true life planet

October 5th, 2008

I am reeling. I am a mix of moral ambiguity and a strange feeling of exhiliration.

I’ve just returned to my hotel, and run across the street through pouring rain to the internet cafe to quickly write a post about what has just happened, so I keep the freshness of the feeling on this blog.

I’ve just returned from riding in a human powered rickshaw. The kind that I’ve written about in the last entry–the ones that they are trying to ban from Calcutta. They are actually banned all over the world–Calcutta is the only place on Earth where they are still being used.

I was against riding in one of these from the start.

But somehow, I ended up riding in one.

Here’s what happened:

I was looking for the bank, an ATM…and there were none close by. Walking to one proved impossible, and landed me in an area that was so confusing that I got terribly lost and literally was praying to be found. I was in an area of town that was full of stalls, people selling things on the street, huge temporary altars of Ganesh and other Hindu Gods, traffic..noise..I couldn’t see where I was or how to get out.

My confusion was obvious, and a group of passerby stopped to help me.(So like the generous people of this city) I ended up being pointed the right way and ended up–somehow–back where I had started, near my hotel.

But I still needed money, as I was running very low, so I asked for a cab–one of the bright yellow Ambassador cabs–to take me to HSBC, the only bank that I knew of here that will take my ATM card.

I had gotten into the cab(not easy with zero leg room and enormous feet) when I was told to get out again. A crowd of taxi drivers had gathered and had told the taxi driver who had offered to take me that my destination was too close by, and that it was unfair to take a fare away from the rickshaw wallahs (the human taxis).

“Oh no”, I said, “I can’t get into one of those.”

“Why not?”, they all asked.

“Because..it’s not…right. I just can’t be carried by another human being.”, I said. ” I can’t, I just can’t.”

The rickshaw wallahs began to talk to a man who had joined the crowd…there was a crowd by now, this being the most interesting thing happening on my street for some time–since the man dying in the alley yesterday, anyway.

The man translated what the rickshaw wallahs were saying to me in perfect English.

He said, ” Look–they want you to take their taxi. They need you to take their taxi. This is their livelihood, this is how they live. A fare such as yours, that is a big fare. You will pay 4 or 5 times what a Indian will pay them–even more, if you want. They need your fare to eat.”

What do you do, when you are surrounded by a crowd of hungry Indian men, urging you to ride on one of their rickshaws, giving you an argument that you have no answer to?

” It’s immoral. I can’t. I will take a taxi.”‘ I say. Even as I say it, I know it seems ridiculous, from their point of view.

” You are wrong. It is their life. They need your fare.”, he tells me.

” We won’t take you there.”, say the yellow taxi drivers.

So I have no choice–the taxis won’t take me. I’m going to be pulled around by a human being. Oh my God. I am going to hell.

I watch as a tiny man is brought forward, bringing with him a worn down rickshaw. He sets it on the ground and gestures for me to get in.

I am afraid to step onto the thing, let alone be carried around by a human being. I feel like I am going to human rights hell in a handbasket.

After I get on, all the rickshaw wallahs applaud. The man driving me–or is carrying me?–is smiling.

Off we go.

Riding a rickshaw is unlike anything I have ever experienced. It places you smack in the center of traffic, and you have the sense that at any moment you are going to be killed, or at leat impaled by some object hurtling by you in the street.

But my driver is incredible. He is the most graceful person I have ever been around..he manages the rickshaw so it’s practically gliding thru the traffic, he’s dancing through cows, cars, bikes, people…it’s amazing. And he is doing all this while carrying me. I can’t enjoy the ride–I am wrestlin with my Western morality too much. I sink down as far as possible into the seat, trying to make myself as small as possible.

Other rickshaw wallahs smile at him and give him the thumbs up. I later learn this is because an Indian person will usually only pay 10 to 20 rupees for this ride. I’m going to pay him so much that he will stop work early and go out and celebrate.

Still. I am ashamed to be seen on this rickshaw. I can’t hide from the stares of people..although Indian people are looking at my and nodding along as though this is the most normal thing in the world, while the gringos glare at me, the big rich whitey exploiting the masses. The gringos are all like me, they think that this is the most immoral thing in the world.

I feel like the big rich whitey exploiting the masses, I do.

We arrive at the bank, and after I get some cash I buy my driver a snack. A crowd gathers, as we are in an area that is all Indian. There are no gringos to be seen–no scruffy backpackers, no tour groups, no missionaries. It’s just me and a crowd of Indians, all of them looking at this enormous white woman eating a samosa.

Someone translates back and forth, from my driver to me, and in this way, I find out some things about his life.

He’s like a character right out of Dominque Lapierre’s book, “City of Joy”, and he’s from the same area of India that the main character (who was a rickshaw wallah also) in Lapierre’s book is from. He also has the same last name– Pal. His name is Palik Pal.

He has been a rickshaw wallah for two years, and just like the main character of the book he came here with nothing. He lived on the street, although he now lives in a slum outside of the city–when he’s not sleeping in his rickshaw itself. He has four children and a wife, and another one on the way.

We get back in the rickshaw and head home, back to my hotel.

Going back through the streets from which we first came this time around, I notice alot more. I’m not as self involved about how horrible this is that I am being pulled by another huiman being. I’ve somehow or other set that aside and am looking at the fact that because he gave me the ride, he and his family will eat today–maybe even have a few extras. I never looked at something like this that way before.

I also have time on the way back to reflect on what another topic of conversation was–how the rickshaw wallahs themselves view the fact that Western tourists don’t use them much.

A few moments ago, standing eating piping hot samosas that burned my tongue, Palik had told me that tourists–white ones– don’t use the rickshaw wallahs, but they wish they would.

I couldn’t really explain to Palik why tourists–Western ones–have an issue with using a rickshaw wallah, it seemed impossible.

We were also surounded by a small crowd and more than half of them were other rickshaw wallahs, all taking part in the discussion in some way or another.

“A lot of people have stopped using us”, Palik sighed. Everyone nods in agreement.

He had continued on, explaining the absolute level of poverty and how many fares that he needs a day to pay his boss, the street boss, the rickshaw wallah boss, his rent, his family’s needs.

God. Here I am, hearing all about this from a man I just would’ve blindly walked by an hour ago. There are thousands like him in Calcutta–hundreds in my neighborhood alone.

Now, all of a sudden, I can see him see his life with it’s sense of urgency, see him like I haven’t seen anyone in India so far.

I’m grateful for this new perspective, this new view of the Indian psyche and experience–at least, one man’s view of things, anyway.

The street is so full of life on the way back. Somehow, I’m able to raise my head and look around, inside of trying to sink into the rickshaw like I was on the way to the bank.

A tiny girl balances on a tightrope, being held up by two men–a street act–and people gather around and watch.

A man makes charchol on a tiny clay oven.

Stands selling fried foods and sweets of every kind are everywhere, filling the street with smoke.

Girls party dresses and tiny salwaar kamez outfits are carried through the crowds on tall bamboo poles.

Homemade garlands of flowers, made by the very poor, are strung up around everyone from Jesus to Ganesh, are selling on the street corners.

Men on their hands and knees comb thru trash in the gutter, competing with cats.

Women, decked out in their best saris for the coming Hindu festival, fill the streets.

Groups of boys fill back alleyways, making everyhting from statues to little clay pots which will be broken after drinking tea from them.

An alley full of butchered meat is full of flies, dogs, and their puppies.

Buildings seem to tower over the streets, leaning in on them as though they are going to collaspe at any moment. Every building is damp and moldy, covered in greenery and vines, laundry and faded signs.

And human rickshaw wallahs line the streets. They are everywhere in this part of town. Pulling people around, or resting on the side of the streets waiting for a fare, they are everywhere I look.

We get back to my hotel, and Palik asks for much more money than I was originally told.

I give it to him. Who can put a cost on another human being carrying you through the street?

Afterwards, I approach the group of yellow taxi drivers/rickshaw wallahs I originally tried to get a taxi with, on the corner.

They all think that I want some of the money back from Palik, and are angry with him for overcharging me. A crowd gathers, and several young men come over and attempt to translate.

A heated debate ensues, and the crowd gets bigger.

” No problem.”, I say. ” I am happy.”

The crowd all smiles. “She is happy. She doesn’t want the money back.”, they say. Everyone is smiling and passing around bidi cigarettes.

“Yes, I am happy.”, I say. ” But I want Palik to give me a ride once a week to the bank. I will pay him well.”

They translate for Palik, who turns to me and smiles.
He says something to the crowd and everyone laughs, then one of the boys translates for me.

He says, ” He cannot believe his good luck…and he says welcome to India!”

Palik and I agree on a price, and it is agreed that he will take me over to the bank once a week and back. The price is high enough that he will now be able to take several days off a week, and rent out his rickshaw to another man. We also agree that I will not want him to drive me in the rain or bad weather, only on a clear day.

I walk back to my hotel, completely aghast with myself that I have agreed to pay a human being to drive me around once a week. But looking at their situation, and looking at it from their point of view, I now have a totally different moral code to deal with.

India is so completely mixed up. Or rather, I am completely mixed up in India. What’s right? What’s wrong? It’s easy to answer all these questions from the comfort of my own living room..it’s another thing to answer them when you are confronted with problems up close and personal.

India..it’s everything, all at once.

gigi

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