Identity Crises

..By Rickshawala Ratan

 

Babu :  Banerjee Para Jabe??

Ratan:  Haa Babu Jabo... 

Babu :  Koto Nebe?

Ratan:  Babu Bhara to 7 Taka Kintu Bhitor er rastar Kaaj Cholchhe Bole Anek Ghure Jete Hobe Tai  

             2 Taka Beshi Lagbe

Babu :  Baaper Jomidaari Peyechho??? 1 Takao Beshi Hobena Jete Hole Ei takatei Jete Hobe....
.........................................................................................................................................................................

We the Kolkatans are well accustomed with dis kinda conversations. Howeva Tis for the first time I guess dat a rickshawpuller lyk me is writing a blog of mine own.

Am Ratan,  howeva v have been bestowed by our society with a more appealing name of  "Rickshawala" . It seems funny when people go crazy bout sustaining their entity then from a teenager to an octagenarian everyone calls us by that name. Tis fun to see all the section of our society are concerned bout renaming calcutta to kolkata , renaming park st. to Mother Teresa Sarani but had anyone eva noticed that since the invention of rickshaw we have been suffering from identity crises...  :D

The morning brawl at "koltola" of our bustee, serves as my alarm clock. While crawling out of my shanty I often trample on feet of pawchaa, khedo, kali, bashona.....ohh! sorry. I forgot to mention,  they all are my children rather to me they are props of my old age and for them am really thankful to god. We really lack proper food and accomodation but still we look forward to a better future - wat u call India Shining :D

Taking my rickshaw from its owner I start my expedition. Throughout the day I keep on ferrying passengers from one place to other. The most interesting part of our life is that v have to serve people from different section of society as the list of our clients are comprised of aspiring poiticos to local goons, from students to NGO personnels. from priests and saints to enuchs and sex workers and the list goes on..

We get to see the frustrations of an unemployed youth to the exhaustion of a corporate entity. When corruption of a police constable paves the way for humialtion then ryt at da same tym i get moved off my feet to see love and affection of a mother towards her child.

At da end of da day after getting my wage from my rickshaw owner i head towards my mecca. Tis a shanty beside the railway tracks selling country liquor. I regard dis as my Mecca coz this is the only place that infuses enthusiasm in me for my next expedition on the following day. There they serves the divine drink that help me forget the hindrances in the way of my life, That help me forget about the infidelity of my wife, that help me forget that how my elder daughter was exploitated by the self proclaimed "babus", belonging to higher class. That help me forget the daily abuse and humiliation that i have to face from the so called "society". Last but not the least that helps me forget my "identity crises" as this is the time i emerge out of the status of a stigmatic   "Rickshawala" ....