The Rickshaw Ride

Thamel’s streets were vibrant that Friday evening. As the minutes ticked away, they lit up one by one and filled with people who were either scrambling to get home to their families for the weekend, or aimlessly wandering into random clubs and restaurants seeking a momentary escape from their lives. Sushil could tell the difference between the two as he stood by his rickshaw and watched them pass by.

Cars, scooters, bikes, pedestrians- all crammed into the narrow gullies that somehow, seemed as though they could open up endlessly to fit the entire world. It was what Sushil loved about the place. He’d lived there his entire life and was surrounded by people who constantly complained about wanting to move somewhere more serene in the outskirts of Kathmandu. But there was something about all the chaos and uncertainties of living in Thamel that made him feel alive.

Sushil’s eyes wandered and drifted towards an overcrowded canteen across the street, where its owner was swamped with impatient customers. He noticed a pile of freshly cooked samosas sitting on a tray next to other varieties of sweets and oily snacks. With rays of golden sunlight falling upon them in that very moment, the samosas looked especially appetizing. Sushil licked his lips as his stomach let out a growl.

Business had been rather slow for a Friday, and he’d already skipped lunch. At this point in the day, his energy was low and he cared very little about picking up any more customers. He patted his pocket and decided to spend the mere twenty rupees he had. But before he’d taken more than two steps towards the canteen, he noticed a suited man waving at and running towards him. Sushil groaned. The samosas would have to wait.

The man approached him, slightly out of breath. “Will you please take me to Swayambhu?” he asked politely. “I know it’s a bit far, but I’ll pay whatever you want.”

Whatever I want? A million rupees would be great, thank you, Sushil thought sarcastically. He wondered how many samosas that much money could buy.

“Excuse me? Are you listening?”

Damn those samosas. “Swayambhu is quite far, you know. Wouldn’t it be better if you just took a taxi?”

The man pulled out a thousand rupee bill from his pocket as Sushil carefully studied him. “Please, I’ll give you more if you want. I don’t see any other rickshaws around here.”

Sushil hesitated. The man looked well-dressed and seemed to have enough money to easily afford a taxi. Why take a rickshaw? As curious as he was, though, none of it really mattered. This was his chance to make up for the entire day’s loss. He didn’t doubt that the man would’ve paid more, but a thousand was enough for Sushil. He took a damp rag, wiped the passenger seat, pulled over the hood of the rickshaw, and motioned to his customer by ringing the bell.

The man smiled as he sat down, carefully resting his back against the seat and placing his hands on his lap. “I appreciate it,” he said.

“Get comfortable, it’s going to be a long ride,” Sushil replied as he looked into the mirror.

He then peddled, slowly at first, picking up the weight of both the rickshaw and the two men. His hunger had subsided but he felt his stomach burn with acidity. He began whistling a tune to distract himself, and carefully steered the rickshaw through and away from Thamel’s chaos.

…

The sky—ablaze with golden light just moments earlier—had begun to soften into a faint orange. On the contrary, the roads were getting wider and louder; people recklessly honking their horns, music carelessly being blared from street shops, and dust particles flying everywhere. Levels of pollution in Kathmandu were at their peak during this time of the day. Sushil knew that it wasn’t typical for a rickshaw to be out on the bigger roads, as they were typically reserved for tourists who wanted a quick experience of the local gulleys. But he also knew that he needed this sale. He continued on, inviting glares from several agitated vehicle drivers.

The two men hadn’t spoken a single word to each other until 20 minutes had gone by and the suited man finally gave in.

“My father was a rickshaw driver.. a long time ago.”

Sushil glanced in the mirror. “Oh, he was? What does he do now?”

“He isn’t alive anymore.”

Sushil wasn’t quite sure what to say, so he remained quiet, looking straight ahead with his eyes fixated on the road.

“I’ve very fond memories of riding on his rickshaw, though,” the man continued. “He’d take me everywhere on that thing.”

“You must miss him,” replied Sushil, as he slowed down and stopped for a pedestrian.

“I do. And wow, I can’t even remember the last time I rode one of these.”

Sushil smiled. “I have a son myself. He’s 11. Right at that age when they start feeling like you’re an embarrassment.”

The man chuckled. “Oh yes, I know.. I was the same.. But your son will grow out of it, don’t worry.”

Sushil fell silent for a few seconds before the rickshaw began moving and the conversation picked up again.

“Oh I’m not worried about that, really,” he replied. “What he wants to think is up to him. All I know is that he’s a smart kid and he deserves a future better than the one I’m giving him right now.”

As the man listened to those words, a feeling of sadness overcame him and for a few seconds—the rickshaw driver he’d met only thirty minutes ago—felt familiar in a way he couldn’t immediately pinpoint. It was a fleeting moment, but it was enough to hold the man’s curiosity towards the stranger in front of him. He wanted to know more.

The conversation continued and the two discovered that although they were around the same age, their worlds were disparate. The man was an entrepreneur, who often traveled to different places in search of ideas and inspiration. As he recounted stories of his adventures, Sushil couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to live such a life. Though he was quite content with his own, there were times when he’d wish for things to be easier, at least for his son’s sake, if not anything else.

But he wasn’t one to dwell on the sorrows and misfortunes of life. Realizing that his thoughts had wandered off, he quickly recollected himself and glanced in the mirror, noticing that the man was busy scribbling something into a little black book. Sushil felt a sense of appreciation towards this man, who at least seemed to appreciate his profession as a rickshaw driver, and with whom his life had intertwined for those few, short-lived hours.

The voices of the two men echoed from the rickshaw as it traveled on the rugged and dusty streets of Kathmandu. Prayer bells rang in the distant background as the sun slowly disappeared into the horizon, and the smell of burning wood and incense filled the atmosphere.

…

The sky was pitch black by the time they reached Swayambhu. The rickshaw stopped next to a peepal tree in an area that seemed awfully quiet compared to Thamel. A few beggars lay on the street and stray dogs roamed about barking and searching for some food.

“Here we are,” said Sushil, as he dismounted the cycle to stretch his legs.

The man stepped off, reached down his pockets to pull out the thousand rupees, and handed it over to the driver, smiling. Sushil carefully placed the money inside his shirt pocket. When he looked back up to say goodbye, the man had already turned around and begun walking, rather quickly, until he eventually disappeared into a dark alleyway. It was strange, thought Sushil, but he was too tired to care. His feet ached, his fingers were stiff, and above all, he was famished.

He reached Thamel at around 9 pm and parked the rickshaw inside a quiet gulley. The laughter of drunk partygoers echoed from the streets. As he went behind to the passenger’s seat to clean it one last time, he noticed laying there a neatly-folded coat. It was the man’s. With his eyes mostly on the road, Sushil hadn’t even noticed him take it off. He picked it up and curiously examined the pockets. In one he found the book, in which the man had been scribbling earlier. The other pocket held a rather heavy, white envelope. Sushil looked around to make sure nobody else was there before carefully tearing it open. Inside was a thick stash of hundred dollar bills. His heart raced and his fingers trembled. Taking slow and deep breaths, he counted exactly $20,000.

...

Sushil decided to eat his dinner at the canteen. One last samosa sat on the tray as if it had been waiting for him all along. He paid for it, found a table, and sat down with the plate in front of him. He pulled out the book and opened it. Reminders of birthdays, meetings, anniversaries, and holidays filled its pages. Flipping to today’s date, he saw words written in neat, cursive handwriting.

“March 12. Remembering Baba. Visit Swayambhu.”

Suddenly, it made sense to Sushil why the man had been so insistent on riding the rickshaw that evening. He continued reading.

“Fate is a funny thing. As I sat on your rickshaw today to honor my father one last time, I couldn’t help but feel as if it was him driving me. I wouldn’t be where I am today without my father. This money was on its way to charity, but I hope with it you can give your son the future he deserves. Please do not try to find me, I will have already returned to the States.”

Sushil read the lines a few more times before closing the book and placing it on his lap. The coat and the envelope lay next to him on the seat. He pulled the plate towards him and stared at the samosa. As flashbacks of the events earlier that day started flooding his subconscious, he wondered what would've happened if he'd gone into the canteen and missed seeing the man wave at him. Fate was a funny thing, indeed, he thought as he smiled and picked up the samosa, taking a big bite out of it. Though now cold and stale, it was the best samosa he’d ever eaten.