had a piece of land that they used for cultivation.  He would narrate stories from his village, the ponds, the trees, the lush green fields and so on. 

“Why did you come to Calcutta.”  I once asked. 

“Cultivation was not enough.  The land was too small to feed the ever-increasing numbers in the family.  Of all my brothers and sisters, I am the youngest and have passed Class 10 solely due to my mother’s persistence and all the hardship that she endured educating me and making the ends meet.  I lost my father early.”  He narrated without much of an emotion.  

“I came to Calcutta in my early 20s, when I was about your age, to make a decent living – far from the family squabbles and to save up to bring my mother my wife and my children here.  I wanted to take up a clerical job in some company.  Everyone in the village said I was good at maths and had the ability to reason.”  He stomped his left foot and raised the handle a bit to put a sudden halt to the rickshaw and let a child dart off to the other side of the road. 

“So, what happened?  Why the rickshaw?”  I asked one day. 

“I looked for a job everywhere.  Burrabazar transport companies, newspaper offices, accountant positions in hotels, and where not.  I did land a couple in Burrabazar.  Presently there were allegations of some discrepancies against me, though I was innocent. I lost my job there.  My family is poor, but the values that my mother taught me were rich.  I was jailed for 15 days and when investigations found me innocent, they released me.  Somehow word went round the transport areas and no one gave me a job.”

At this point Pinaki da glanced down at me in disdain as if disapproving my striking a conversation with Osman.

Osman continued “While in jail I met Manoj who was a rickshaw puller.  He suggested that after my release I should visit the Ajoy babu who owned several hand-pulled rickshaws that he would give on lease to deserving candidates.

I did that.  Met Ajoy babu, a well to do person, at Manicktalla.  After some persuasion and cajoling and stating my case as best as I could he agreed to give this rickshaw on lease.  It was a new one back then.  It stayed with me ever since.”  Osman said with some pride. 

And my dreams took wings again.  Some flow of money was secured provided you remain healthy enough to pull the rickshaw throughout the day and night, each day in every week. 

“Calcutta was bustling with people – babus of all hues and sizes were jetting up and down the bustling streets, always late to work and hence always on the lookout for transportation.  Road condition was bad in those days and there were potholes.  The babus preferred secluded travel amidst the teeming surroundings and the rickshaw offered that at a cheap price.  Income was good, especially during the rainy season.  Trams would not ply in the submerged roads; taxis would stay away from thigh deep water flowing over the roads.  Rickshaws would come to the rescue of the babus ferrying them across the submerged streets and to their destinations at a slightly higher price that they were willing to dole out.  Durga Puja and other Puja were thriving seasons for us.    We are in high demand during these festivities since more often than not the taxis and buses stay away from crowded streets that are overtaken by revellers.”

“But was it not risky for a rickshaw puller himself to traverse through such submerged and potholed stretches with always the risk of a snapped live electrical wire of the lamp posts dangling precariously and even submerged in the water?”  Marvelling at Osman’s positive attitude, I would ask, truly concerned about their safety. 

“We have to make a living, babu.  Rain or shine, my chariot would not stop.”  Osman gushed.  “For my dreams ride my chariot.  I want to marry off my youngest daughter shortly.  I have saved enough for that.  You are invited Ananda babu.”  

On holidays Osman and his colleagues would take us – minus Pinaki da of course, who preferred to conserve his energy for the working days ahead – on a ride around the lanes and by lanes of North Kolkata along the Central Avenue on a tour to spiritual places associated with Ma Sarada and Shri Ramakrishna Paramahansa.   Osman was our guide too. 

Years passed.  It was time for me to leave Calcutta and go to the Academy in Mussoorie for training.

I didn’t have the opportunity to honour Osman’s invitation.  Osman slowly faded from memory though not lost in the bowels of time.

* * *

Once during an adda at the Academy, our Professor Krishnan talked about the environmental pollution and general degradation of the environment and wanted us trainees to come up with sustainable ideas that could address the global concerns. 

“Trams and cycle rickshaws as modes of transportation.”  I blurted out instinctively.  Calcutta remained with me through the Academy in Mussoorie.

“Wonderful.”  Professor Krishnan was pleased.  “Use of trams, cycle rickshaws and cycles should be encouraged extensively.  They don’t cause pollution to the environment and are also practically noise free.”

I remember an incident at Mussoorie during my IAS training. Vehicles were rare in the serene hilly terrain at that point of time, leaving the trainees to a ‘pedestrian’ life. But it was enticing. You could walk along the zigzag lanes, embracing the haze as if floating with the nature. Apart from the academy, the prime locale was the Library point. There began the commercial street of Mussoorie. From the street adorning an array of shops and restaurants, the gorgeous Dehradun Valley could be seen at a distance. In this picturesque ambience, time and tide did wait for man, unlike the proverbial haste. The next point was Kulri, with its bigger shops and hotels. A walk up to Kulri was quite enjoyable, thanks to the enthusiasm provided by some solid purpose for the trip. But the return trip had no such sense of purpose, other than reaching the academy, tired. Between Kulri and the Library point, motor vehicles were not allowed. Rickshaws were the only option. On one such return trip, in the company of John Joshua, my friend, a voice from the back halted me: “Shameful. You could have walked, rather than making that poor fellow pulls the load.” It was Chandrasekharan, the Joint Director of the Academy. Trying to conceal the shame, we went highbrow: “If we do not use the service, how would these fellows make a living?” 

The hand-pulled rickshaw is a traditional mode of transportation that has been in existence for centuries. Originating in Asia, it was initially used as a convenient and affordable way to travel short distances.

Long after, on a visit to the academy I found a photograph of two rickshaws on the wall. After seeing the hardships of the rickshaw pullers, four probationers of the Academy had found out a solution. They brought out a light, compact and easy-to-pull model, with the help of experts. Now, it is those effort-effective rickshaws that ply around in Mussoorie. 

P. Keshavadev’s famous novel, Otayil Ninnu (from the sewer), was study material for us at that time. Pappu, the protagonist, ekes out a livelihood with his rickshaw. He looks after Lakshmi, the girl who was accidentally hit by his vehicle, with all the paternal care and caress, as well as accepting her widowed mother into his life. However, as she grows up, Lakshmi distances herself from him, due to his boorish nature and colourless life that do not impress her pseudo sense of pride. She marries a rich man. Though his sincere love and care are discarded like anything, Pappu takes it easy. Coughing and pulling, he goes on with his life of a rickshaw puller, the sound of his coughing getting echoed in Lakshmi’s wedding chamber. Keshavadev has indeed created a powerful character from among the outcasts of the society. 

* * *

As a young officer serving in the districts of Kerala, I came across the novel CITY OF JOY by Dominic Lapierre.  

CITY OF JOY though set in the slums of Howrah, struck a node with Calcutta which indeed was a ‘city of joy and pride’ for me even back then. 

Then came the eponymous film, in which Om Puri so realistically portrayed the average rickshaw puller like he only can, or perhaps a rickshaw puller such as Osman could.

* * *

The idea of the rickshaw was born in Japan around 1860s. They call it Gini-Rikki-Sha. Gini means human, Rikki means power and sha, vehicle. The palanquins carried by men used to be the vehicle of the Japanese duke clan of Samurai. As people neglected the hardships of the palanquin carriers and the discomfort of its passengers, Isumi Yosukke, a tea-vendor, came up with the idea of gini Rikki Sha. But the Americans stake claim by narrating another story, that Albert Tolman, a blacksmith, invented the rickshaw as a mode of transportation for the vicar of Massachusetts. Let the Japanese tea vendors and the American blacksmiths fight it out for the patent! 

The hand-pulled rickshaw was introduced in China by 1874. Unlike previous modes of transport, like kago, sedan chairs, etc. which needed two persons to carry, the rickshaw had the significant advantage of being driven by a single person. The following decades witnessed a boom of hand-pulled rickshaws in Japan, China, Singapore, India, Indonesia and Malaysia. 

India witnessed the advent of these manual locos in Shimla, in 1850. Two decades later, these reached Kolkata, which soon became a city of rickshaws. Bhadralok, the upper castes in Bengal, found travel by rickshaw as a status statement. No one bothered to pay any attention to the physical hardship, or the inhuman predicament, of the puller. Job hunters from distant villages were easy prey to this cheap labour. Sardars, who owned the rickshaws, minted money by lending these. The mafia, crime syndicates and other anti-socials used it for their ends as well. Once, in this vicious gambit, the poor rickshaw-wala had no escape, or respite. When the West Bengal government decided to ban hand-pulled rickshaws in 2005, however, the biggest protest came from the rickshaw pullers. They argued this was be the poor man’s vehicle that even the high-level administrators had to resort to during rains. Owing to the city’s peculiar narrow routes and congested lanes, these were the only possible movers. As the safe mode of transport to send little children to-and-from school, as an ambulance for the poor, as the cheapest freight carrier…they enlisted the uniqueness of the rickshaw. To witness further the life and times of Kolkata’s rickshawala, watch the City of Joy, in which Om Puri has realistically portrayed the average rickshaw puller like he only can, or perhaps a rickshaw puller can. Men of Burden: Pedalling towards a Horizon is another avenue to get a closer look. This documentary, filmed in Puthucherry, received accolades in India and abroad. 

Rickshaw-pulling is not a sporting event. May be the sporting bodies around the world still look at it as a mean manual job, unlike car racing, or air piloting, though they all boil down to the simple basics of driving a locomotive. If ignored because it is considered the prerogative of the downtrodden, what about weight –lifting then? However, well-meaning people have started coming up with graceful antidotes. For instance, consider Chen Homing, from the Jiangsu province of China went to the London Olympics covering 16 countries and 40,000 miles on his cycle rickshaw. On the way, since Myanmar did not grant him a visa, he had to reroute, circling the whole of Tibet. So much for pulling determination! During the ICC World Cup, the Bangladesh cricket team captain, Shakeeb Al Hassan, showed the way and his team followed on. All of them came for their match on rickshaws, the national vehicle of their nation. 

More than the sporting arena, it is the world of literature that radiates the romantic flavour of the rickshaw. The Nobel laureate, Pearl S. Buck’s, masterpiece novel Good Earth has its protagonist Wang Lung fleeing the countryside with his wife O-Lan, due to devastating famine and drought. In the city, his medium of survival happens to be the humble rickshaw. Rudyard Kipling has given us the Phantom Rickshaw, in which the hero ditches his lover, only to see her ghost frequenting in a rickshaw. Lao She, one of the premier Chinese novelists of the 20th century, based his best work, Rickshaw Boy, on the life of a rickshaw puller. It became a best-seller, when its English translation was published in the US. 

Ornov, my son Vasudev’s friend and classmate, would visit us in Delhi occasionally. His father is the Deputy High Commissioner at the Bangladesh High Commission in India. He would talk about his country and the crush his people have on the rickshaw. Once, he told us about Joynal Abedin, a poor rickshaw puller in his native town of Mymensingh. Abedin’s impoverished father had died, for want of medical treatment. That day, Abedin decided to have a clinic in his village. He went to Dhaka city and worked hard as a rickshaw puller. Though the income was not enough to sustain the family, he would secretly save a bit, putting even his wife in the dark. Finally, as the secret fund accrued to two lakh Takas, he returned to his village. After buying a small piece of land, he set up a tin shed on it. Then, he bought a cot, a table, a few chairs and some essential medicines. A clinic has come to the village! 

Rural folk thronged to the new life-saver of sorts. Doctors were arranged for weekly visits, and many came up to donate medicines. The clinic grew in no time, hundreds of patients coming from the nearby villages as well. Today Abedin is a role model, with the BBC beaming out his inspiring story. The humble rickshaw never stakes claim, like its industrious puller.

* * *

Though being intensely demanding physically, the hand-pulled rickshaws have played a significant role in the transportation history of many Asian countries and are often seen as a symbol of traditional culture and heritage.  In some cities, such as Calcutta, the hand-pulled rickshaws are a popular tourist attraction, offering a unique and romantic experience though I could not derive the latter from my rides with Pinaki da.

Hand-pulled rickshaws have a long history in Kolkata, dating back to the late 19th century when they were introduced by British colonists and Chinese refugees. Initially used as a means of transportation for the British, they became a common sight in the city, particularly in areas with narrow lanes. The hand-pulled rickshaws became a popular form of transport in Kolkata during its days as the colonial Capital in India. While their numbers have declined over time, they remain a unique and iconic part of Kolkata's cultural landscape. 

Over time, Kolkata grabbed the distinction of being the first city in India to operate the Metro Rail.  It is perhaps the only city in the world that continues to operate hand-pulled rickshaws as a mode of public transport though on a restricted scale.   Thousands of licensed and licensed rickshaws are still operational in Kolkata with the rickshaw pullers battling exhaustion and uncertainty.  But the rickshaw pullers take pride in their work for they are available when other forms of transportation are not. 

With the declining popularity and availability of other faster modes of transport, rickshaw pullers’ numbers and earnings have both reduced drastically.   The rickshaw pullers often develop serious health issues including STDs, stomach ailments, cough and cold, joint pains, and so on. 

* * *

As relics of the erstwhile colonial era, Raj Bhavan has preserved the Phaeton Ghurry which was the State Coach, a palanquin and a decorated rickshaw.  I still remember Osman and his dream chariot when I cross these artefacts.  

* * *