When in Delhi a few years ago, I was looking for an address near the Red Fort. A thin, wiry 35-year-old cycle rickshaw driver assured me he knew the way. I was embarrassed to sit like a colonial in his pedicab but it seemed to be the only way. I reluctantly sat.
My intrepid pedal pusher zigzagged through all sorts of vehicles to the continuous blast of horns. When a gap opened, he was through it like a shot. We arrived at a house. No, not this one. He asked some bystanders where to find the address. One of them went to consult a local expert.
While we waited, I asked Gopal about himself. When he couldn’t find work in his rural part of central India he came to Delhi. Through a relative he began cycling a rickshaw for a rich woman owner. He shared one room with five friends, and they took turns cooking their morning and evening meal.
Gopal had to pay 100 rupees a day (about two-thirds of his average takings) to the owner. He used as little of the remainder as he could for himself so that he could send as much as he could to his family. His mother was a widow and a sister was sick. He had been more than 10 years in the city by then, but he could see no possibility of getting married.
“Could you not send less home for a while and save up to buy a rickshaw for yourself,” I asked. “Useless,” he said, “because the woman owner would bribe the licensing authority and the police and they would refuse me a license. There is no way I can ever own my own rickshaw. It is an impossible dream.”
“You have a very hard life,” I said, “is there anything that gives you happiness?’ “What makes me happy is when I get a foreign customer like you,” he answered. “I can get a bigger fare from a foreigner. That makes me happy.”
Columban Fr. Frank Hoare lives and works in Fiji.