Delhiwale: A decked up rickshaw

In his 60s, Mr Abras started decking up his rickshaw only six months ago. The idea came to him suddenly.

Flowers are prettily arranged on the rickshaw’s handlebar, on the back of the passenger seat, as well as on the sides. They are also stuck on the spokes of the wheels.

Isn’t the rickshaw dressed up like a dulhan, a bride, he asks. (Mayank Austen Soofi)

“These flowers never rot,” says rickshaw puller Muhammed Abras. Of course, they don’t—they are of synthetic fabric. The rickshaw’s other decorations include sitaras, giant rakhis with cute silvery hearts tucked into them, plastic jhalars in red and yellow, and also a tiny teddy bear clamped to the handle like a talisman. This morning the lungi-clad Mr Abras is lazily lounging on the passenger’s seat; the rickshaw is parked near a chai shop in a central Delhi market. He looks on amusedly as a wonder-struck passerby starts to take pictures of the rickshaw from different angles. “People often stop to take photos of my rickshaw from their mobiles,” he says, adding that many folks also click selfies beside his carriage.

Isn’t the rickshaw dressed up like a dulhan, a bride, he asks. He confesses his own dulhan, wife Jamuni Khatoon, has never seen his “dulhan-jaisi” rickshaw. “She has never been to Delhi,” Mr Abras informs. He goes to briefly meet his family in the village in Bihar after every three-four months. Mr Abras silently makes calculations on his fingers, and says determinedly that “I’d arrived in Delhi two years before Indira’s killing in chaurasi (1984).” He refers to the assassinated prime minister by her first name as if she were still one of our present-day politicians.

Too much attention inevitably brings unforeseen irritants. “Naughty children sometimes pull out a flower, or a heart, or an entire jhalar.” Mr Abrar swiftly replaces the missing portions.

Minutes later a customer boards the rickshaw. He looks about in confusion while settling down on the seat. It is impossible to see him clearly amid so much bling—as if he were inside a bride’s palanquin. Mr Abras now starts peddling. The teddy bear on the handle trembles like a clock’s pendulum, but its smile stays in place.