The Rickshaw Wallahs of Calcutta

Rickshaw Wallahs
They are everywhere. Crowding the curbs, trotting down alleyways and side streets, dozing in the shadows. Unlike any other city, they go without a bike. Just the power of their feet, sometimes bare, elbows cocked, leaning into the pull. Their bodies are the same; less than thin, a frugal collection of bone, skin and muscle. All day long, waiting, tugging, sleeping, sweating, calling, straining, and waiting.

They are easy to overlook. Knocked off the thoroughfares and boulevards, relegated to the backwaters of the city. Ferrying passengers and goods, or rattling empty through the streets. They are singularly quiet, with small brass hand bells, timid little voices that ring like a whisper. No match for the mass stampede of cars, busses, and trucks, and their tireless impatient horns.

They are anachronisms, functioning antiques from a different era, city, and image. For more than a century, nothing has changed. Same wagon wheels, thick wooden spokes, stiff cushions, and sweat-stained yokes. Same tired, thin bodies.

And they are marked for extinction, a decades old government policy to rid the city of their ranks. A slow steady cull of the herd that began in 1982. Like all government policies, implementation is sluggish and open to negotiation, for the right price. Their numbers, however, are dwindling.

A Viewpoint of Calcutta
Calcutta, like any Indian metropolis, exceeds imagination. Its invisible boundaries fade into a pale-blue haze and an amorphous din of sound. Fourteen million people compete for space, air, and a slice of the economic pie, from billionaires to beggars. The city numbs the senses, knocks them silly, with a relentless barrage of heat, motion, smog, and noise. By day’s end, I am a tattered collection of nerve endings; my attention careens like a pinball from stimulation to stimulation.

Perhaps because of Calcutta’s sheer magnitude, I lowered my sights, choosing a subject that is, literally, close to the ground: the rickshaw wallahs. I wanted to hear their voices and stories; what was their day like, how much money did they earn, what did they hope for… these kinds of things. And, if possible, I wanted to see the teeming untamable city through their eyes.

Over the course of a week, I met with three wallahs: Jagru, Nolrad, and Mahindra. They shared their histories: childhood in Bihar (an impoverished state to the west), migration to Calcutta, marriage and children. But mostly, they spoke of the constant struggle to survive, day-to-day, month-to-month, year-to-year. Pulling the load, to feed their family’s mouths. Their stories are similar but not identical, something akin to different shades of the same color.

I could not write this piece without Anjan Pahari, my co-conspirator, facilitator, translator, and friend. Anjan led the way, approaching each of the wallahs who were invariably standing by their rickshaws on some Calcutta street corner. He gave a brief explanation of the pale-faced, balding American, standing at his side. Then, once they gave us permission, we began a series of questions, which Anjan molded into Bengali language and sensibility.

With each subsequent encounter, Anjan and I became more adept at framing our questions, and allowing the rickshaw wallahs to respond at their own pace, comfort, and depth. The stories are presented in the chronological order of the interviews.

Jagru
Jagru has a face that seems almost hidden. Ripples of deep dark furrows run across his forehead. His eyes say little, just two dark and cloudy orbs in white pools streaked with red, resting on prominent cheekbones. From there, everything is spare; hollow cheeks, tight lips, narrow chin, the only flair, a thick mustache that he’s wound into tight curls at the tips.

We met Jagru a block from Anjan’s home. He was not the first man we approached. Two other wallahs waved us away, pointing with their lips at Jagru and then turning their backs. He stood next to his rickshaw, eyeing us nervously as Anjan explained our purpose, and then after a moment of hesitation, nodded ‘ok’.

Although we started the interview on the street, we quickly retreated to Anjan’s home down a quiet alleyway, fleeing a growing crowd of curious and animated bystanders. Jagru lowered the yoke the rickshaw next to Anjan’s gate and we climbed two flights of stairs to the library.

At first, Jagru was reluctant to sit down. He looked around the library, shifting from foot to foot, and his lips seemed to tremble with fear. I extended a chair but he refused, motioning with his hands that he would rather sit on the tile floor. Time and again I offered the chair and time and again he said no. Finally, however, he relented and lowered his weight onto the thin cushion.

Jagru told us his full name, which according to Anjan is also the name of his caste, a “very low-caste”. (It is common in India for the surname to indicate caste status). He is the father of five children; all but the oldest still live in Bihar with his wife. Only two of his children attend school; the others are, like him, illiterate. Jagru returns to Bihar every 6 months to a year, spending about a month at home; otherwise he sends money, perhaps 1000 or 2000 rupees/month ($50-$100).

“They depend on me,” he said. “We don’t have any land. I start work at 6:00 in the morning and finish at 9:00 in the evening. I work every day; I don’t take any days of rest. I pay 20 rupees per day to rent my rickshaw, and I may earn 150-200 rupees (4 to 5 dollars) all day long. I rent a room. It costs me 800 rupees each month. Who wants to do this job? For money we need to do this.”

Jagru continued to look around the library, his arms pulled tight over his chest. When he spoke, his voice was hushed and uncertain, and his words came in short and guarded responses, revealing as little as possible.

Sensing his hesitation, I asked Jagru if he had any questions for me. “Why are you doing this interview,” he asked. Anjan pointed to the books that lined the shelves, saying I was a writer. Jagru, however, wasn’t satisfied- “But what is the purpose, how will it help us the rickshaw pullers?” It was a good question and I tried to provide an answer, but it didn’t seem to quiet his doubt.

After a unsettling pause, we moved to another question, asking Jagru, “What is the most difficult part of your job?”

“When the sun is hot, this job is difficult. When the rain comes heavy, this job is difficult. I have to pull people through two, maybe three feet of water. No cars can pass in this water. My greatest sorrow is that I don’t have land. I have to leave my country and come here because I can’t earn enough to feed my family. But even though it’s hard, tears never come…”

Anjan asked Jagru what made him happy and he answered without hesitation-“We are thirsty for money. We know if we pull then we can quench our thirst. What else is there? Enough food, that is happiness” and he pulled his hand to his heart. “Every morning I pray to god. I pray that I can earn money, eat more, and not quarrel with anyone. I pray that I can earn until the last day and not depend on anyone.”

I asked him if, as a child, he thought his life would be different. Jagru didn’t respond and his face clouded with confusion as he stirred in his seat. Anjan rephrased the question in several different ways before Jagru offered an answer- “When I was a child,” he said, “I didn’t think anything about these things. My brain doesn’t work. If I was educated, I might think about such things.”

Anjan asked how he felt about the people who hired him. Jagru gave a little laugh and smiled for the first time, his lips revealing compact rows of white teeth. “The food isn’t very good, but somehow we fill our stomach. You look at my body. This is the way I’m living. The world is like this.”

Just before we finished, I asked Jagru why he wanted to sit on the floor, a question that had been stirring in my mind since the beginning of the interview- “You are coming from a higher place, a higher state,” he answered, motioning to both Anjan and myself. “You are respected. We are not. I pull a rickshaw, I wear this kind of dress,” and he pulled at his threadbare tee shirt. “I felt ashamed in my soul to sit with you. And this kind of perception, every man needs; whom we can sit with and whom we can not.”

With the interview over, we descended the darkened stairwell and emerged into the blazing mid-day sun. Jagru stepped over the rickshaw’s wooden rails and rapped his fingers around the darkened yoke. He stood in the garbage-strewn street, a checkered scarf draped across his shoulder, and posed for two quick photos, his face pulled into a forced uneasy smile. Then, without a hint of emotion, he turned his rickshaw and headed back towards his curb on a busy Calcutta street.

Nolrad
Nolrad has a timeless face. He could be forty, or sixty, depending on the light and the angle. Little flecks of white beard cover weathered, tough skin, etched with deep lines and shadows. His gaze is solid and steady, and there is a touch of light in his eyes, particularly when he smiles. He speaks with ease, and his voice has a slight edge, a hint of something strong, perhaps fierce.

We approached a column of rickshaws parked beneath the shade of a peepal tree. Several wallahs lay stretched out on the seats, their eyes closed, dozing in the thick afternoon heat. Nolrad stood beside his carriage, running a cloth across the red nylon cushion, and after a brief introduction, he agreed to the interview.

Nolrad is from the village of Madya Thapur in Bihar, and like Jagru, he has five children. His last name is Roy, which as he explains, indicates that he is from the “Goala” or “milkman caste”. He thinks he’s sixty, but he’s not certain. Nolrad has been pulling a rickshaw for nearly forty years and the economics are the same as for Jagru; 20 rupees per day for rent and if business is good, he earns between 100 to 150 rupees. Unlike Jagru, however, he sleeps on the street to save money.

Nolrad came to Calcutta when he was twenty. “My village is on the Ganga. There are lots of buildings, and one main road. My father was a farmer. He never stepped outside of the village his whole life. When I came to Calcutta, I had nothing. Some people from my own land gave me food, they helped.”

A group of men gathered around us, the word “interview” passing from one to the next. Nolrad continued talking, unfazed by the growing audience. At times he spoke for himself, and at times he seemed to speak for all of the rickshaw wallahs. “Our rickshaw is Laksmi (goddess of wealth). We respect our rickshaws, we wash them, we take care of them because it’s the place we get our food.”

I asked him what it was like to live far from his family. “We remember our family. If you stay with your family, it would be good. But god has not given us that gift. So we come here. There is no sorrow actually. As long as we are working, as long as we are eating, there is no sorrow,” and he gave a quick flash of a smile.

Nolrad said that he returns home every six months. “When I go, I feel good. My father, my grandfather, my great-grandfather, they all are from my village. It is the earth from which I come. Why shouldn’t I feel good?” He paused for a moment and then spoke about having to leave home again. “There is my wife, my children. I don’t want to come back, but I have to. I have to cover my mind. I can’t listen to my mind or heart. I have to come back.”
Nolrad lifted a tan cotton scarf and wiped his brow, pushing thick strands of graying hair to the side. The heat was stifling, even under the shade of the broad, glassy peepal leaves. “When I became a father,” he continued, “I felt ecstatic. It was the happiest day of my life. My children are in a government school. They should learn to read. They should become educated. But if it happens or it doesn’t happen, who knows?”

I asked Nolrad if he wanted his children to come to Calcutta. “My children are very young,” he answered. “When they are older, they will decide if they want to come. Why not come here? I’ve been here forty years. I’m fine, it’s safe. But I hope they wont pull a rickshaw. There is a lot of trouble with this job. It is exhausting. But if you don’t work hard, who is going to pay you money.”

Nolrad paused and looked around. One by one, the circle of listeners had drifted off, leaving just the three of us. Anjan broke the silence, asking Nolrad if he prayed to god- “We just take god’s name but he’s not going to fulfill our prayers,” he said, his gaze fixed on Anjan. “You have to pray to god, even though it is not fulfilled. I don’t believe in rebirth. God will decide if man will come back as a man, as a dog, or as a butterfly. God decides who will get money and who will not get money.”

I noticed a thin trail of string beneath Nolrad’s white cotton shirt and asked him what it signified. “This thread is full of power,” he answered, and he held it aloft between his thumb and finger. “There is a god called Hanuman (the monkey god of strength). Not even Hanuman can touch this, there is such sacredness in this thread.” Nolrad’s face filled with emotion, as he looked from Anjan to me. Then, after lowering his eyes, he tucked the woven string beneath his shirt.

Nolrad fell silent. Anjan and I nodded to each other, acknowledging that it was a good place to end the interview. Before leaving, I asked Nolrad if he would pose for a couple of pictures. He lifted his rickshaw and maneuvered the rattling frame towards the afternoon light. Next to the blurred flow of the street, with the steel carriage rising high above his bent back, Nolrad appeared different, somehow smaller, older, and diminished. He broke into a broad smile as I took a series of pictures and then turned away, barely taking note of our departure, as he searched the street for business.

Mahindra
Mahindra Roy is a wisp of a man. His thin white frock cannot hide the sinewy body below, a shadow of muscle and bone and age. He has the energy of an old man, a wavering lightness kept in check by his compact frame. When Mahindra talks, his words roll with softness, their edges blending one into the next, and he waves his hands about with the expressiveness of a mime. He has a small but well-apportioned face, gentle and relaxed, open, without a hint of aggression.

Anjan met Mahindra a day before and cleared the way for the interview. Mahindra was a good candidate; for more than 45 years he had pulled a rickshaw, observing the slow transformation of the city. He also was a natural storyteller, using every part of his body to elaborate his tales. Mahindra parked his rickshaw next to a chowmein stand on a wide and bustling street. This was his territory, and he had been coming here for years.

We sat on a bench in the shade of a banyan tree. A small circle gathered around, listening to Mahindra tell his story. He was born in Bihar, but came to Calcutta when he was 14, for, as he put it, “my tummy”. On a good day, he says he earns around 100 rupees ($2.50). He has a wife and three children, all daughters, and they live with him in Calcutta. Like Nolrad, Mahindra is from the milkman caste.

We began by asking Mahindra what he thought of his work. “You have to do work. Good or bad it doesn’t matter. You have to,” he answered. “When you have legs, you have to walk, you don’t stop.” Mahindra waved his arms around as he spoke, pointing in different directions, and patting his legs time and again. “I don’t mind much, I work, I get money. I don’t need to quarrel. If I ask for two rupees” he said, lifting two thin fingers in the air, “and he (the passenger) gives me one, I don’t mind. I don’t care, just give me the money and get lost,” and he swept his fingers across an open palm.

“When I was young, I used to travel far in my rickshaw, from this side of Calcutta to the other. People from the outside” and he motioned toward me, “would stomp their feet on the carriage and I would run faster to pass another rickshaw, and then they paid me more.” Mahindra stomped the pavement for effect, and then he snapped his fingers and laughed.

“Now that I’m old, I stay around here.” He continued with out pause. “You have to take care of your rickshaw. If you give it proper food, repair it, then the rickshaw will run fast for you. I will show you how I put the oil...”

Mahindra pushed onto his feet and walked over to his rickshaw. He slid back the cushion and reached beneath the seat, taking out a wrench and a plastic vile of oil. He moved around the carriage and pulled off one wheel, holding the rickshaw’s weight aloft with his back. He tipped a small cap of oil onto the smooth axle, and ran a piece of newspaper back and forth before refitting the wooden spoke wheel. Then he did the same on the other side. “Now I have given it food, now look how he’s speaking…” and he rattled the wheel back and forth to show us the sound.

Mahindra lifted the cushion and tucked the oil beneath the seat. I noticed that there were a lot of objects in the metal compartment: water, towels, a comb, clothes... I asked him about these things.

“There is plenty of space to keep everything. These are not mine,” he said, pointing at the tattered leather shoes on his feet. “Somebody gave them to a mochi (shoe repairman) and he threw them away. I collected them from the street and paid the mochi thirty rupees to sew on a new sole. I’ve worn them for the last three to four years. When I go home, I wear these” and he pulled out a pair of shoes from beneath the seat. The leather was clean and dark, and the laces were new. “I also change my clothes before going home, and on my way to work in the morning.”

Mahindra put his things back beneath the seat and we returned to the bench. After settling back down, Anjan asked Majindra if he prayed to god. “I worship god,” he answered. “I ask for, what else, money, but he never gives. This is my religion. I have to pray and I will plead like this.” Mahindra cupped his hands together and held them against his face, his eyes closed. “Because god is higher than us, I have to bend down. Whoever is above me,” and he pointed at me, “I have to bend down in front of him, even if he hits me. I am from the milkman caste. Any time a Brahmin comes, I have to bend down”.

“Once a year,” he continued, “I do a Biswakarma Puja. On that day, I worship my rickshaw. I worship using cucumbers, sweets, nuts, and flowers. I worship by myself.”

The afternoon sun cast deep long shadows across the street. We still had more questions but Mahindra had run out of time; he was expected at a nearby school. Before he left, we agreed to meet again in two days, to continue our conversation.

I followed him to the rickshaw, and asked him one final question- did he have a strategy for carrying fat people? He smiled. “Let me show you,” and he climbed up onto the seat of the rickshaw. “If I can get them to sit like this, no problem,” and he leaned his back against the seat, his weight resting just above the wheels. “But if they’re hunched over, it’s too hard. I can’t do it.”

Mahindra climbed back down and reached for the yoke. He had children to pick up and he didn’t want to be late.

The next time we met, Mahindra’s mood was more somber, deflated. He sat within the shadow of his rickshaw watching the flow of traffic, his hands idle at his side. We took a seat next to him, sharing a bit of idle chatter, before learning the source of his worry: the chassis of his rickshaw had broken. He began talking about the owner of the rickshaw.

“My owner has three rickshaws like this. For the last three months I have not paid him rent. I haven’t given them money because they make no repairs. A lot of repairs are needed. The owner is a professor and he doesn’t quarrel, but his mother does. The old lady is not willing to pay for the repairs.” As he talked, Mahindra kept pointing at his rickshaw.

It was easy to see his point. The carriage of the rickshaw was dented and rusted, the paint pealing in several places. The collapsible roof was a tatter of cloth and plastic, held together by a loose collection of string. Thick zigzag stitches ran up and down the frayed blue seat cushion, which was darkened by grime. “My rickshaw condition is like this,” he continued. “People don’t want to ride on this. It’s almost like another slum. If it’s new or it’s glittering then people like to sit on that.”

Anjan asked Mahindra what time he started his day. “I wake up at 3:00 AM and do my morning ablutions (ritual baths),” he answered, his voice growing a bit more animated. “At 6:00 AM I have to pick up the children for school. I have to be there on time or they will tell me to get lost. Then I come here and wait for business. I go home after picking up the children from school, around 6 or 7 at night.

“When I go from here, I stop at a little market. I buy potato, I buy carrots, and I buy vegetables. My wife might already have made the chapatti (an Indian bread). What I bring today, she cooks tomorrow. There is no savings.”

“When I get home, I take tea and then rest. When I sleep, I think I am not alive, so deep I sleep. If my wife calls my name, I am startled and jump up in my bed.” Mahindra made the motion with his body, popping straight up on the bench, as he looked from Anjan to me. Then he continued- “I wake up at 11:00 PM, eat a couple of chapattis, curry, and use some tobacco, and then I go back to sleep.”

I looked at Mahindra’s sparse, narrow frame. Veins pushed against his dark skin, and sharp lines of muscle ran through his arms and legs. I asked him where he felt most tired at the end of the day. Without a word, Mahindra touched his knees, thumb, and wrist, his hand rattling back and forth on each joint where he landed.

Mahindra was wearing the same clothes as the other day; the white frock, the lungi (male skirt) tucked up at the knees, and the recycled brown shoes. Although I thought I knew the answer, I asked him why he changed his clothes before going home.

Before answering, Mahindra poured water from a jug into his cupped hand and sprinkled it on the floor. “When I work the whole day, I am wet with sweat,” and he pointed at the drops that colored the sidewalk. “If I am fresh, with clean clothes, people will not be bothered. If I sit next to them on a bus, or I’m walking down the street, they won’t step far away from me.”

Anjan asked Mahindra if he voted. “Yes,” he said, “I vote for the Congress Party,” and he held up his flattened palm, the party symbol. “I also have a ration card.” He walked over to the rickshaw and removed two weathered books, the names Mahindra and Chinta Roy (his wife) written on the covers. He opened the book, and ran his hand across faded, white paper, filled with dates and little blue checkmarks. “Before, when we used to get our ration, we received wheat, rice, butter, sugar… all for one or two rupees. Now what the government gives, if you give it to a dog, not even the dog will eat it.”

Mahindra began talking about his three daughters, one who is married and outside of the home. ”The other two are now marriageable,” he said. “I am searching for husbands for them. Generally, if we see someone who is available, two or three of us will ask if he drinks, if he gambles, how much he earns…”

He paused for a moment, and then talked about the dowry. “They (the groom’s parents) will ask for two or three lakhs (2-300,000 rupees), but I will give 20,000 rupees. I will also have to buy a watch, kitchen utensils, and a bicycle. Families used to ask for a radio, but now they want a television,” and he cupped his hands around his eyes to show what he meant. “I also will have to buy my daughter her bracelets.”

We asked Mahindra where he would get the money for the dowry. “I will borrow it from somebody,” he answered. “I also will go around asking for money, taking a little from him, and from him,” he said, pointing in different directions, “and from saving a little bit here and there.”

We took a break while Mahindra ate his lunch, a plate of steaming chowmein. He pushed the brown noodles into his mouth, holding the small tin plate close to his chin; it was four in the afternoon and he had not eaten since leaving home that morning.

Mahindra stood up and walked over to his rickshaw. He pulled out a faded plastic bottle, leaned his head back, and poured a stream of water into his open mouth, holding the nozzle an inch above his lips. When he returned to the bench, Anjan asked him about the happiest and saddest moments in his life.

“When my first daughter came onto the earth, I was very happy.” He paused for a second, and then continued, his arms never resting for the length of the tale. “The saddest day is when my mother died. A disease came to the village and five or maybe eight people died. I was a little boy, three or four. My father used to drink. We were very poor and we didn’t have much to eat. After my mother died, I had to make the chapatti.”

Mahindra continued talking, drifting from stories, to his worries, to stories, in one flowing narrative. “What is happening, what will happen? I have three daughters. One is married. The other two will go. I don’t have a son. My wife and I will be alone. Who will take care of us? Have you seen this body? After thinking all this, can you see my condition? I am skin and bones. I don’t have blood like you, my hands are not rosy like yours,” and he pointed his finger into his dark, lined palm. “When I get old, what will I do?”

“When I first came here there were eleven rickshaws on this street: seven on one side and four on the other. Now there is just me. The government is going to the ban the rickshaws. They say they are going to help us, give something to the rickshaw wallahs, but it’s all false promises. The government knows why they are going to ban, we don’t know why.”

“My wife” he said, as his lips sunk into frown, “she prepares food and quarrels. If she doesn’t get proper food she quarrels, it’s natural. But from the beginning,” and he pointed down the street to where they were married, “she was always quarrelsome. Quarrelsome is the word, right?” and he looked from Anjan to me.

As with our previous interview, we ended our conversation with Mahindra by asking him about God. He took a moment and then began a long rambling response, part theater, part philosophical treatise. “Lord Shiva is god. Shitla is a goddess. Earth is god,” and he stomped on the ground. “We may walk on that,” he said, motioning toward the pavement “but that is god” Then he pointed to the tangled, weaving trunk of the banyan tree. “It’s a god, it gives us shade, right?”

Mahindra clasped his hands together, closed his eyes, and let out a groan- “Naraiiiii.” He paused for a moment with his eyes closed, and then continued. “God is one but the pattern is different. Kali sticks out her tongue,” and he made the face of the goddess kali, his pink tongue pressed between teeth. “Ram stands straight with his bow and arrows,” and he rose to his feet and held out his arm. “Lord Shiva holds the trident,” and Mahindra ran his hand up and down, as if holding a long wooden pole. “The day starts with god. We Bihari people say ‘Sita Ram’, you Bengali people say ‘Naraiiiii’. When we take our morning bath, we say ‘dear father oh what cool water’ and we say ‘Sita Ram.’ Only the name changes. God is one.”

Mahindra sat back down, letting his words settle and rest. Just before we finished I asked him what he thought about death. “Who knows about death,” he answered. “Whenever somebody dies, he goes to heaven. Here we are all in hell.”

Mahindra moved towards his rickshaw and reached into a pouch that clung to his waist, pulling out a silver flask. He opened the round lid and poured a small mound of tobacco flakes into his palm, massaging them with his thumb, and rubbing his two palms together, back and forth. Then, just before lifting the wooden yoke, he raised his palm to his mouth, pulled back the lower lip, and poured the tobacco between his teeth and gum in one smooth and practiced motion.

Moments later, he was off, pulling his wounded rickshaw into the yellow light of the sun.

A First and Last Ride in Calcutta
On the last day I was in Calcutta, I boarded my first and only rickshaw in the city. My puller was a young man, perhaps in his late twenties, and his body had a thickness, a latent and ample source of strength that I had not seen in Jagru, Nolrad, or Mahindra. I sat about four feet above his head, my view unencumbered, as we jostled through the battered uneven street.

I leaned back into the shade of the green canvas canopy and rested my feet on the steel carriage floor. The wheels churned underneath as the wallah gripped the yoke, his bare feet powering across mud and pavement, and his blue sweat-stained shirt lit by the blazing sun. At first it was subtle, an indistinct impression slow to take shape. But the further we traveled, the longer he pulled me through the streets of Calcutta, the more real and alive it became; I felt a sense of power. It was not an intellectual process, a thing of the mind. It was visceral, palpable, and true.

I climbed down from the rickshaw at the entrance of Park Street, a bustling commercial thoroughfare that had banned rickshaws. I turned and handed the wallah thirty rupees, knowing that this would cover his day’s rent, if he paid the owner. As I walked away, bags hoisted on my back, I thought about the ride: the feel of the carriage, the view of the street, and the sight of the wallah below. I knew that this was his job, his livelihood, and that thirty rupees would help feed his family. These thoughts, however, were not without shadows of doubt. Even with solid pavement beneath my feet, I couldn’t quite set aside the slow dissolving sensation of power, retained as an almost light and heady feeling.

Final Notes
When I was in college, a little over twenty years ago, a friend passed a scribbled note beneath the door of my apartment. He wrote three, maybe four sentences, on a scrap of green, heavy-stock paper, saying he had stopped by, and offering encouragement during an undeniably difficult period in my life.

This friend, who is long since lost to the world, was instrumental to my India longing, although this fact may come as a surprise to him as he didn’t really like the place. He was one of those people who briefly appeared in my life and then cast a long and lasting influence. Like others, he set something in motion that eventually would manifest in a direction, including three trips to the great Indian Subcontinent.

Somewhere in the note that I found lying on my living-room floor, he wrote the quote- “There but for the grace of god, go I.” At the time, I didn’t get it; I came up with some interpretation that probably reflected the self-absorption of my age. It was only years later, I no longer remember when, that the actual meaning dawned upon me. In truth, my friend James was pointing to the fates of others, and with an unerring sense of compassion.

I don’t know why my consciousness came to light in a cold and stark delivery room at Johns Hopkins Hospital, and Jagru, Nolrad, and Mahindra’s emerged in the impoverished villages of Bihar. Nor do I understand why my parents happened to be young, ambitious physicians, and the wallahs’ parents, farmers in a society where caste defines the very boundaries and potential of life. From this vantage, birth seems like a lottery, a crapshoot in which there are clear winners and even more losers. And although countless religions, including Hinduism and Buddhism, have offered justifications for this high stakes game of chance, I myself cannot fathom the reasons behind such mysteries.

I do know that I would not want to be a rickshaw wallah in India, particularly on the unforgiving streets of Calcutta. Jagru, Nolrad and Mahindra provided a brief glimpse of an alternative life; something that just as easily could have been mine. They pull people with their own brute force and what they earn they eat. They do this everyday, for twenty, thirty, forty years, until their bodies can pull no longer. In spite of the strength and resiliency, which is amply evident in their faces, words, and bodies, life is a daily struggle to survive with no room for error. The rickshaw wallahs are one; perhaps two steps up from desperation.

I also know that there are worse fates in India. I see them every day, in every direction; discarded souls, where all hope has extinguished, even the flicker of “never fulfilled prayers”. And so, after everything is said and done, the interviews, notes, and this story, one fact keeps rising to the surface- I’m an unbelievably fortunate person.

(Jagru, Nolrad, and Mahindra each received payment at the end of the interviews.)