Abu tells us about Jabu, a rickshawpuller and his woes, in a crowded alley. An exclusive for Different Truths.

At 10 a.m. the entry lane to the Station B is packed with people and vehicles. It is holy hour. People from adjacent villages come to serve and be served in the big City B. And the cheap and best way to reach in time is by catching a train.  A couple of up and down trains are fortunately scheduled to kiss the Station B at the gap of five minutes at that happy hour. Sometime trains simultaneously come and depart both in platform Nos. 1 and 2. The station is flooded with the waves of hurried people and the hubbub fills the air.

The lane, however, lies empty at dawn. At noon coolies idly sleep by its sides.

The lane is virtually choked for ten minutes. Anguished passengers hurl abuse to each other. Some sigh and rue and blame corporation officials for the encroachment of the lane by hawkers. Vehicles horn and honk without an end.

But at 10 a.m. the alley takes its magic and motley colour. Passengers — lively commuters, patients with children, the invalids and the aged, the job-seeking and ambitious young boys and girls, hawkers, masons, fruit-sellers, milk-sellers, lawyers, doctors, professors, buffaloes and cows — vie with vehicles — milk white scorpios or black boleros,  pigmy altoes or nanoes, bikes, scooters, cycles, vans, rickshaws.  The lane is virtually choked for ten minutes. Anguished passengers hurl abuse to each other. Some sigh and rue and blame corporation officials for the encroachment of the lane by hawkers. Vehicles horn and honk without an end. People shout, jostle, elbow, shoulder, scuffle, and children, clutched to worried parents, cry in fear.

One day Jabu is caught in the mess. On his rusted rickshaw a tall, healthy young man sits. He looks around see thousand angry faces and smokes quietly. He is composed. His face is expressionless.

“Ei, rickshaw, pull, pull! You lazy rouge! Why do not you die, moron?” bursts a well dressed, perfumed young man from his enfield.

Jabu jerks and his rickshaw creaks and it moves a step.

By Jabu’s right hand a giant car, enshrined with flowery letter F, named after a five star city hotel, stands immobile. Nobody can see the driver or the passengers of the glassed vehicle.

By Jabu’s right hand a giant car, enshrined with flowery letter F, named after a five star city hotel, stands immobile. Nobody can see the driver or the passengers of the glassed vehicle. People look at the car in awe and mutter and gulp in hush their rage and fury.

A lady from the opposite side of the lane shouts at Jabu, “Don’t you have common sense? Why have you come here at this hour? People have no place to keep toes, and you, dull-headed, adds nuisance! Pull, pull!  Why are you looking back? Brother, (she draws attention of a fellow passenger), am I wrong?”

The fellow, a muscular man with long curly hair, flung on his broad shoulder, agrees with her and they both charge Jabu for his crime. “Why don’t you paddle on the main road? Don’t you see it’s a lane, narrow and congested? Who gives you permission to enter here?” the man asks and throws a repulsive glance at Jabu.

Jabu, aged over fifty, skeletal, sweaty in lungi and soiled shirt, feet naked, wears a quizzical look.

Jabu, aged over fifty, skeletal, sweaty in lungi and soiled shirt, feet naked, wears a quizzical look. It seems that he has lost words.

A battery-driven tuk tuk driver, is also stuck in the crowd, and tries hard to swim ashore. He is sweating profusely. A passenger anxiously sits in his car. He is to catch the train. Seconds pass, his face elongates more. The driver suddenly jumps off his vehicle, fiercely catches the handle of Jabu’s rickshaw, and somehow makes a space for the passage of his vehicle.

Jabu crouches.

Meanwhile, a constable with a stick in his hand arrives on the spot. He surveys the chaotic scene, speaks nothing, charges his lathi randomly at the back of Jabu’s rickshaw and berates him for his misdeed.

Meanwhile, a constable with a stick in his hand arrives on the spot. He surveys the chaotic scene, speaks nothing, charges his lathi randomly at the back of Jabu’s rickshaw and berates him for his misdeed. Jabu is shaken and looks ashen. “What’s my fault, sir?” he tearfully mutters.

The young man, calmly seated on the Jabu’s rickshaw, lights another cigarette.

People, strangers and regulars, shopkeepers and garage-boys, praise the man in uniform for his timely service. The constable cracks a winning laughter and hastily moves towards the tea shop.

“Sir, you’ve acted on the occasion. These pullers are lice! They once sucked our blood. Now all they have vanished. A few oafs still skulk! Sir, why don’t you drive them out of the city?…”

“Sir, you’ve acted on the occasion. These pullers are lice! They once sucked our blood. Now all they have vanished. A few oafs still skulk! Sir, why don’t you drive them out of the city? They are eyesore to the beauty of our city,” exhorts the shopkeeper.

The constable agreeably grins.

The driver of the vehicle with letter F parks the car in front of the station gate. He bumps to the tea shop. The constable gaily shakes hand, firmly embraces him.

Photo from the Internet