by Vani Viswanathan
Ghanshyam watched, beedi at the corner of his mouth, as the boy furiously rubbed at a muddy shoe. The owner of the shoe stood on his heels, clutching the grilled fence nearby. His socks had holes at the big toes. Ghanshyam moved his eyes back to the boy. His hair was brown, a sign of what Ghanshyam knew was malnutrition. The boy’s ears were pierced, and he wore silver rings on them. Tribal, must be, thought Ghanshyam. Poor tribal kid who’s come to try his luck in the big city. He’d seen the boy often, outside the metro station, where Ghanshyam waited for a passenger on his cycle rickshaw. The kid managed four or five customers the entire day, at most. Who bothers with shoe shines these days?! Ghanshyam had once dropped off a customer who, before entering the building, had run his feet under some machine which polished his shoes. “Poor donkey,” he muttered to himself, shifting his beedi to the other corner of his mouth.
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“Bhaiyya Q block, bees, bhaiyya,” Arti said, climbing on to the rickshaw, as the middle-aged man began pulling her weight. These were times she felt happy she was a skinny person. But every cycle rickshaw ride was heartbreaking for her. Why did these things still exist, in this day and age? she wondered. The man wore a tattered full sleeve formal shirt and trousers that he’d folded up until above his ankles. Clothes “generously” given away by someone, she was sure. She wondered how much he made each day. Say, two trips an hour, at twenty each? And let’s say he worked twelve hours a day? 480 rupees. And then there was the rickshaw rent, sure to cost at least 150 each day. She gulped. What would he do with just 300 a day?! Feed kids, pay rent, buy medicines! And here I was, she thought, haggling for paying twenty instead of thirty.
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Namrata turned up the volume on the radio. Another one of those Honey Singh songs. God, hasn’t Bollywood had enough of him? she muttered, but not bothering to reduce the volume. The car went through one particularly bad pothole on the road, and she swore loudly. She was sure she’d scratched the bumper. As she pulled out, she saw a girl in a rickshaw on the other side of the road, who just about managed to catch her bag from falling into a similar pothole that the rickshaw had gone into. Namrata chuckled. At least she was not in that unfortunate position. The poor girl in the rickshaw was flustered, pulling her dupatta about and holding her bag in a firm grip while she held the rickshaw with the other hand. It was sweltering hot. She couldn’t imagine ever being out without her car, and clucked her tongue with sympathy for those who had to go around in public transport.
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Tipu loved the smell of polish. Despite the fact that he sat with it day in and day out and had a hard time scrubbing it off his dirty hands. As he moved his hands to wipe the sweat off his forehead, he quickly, secretly took a long whiff of the polish. His ears perked up as he heard faintly the new Honey Singh song. A red car, with the song blaring, zoomed past him before screeching to a halt at the point when the road turned to join a busy intersection. He continued to listen to the song as the car inched into the main road. The song ended and some man kept talking on the radio for the next few minutes, as the woman driving the car honked impatiently. Tipu grinned, showing white teeth with steaks of black (polish, of course). “Poor woman,” he thought, as he took another long whiff of the polish on his fingers. Even a car didn’t mean you could reach your destination quickly!
Pic from https://www.flickr.com/photos/30557460@N05/
