Saturday 15 August 2020

Vignesh Siva, Short Story 2020, Featured Writer

The Rickshaw Puller

His name was Raja Gopalan. Ten children, including me, used to commute from home to school and back in that blue hollow-cylindrical tricycle rickshaw. He was responsible for the safety and well-being of all the ten naughty and mischievous rascals.

Unlike the normal cycle rickshaws you’d see in and around transporting people from one place to another, this school tricycle rickshaw throws a distinct appearance. It has two wooden slab benches which allowed the children to be seated facing each other. The cage is fully covered to protect us all from both sun rays and rainfall. The tail-end has a fitted one-step platform for the children to climb in, and the anterior drivers' area where our commanding pilot manoeuvres his vehicle that resembles the front portion of a normal bicycle. In fact, in the local language, such type of rickshaws are referred to as ‘cage rickshaw’.

I very well remember him and his wonderful rickshaw.

Unlike the normal rickshaw pullers, you’d see who’re skinny and struggling to pedal the three hundred kilo weight every single day combating their poverty, our Raja Gopalan was different. He was tall, dark, and handsome. A well-built body is attributed to the years and years of rickshaw pulling. He always wears a half hand shirt which is mostly white in colour and a dirty multi-coloured lungi right up to his thighs were his inner half trousers are always visible. His mouth is red in colour at all times since he keeps on chewing betel leaves – sometimes as quid, sometimes as paan, but definitely with tobacco.

A long thick moustache that mirrors the handlebar of a Royal Enfield motorbike, twirls at both ends. Thick eyebrows, hair, and body hair signify his hardship right from early childhood working in the farms of his village. His slippers are worthy of mention – never I’ve seen him change his footwear. They were made of tractor tire, robust and long-lasting.

He carries a brown leather bag with him which has a box of snuff powder, betel leaves, and nuts, carbonated lime, a few documents related to the rickshaw, and the tiny purse in which he used to keep coins.

I asked him once why does he always chew this thing which makes his mouth all red and burning. His reply was, “It’s a mild stimulant. It suppresses hunger, reduces stress, and heightens my senses while I’m driving this rickshaw.”

He spoiled his health to make a living. A three-kilometre journey from the busy mint street of Sowcarpet to our school near Parry’s corner in Madras and he pulls and pedals with all his might. The scorching summer heat oozes out perspiration all across his body. When we reach our school or back to my home, I find his shirt soaked and wet with sweat.

Every now and then, I used to climb up on the driver seat trying to pedal the rickshaw. “All of you are studying in an English convent school not to become a rickshaw-pullers in the future!” he snaps at my action.


The best part of riding the rickshaw is the warning bell system. There’d be a rope attached between the handlebar and the body of the tricycle rickshaw and when you pull that cord a small bell-shaped metal that is attached to the base-rod of the vehicle creates a cling-clang. Hearing that funny sound, people walking on the streets give way to the chariot which carried our tiny impish souls.

“Ah! Yes. It’s a tough job. Body aches are a natural process and they won’t let you sleep at nights,” Raja Gopalan used to confess very often.
“What do you do then, rickshaw-kar?”

“I drink arrack or sometimes brandy during the weekends and get some good night's sleep. That’s all,” he used to wink with a sly grin.

It might be true as well, but I haven’t seen him drunk when he reported for work, neither stinking nor wobbly. Hardly is he ever absent from his duty. Almost eight years of my life he was like another parent.

Coming back to the tiny purse filled with coins, I feel embarassed even thinking about it now. All the children including myself used to demand a little money from him to buy those candies and roadside treats right after our school. Poor fellow earns peanuts as a monthly fee from our parents to escort us to school every day, and we naughty bunch of little brats collected minimum twenty-five paise or fifty paise from him every other day.

One fine day out of curiosity, I asked him
“Why do you give away your money to us?”

His reply was,
“I’m married for fifteen years da. I don’t have a child. My wife and I met many doctors, visited many temples, and worshipped all gods. Nothing happened. I treat all of you as my children, so I don’t mind giving you guys the money”.

I prayed he could bear a child for his good heart.

Roughly calculating it was just five percent of his overall income, but at that point in time, my mind wandered for pleasure rather than analysing. He doesn’t have to pay tax, but he paid us every single day without fail.

One day when he distributed the money, I donated it to a poor beggar lady who was demanding money from me as she was very hungry. Seeing this, Raja Gopalan gave me another coin to buy some treats.

From that day onwards, he gave me twice the amount than he usually gave me. And he knew I’d donate the other half to the poor and needy seated outside our school church.

Whenever he gave those two coins, he slightly pinched my left-hand pinkie finger and said, “Do your duty of helping others, it saves you and your life whenever required.”

Like a famous Tamil song lyric from a 1960’s black-and-white movie. It got registered in my mind like an un-erasable imprint. I’d take those two coins, donate one of them, and use the other one to treat myself. The profound value of sharing with others while you earn something was not taught to me at school, it was taught outside the school gates. I got enlightened by a man who hadn’t even stepped his foot on the entrance of a school for a formal education whatsoever.

After the eighth standard going to the school by a cycle rickshaw invited harassments and bullying by your own friends. So, I learned the art of riding a bicycle and started going to school independently using my own second-hand bicycle. To be sure I was taking the right path, Raja used to guide me and follow me in the initial days.

Even though I was no longer a customer using his services, he still gave away those tiny coins for me to get the sweetmeats. And I duly donated my share to the needy. Habits die hard and even when my father gave me some pocket money as well, I donated it.

1996 was the year I graduated from higher secondary, ready to go to college. I met Raja Gopalan outside the school premises holding my twelfth standard results.
“Ah. Finally, the small boy I knew has grown up!” he screamed feeling happy and proud.

I could merely grin ear to ear, nod my head, and swallow up the embarrassment. I wasn’t a topper, nor did I fail the examinations. I’m from the vast majority of people whom they call “average student”.

But yes, the time had come to move forward in life. School was over and this rickshaw puller had been one of the strongest pillars of support and I could stride confidently the next chapter of my life. He gave me two one-rupee coins once again.

I donated one of the coins to a beggar-woman who appeared shabby in her torn clothes right in front of the church and I put the other coin in my pocket. I looked back to get a glimpse of Raja; he was smiling.

That was the last time I ever saw him.

I went to college to do my engineering from Hyderabad, a little away from Madras. I managed to keep that one-rupee coin with me in my wallet all along. That coin reminded me to always share my earnings with the less fortunate ones. Whatever little pocket money I was able to save, I gave away as a donation or food.

During my final year, I visited Madras which had been renamed to ‘Chennai’ very recently. I got to know about the sad demise of our beloved Raja Gopalan. I met all my ‘rickshaw’ buddies and found out his home in one of the busy slums near Kasimedu to pay our last respects. I surely respected him.

It had been sixteen days since he had passed away and his last rites and rituals were being performed. In the tiny house, bustling with so many relatives and friends who were performing pooja, cooking, or serving the guests.

All of us just stood outside the house mourning his death. His photo was adorned with a small flower garland that was hanging from corner to corner of the photo frame. A small Kamatchi Amman lamp lit with the help of oil and cotton wicks was effusing black smoke. His photo was sprinkled with ash powder, sandalwood paste, and kumkuma powder which depicted the departed soul as essential part of god.

People gathered there were gossiping and chit-chatting and we understood that he died of testicle hydroxyl infection. A case wherein the impact of inflammation of the male reproductive tract is pretty high. It is commonly seen in the hardworking community of labour workers. Rickshaw pullers, bullock cart drivers, fishermen, coolies and construction workers mainly suffer from this.

One of the relatives of Raja Gopalan noticed us and he brought us water to drink which we refused.

“I don’t recognise you people. Sorry, who are you people?” he quizzed us with a smile.

“Raja Gopalan used to commute us to our schools every day. It has been a few years now since we left the city for college and there no communication between us. We were unaware of his ill fate...” I replied genuinely.
“Yes. He struggled for a couple of years before giving up.”

I had noticed a small kid of about five or six years old playing with some toys and was curious to know who it was, from that relative.

“Oh. That’s their child. Raja Gopalan’s brother and his wife died in a gory accident about six years ago. This kid was barely two months old then. Raja Gopalan and his wife adopted this child. He was very fond of his son. He was always showering him with utmost love and attention. Poor soul, don’t know what Kamala and this young boy are going to do now after his demise. He always wanted his son to study in the same school as you guys but he did not have the financial capability to do that”

“Kamala is?” one of my friends probed.
“His wife. Both of them wanted their son to get a good education and be well off rather than stuck in this slum doing menial jobs without anything to accomplish in life,” he said.

I was just happy to see the kid roaming and playing around the house. Sad to know that the child was not aware that his father would never come back. It seemed as if the man’s dreams and teachings had also been cremated along with his lifeless body.

I took it very personally. He passed away, but his teachings, principles, and dreams must not die. After my engineering, I got placed in one of the best IT companies in the world. Everyone was talking about the internet, computer systems, and Y2K. When I received my first month's salary, my mother advised me to donate it to the hundi of the Tirumala Tirupati temple. I donated only a hundred bucks.

I sent a money order postmarking Kamala Raja Gopalan to their home address. I did not reveal myself, or my address or any identity. They could not call me or refuse the money.

I wrote a note as below,

Hello, I owe a lot to your husband. I got to know his only dream in life was to give a convent education to his child. Do not worry about his educational expenses. I shall send some money every month. Please use that to pay for his school education. After schooling, he’ll figure a way out. I miss Raja Gopalan as a person and I believe this small amount every month will suffice for the little boy’s education. Let us make the Raja Gopalan’s dream come true.

- Yours sincerely,
an anonymous well-wisher

I attached an acknowledgment form every time I sent the money. A duly stamped acknowledgment from the postal department I received every month. They are accepting the money and I was hopeful they were using it to pay for the school fee. I felt happy that a rickshaw puller’s son was able to study in a convent school because of the little help from me.

I donated five percent of my monthly salary for the child. The exact five percent that Raja Gopalan had allocated for treating us when we were little. And the one-rupee coin he had given me changed from one purse to another, my wallets wore out and I replaced them, but not that coin.

Ten years went by, technologies changed from C, C++, Java, Oracle, .Net, and whatnot. As a software developer, I upgraded my skills to still survive in the corporate world with a fat pay cheque. The year 2010 was when I got married. For a couple of years, I got an opportunity to work on-site. With my newlywed wife, our lives moved from Chennai to New Jersey.

I got a message on Orkut and Facebook from one of my friends who was one of my cycle rickshaw companions. The year 2010 had seen a student from our school becoming the district first by scoring the maximum marks in higher secondary examinations which were conducted across the state. He told me it was none other than Raja Gopalan’s son. He said it was there in all the local newspapers. Headlines were blaring everywhere.

Son of a Rickshaw Puller is a TN HSC Board district topper!

A feeling of utmost happiness. Perhaps, that extreme joy when a mother sees her new-born child for the first time. I sent my last money order without including any identifying information to the family congratulating the boy for his success and applauding the hardship of the mother.

If Raja Gopalan would have been alive, he would have felt immensely proud and content.

Shortly after our visit from the US, my wife delivered a beautiful young boy. There were some serious complications in the childbirth. The doctors warned us that C-section or normal delivery would lead to a huge amount of blood loss and her body was not capable of it.

Her low oxygen count in blood did not help much. Right after her C-section operation, she went unconscious. How much ever the doctors tried, we were not able to retrieve her. After a week of being in a coma, she passed away.

I did not marry anyone after that. The pain and suffering left a deep wound in my heart. The wound was still fresh. The sole reason for living my life was my son. These eight years I had stopped donating my share of the salary as well. I had this feeling of betrayal that even though I had donated heartily, dharma had not helped me. I had lost her.

The loss was irreplaceable.


As a woman was dragged on a stretcher from the X-Ray room to the general ward of the government hospital, my senses came back to the normal world. My entire life passed through my mind within three minutes.

The old lady was smiling, looking unassumingly at my tensed nervous face.

The door of the emergency ward opened, and I saw my child walking towards me. He was weak but he seemed alright. He found me near the waiting area and embraced me as we met each other.

“Are you alright dear?” I questioned him planting a peck on his cheek.
“I’m fine Appa,” he mumbled.

A nurse followed right after him and handed me a chit of paper. The fee I needed to pay to the doctor.

“Ma. The doctor is free now for a few minutes. He says he’ll meet you and have lunch. Shall we go?” the nurse guides the old lady towards the doctor’s cabin that is right next to the emergency ward.

The old lady walking for a few steps towards the doctor’s cabin stopped after a moment. She turned around, sauntered towards me and slightly pinched my left-hand pinkie finger and said, “Do your duty of helping others, it saves you and your life whenever required.”

I stood there awe-struck. With my mouth slightly open, it was a shocker. Little did I notice, the name board of the doctor was right on the entrance door of his cabin!
It read – Ganesh Raja Gopalan MBBS

I read the slip given to me by the doctor. It read – doctor’s fee – one rupee.
My eyes brimmed with tears.

“Really Appa, I’m fine. You don’t have to worry. Let’s go home,” my child said squeezing my pants tightly.
“Yeah, yeah, sure.” I wiped the flowing tears off my cheeks and paid the fee at the counter. The exact same coin I received from my rickshaw puller the last time I met him.

Three days later:
The person who rides school auto-rickshaw visits my home to collect his fee. He is the one who commutes my child and the other two children from this apartment to the nearby school every day.

Pandemic restrictions being set in the building – no outsiders were allowed inside the premises. I came near the entrance gate to greet him.

“Due to the lockdown, there will be no schools. Auto transportation is also completely halted. Very difficult times for daily labourers like me, Sir...” he was venting-out his troubles.

“I need to find another job, till the normalcy returns. I had just one wish. My daughter is of the same age as your son. I wanted her to study in that big English convent school, Sir. She studies well although, looks like it’s impossible now. She might find a good career,” he said.

“Thank you. Let us meet when the school’s re-open sir.”
He was about to leave.

“Don’t worry about your daughter’s education. Enrol her in a good convent school just as you desire. I’ll take care of the expenses,” I said.

“I cannot thank you enough, Sir.” The man was overwhelmed with joy. I could see a droplet of tear on the corner of his eyes.

“Thank you. See you sir and take care.” He muttered those words before leaving out of the gate. As he walked past the pedestrian crossing, he turned around to give a final glance, I saw Raja Gopalan instead of the auto-driver. The same unaltered smile, energetic walk, fearless attitude, and a good heart to make the future generation better.

“If you protect the dharma even if it is difficult, it will protect you even if it is impossible.”

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