The Company of a Stranger
It was the middle of the night and it was raining. The only sound was of the rain hitting the ground.
I had buried my head into my phone and was frantically redialing numbers, knowing full well that I was alone now.
I heard the rickshaw as he revved up the engine. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to stop the only rickshaw in the vicinity or let it pass and walk instead or maybe just wait.
While I was still in thought, looking at the lit up screen of my phone, he took a u-turn and stopped the rickshaw right in front of the entrance to the park.
I was being oblivious to the whole gesture, still not being able to make up my mind, when he turned around and told me, “madam, baith jayiye” (Have a seat, madam).
“Nahi bhaiya, kahi jaana nahi hai” (I don’t need to go anywhere), I said, looking up at him.
His doubts must’ve been confirmed when he saw my red nose and the tears rolling down my cheeks.
‘Still hasn’t stopped’, he must’ve thought.
“Theek hai, kahi mat jao, par baith jao rickshaw mein. Baarish kafi jordar ho rahi hai” (It’s alright. But sit in the rickshaw anyway, it’s pouring).
I was a little relieved to hear that but I was scared too. I found myself contemplating the possibilities of both accepting and rejecting that offer.
Sitting inside the rickshaw or standing in the rain on an empty road, both seemed to be equally heavy with possibilities good and bad.
It was still dark and I wanted shelter from the rain; my shoulder was hurting carrying around my heavy bag and I was tired. I trusted my gut and stepped into the rickshaw.
I slipped my hand out of the handle of my bag and placed it next to me on the seat. Taking deep breaths, I used my hands to wipe away my tears and my wet face. It didn’t help; because my hands were wet and also because my tears wouldn’t stop.
After giving me a few moments to myself, he faced me and said, “rona kyu madam? Jo bhi hua, rehne do. Ro kar kya fayda?” (Why do you cry? Whatever had to happen, did. No point in shedding tears).
A few more tears slipped, like they always do when someone consoles you. “Haan bhaiya. Pata nahi kyu hua ye sab?” (You’re right, I don’t know why this happened), I said, surprising myself. Just a few moments back, I was having second thoughts on even getting inside and here I was talking with him.
At the end of my rickshaw ride, I was glad I did.
Sitting in a stationary rickshaw with no clue of my destination, made me restless; I wanted the rickshaw to move.
“Bhaiya chaliye, rickshaw chalu kijiye” (Start the rickshaw, please).
I gave him the address of my home and started giving him directions to my house since he was not from this area and that I knew because I’d caught this rickshaw in a completely different part of town.
He knew exactly why I was crying. He’d witnessed the whole drama.
While riding to my house, he advised me to forget all that happened. He went through a few details and tried to show me how insignificant they were in the larger scheme of things, how insignificant they were to my life.
It was so strange to find myself opening up, to find myself sharing some of my insecurities and fears.
Knowing that he knows nothing, knowing that he will never know where I go with this, knowing that he will not be there to judge my actions post this hour, comforted me. I could let the veil of being in control fall and he wouldn’t be around to remind me of my weak moment.
He was a stranger and I was drawing comfort from that association.
It was like he sensed that I didn’t want to go home. He rode the rickshaw at a snail’s pace while we spoke of choices and compromises, mistakes and their lessons. When we finally reached my address, he merely stopped the rickshaw and turned the engine off. He didn’t even glance at the meter, like rickshaw-wallas generally do at the end of your journey. He just sat there and let me have my silence.
The plastic covers on either side of the rickshaw were protecting me from whatever was outside (besides the rain) and I wasn’t ready to leave that yet.
“Bhaiya, kahi aur chaliye” (let’s go somewhere else).
“Chaliye” (let’s), he said and bent down to pull the lever on his left to start the engine. The engine came to life in an instant and we continued with our ride.
This man did the one thing I really needed at that point; he kept me company.
By now, I had stopped crying and my safety fears were put to rest.
We traded stories.
He asked me about my life and I asked him about his life as a rickshaw driver on the streets of Mumbai, as a night time rickshaw driver on the streets of Mumbai.
He told me how he met people of all kinds in his rickshaw; people with problems and people with none to share, people who talk with him while others who sleep while he rides them home.
I asked him curiously, “Atrangi log milte hai?” (Do you come across weirdos?)
He laughed and said, “Sab type ke milte hai madam” (I come across all sorts, madam) and I shared the laugh with him.
“Cycle-walla! Chai peete hai” (Cycle-walla! Let’s have tea), he said.
In the middle of the night, these cycle-wallas are saviours to many in our city. If you’re desperately looking for something to keep you up, – chai, coffee, boost or a cigarette – the cycle-walla will seldom fail you.
He halted the rickshaw in front of the cycle-walla and looked into the rear-view mirror to ask me if I would like a chai or a cigarette.
“Kuch nahi bhaiya. Mann nahi hai” (Nothing at all. I don’t feel like).
“Arre madam, ek chai se dimaag full fresh ho jayega, pi lijiye na.” (A cup of tea is all you need to feel better. Have a cup).
“Mann nahi hai” (I just don’t feel like), I said.
He stepped out and was back in a jiffy. “Chai khatam ho gayi madam” (Tea’s over, madam).
“Chaliye, station chaliye. Iss time par bohot achi chai milti hai wahan” (Let’s go to the station. You get the most brilliant tea at this time).
Yes, I love the night and the little treats it offers.
As we reached the station, I peeked through the plastic cover on the right and excitedly asked him to take a u-turn. I’d spotted my favourite coffee-walla.
As he was getting ready to get his chai, he turned and looked at me, waiting for a reply.
“Mere liye ek coffee bhaiya” (One coffee for me, please).
He smiled brilliantly at me and went in the rain to get me my coffee.
What followed were conversations and silences.
As I was sipping on my coffee, I smiled at the moment I am going to cherish forever -sitting in a rickshaw and sipping on my favourite coffee, while a stranger and the sound of the rain still kept me company.
