The dadi ma of traffic

Cars and motorbikes. Trucks and buses. They all whizz past this gajagamini at a speed hardly visible to the naked eye. The gajagamini moves steadily and almost smilingly to herself as if it were the dadi ma of the traffic. Old, yet stable- almost like an old wine and now-a-days in a new bottle. After the IITians decided that rickshaw-walla bhaiyas would be better-off using these specially designed light rickshaws, these new bottles have been fastly replacing the old bottles in the by-lanes of Delhi. You'll find yourself lucky to find the older versions of cycle-rickshaws in Delhi today. May be in Purani Dilli.

With great impatience, I approached Hari, the Bihari rickshaw-wala bhaiya who hailed from Sirsa. Hari, his red T-shirt matching the red seat if the gajagamini, insisted that I pay him Rs 7 as he had to pay Rs 30 instead of the usual Rs 20 as the rickshaw rent. Moreover, with August 15 appeoaching, policemen had increased their pestering activities.

My growing impatience with the Universe (I returned home only to find it electricity-less. Hell! The Universe is out to get me) and the mounting interest in him persuaded me to give up my cribbing sessions of having to pay Rs 2 extra and to mount myself on the chariot. My Krishna (coincidence to the Mahabharata Krishna purely co-incidental... But hey!!!! I didn't notice that Krishna and Hari are the names of the Makhan-chor) started talking. "These policewallas are making life more and more difficult. If we get caught, we have to shell out Rs 600. After paying all sorts of rent, we are left with hardly Rs 100-125 in a day and Rs 600 comes as a big shock for us. We have to pay at least Rs 900 per month as rent. I live with 3 other people", he keeps on talking, like the Chameli of the movie Chameli, pointing expressedly to the policemen standing nearby.

"Don't you live with your family?", I goaded him into talking more. He shakes his head violently and goes on, "My family lives in the village. But there are several people here who live with their families." "So, when do you visit your family? Near Chath? (Chath is an important festival in Bihar. It is celebrated to mark the visit of Sri Ram to Bihar after he returned to Ayodhya from his Vanavas.)", I inquired. "Yes. I catch the North- east from New Delhi Raliway Station", he replied taking his eyes off from the road for a moment to look at me, eyes wondering why on earth this girl is asking so many questions.

"Do you know how to read and write? Till where have you studied?", my journalistic instinct had told me to loose all shame and ask more questions as it had the makings of a perfect little anecdote. "Yeah. I know how to read and write. I have studied upto class V. But I know only Hindi. I don't understand English", he adds sheepishly, almost ashamed. But he adds defensively, " We weren't taught English at that time before class VI. But today, even the little kids are taught English." He repeats the last line 2-3 times to strengthen the arguement that it wasn't really his fault that he didn't understand English. I agreed and mumbled a few incomprehensible sentences in agreement which Hari really didn't listen as he was already well into his story. "But I read the newspapers. These roadside vendors know me well." He puufs his chest, looking as proud as Aishwarya Rai while poiting at the newspaper vendors sitting by the road.

I noticed that it was time that I got off my stead and proceed towards my divine electricity-less abode. I ask Hari to stop the rickshaw-cum-dadi ma near the bend and climbed down clumsily. (Eating too many potatoes has turned me into a couch potato, I observe silently.) I pay him Rs. 7, never really feeling the Rs. 2 pinch as I had got the story that was much worth the extra 200 pasie I had to shell out.

Journalism is a dog's business, I conclude (Sorry, a bitch).
{But really, you guys should rather not repeat the last sentence. Remember, am a devil, out to get everyone.}