Conversations with Raju, the Cycle Rickshaw Man

Chawri Bazar, with its narrow alleys and bustling markets, pulses with life in the heart of Old Delhi. Amidst the cacophony of vendors and shoppers, I met Raju—an unassuming man with sinewy arms and a sun-kissed face. His cycle rickshaw, adorned with faded marigold garlands, leaned against a wall. As we settled on a wooden crate, Raju’s eyes crinkled in anticipation.

“Raju, how long have you been pedaling these streets?”

Raju, grinning” Oh, it’s been a lifetime. Since I was a boy, I reckon. My father was a rickshaw puller too. Passed it down like an old shirt.

“And what keeps you going?” The sun, the rain, the traffic? I questioned with curiosity.

Raju, leaning on his rickshaw” The people, Their stories. You see, I’m not just a rickshaw wallah; I’m a listener. They sit here, tired or curious, and spill their hearts. I pedal and collect their joys and sorrows. “ 

I probed further, “Please tell me about a memorable passenger.”

Raju looking into the distance “Ah, there was this old woman—Amma, they called her. Fragile as a dried leaf. She’d sit here every morning, her eyes searching. Said her son had left for the city years ago. She hoped he’d return someday. I listened, behenji (sister). Listened to her hopes and fears. One day, he did come back—a successful businessman. Amma cried, and I cried with her.

But surely, there are tough days? I asked with concern.

Raju nodding Oh, behenji, plenty. When the monsoon arrives, the streets flood. My rickshaw becomes a boat, and I row through murky waters. And the heat—like a furnace. But I remember my father’s words: “Raju, life’s a cycle. Pedal through the storms.”

 And what about the traffic? The chaos? I asked, concerned about his hardships.

Raju, chuckling “Traffic is life, behenji” Sometimes, I’m stuck behind a Mercedes, and sometimes a cow blocks my way. But I weave through, like a river finding its course. Patience, you see.

 Raju, do you dream of something beyond these streets?

Raju, stroking his rickshaw answered “Dreams? Yes, behenji. I dream of my daughter studying in a big school. She’s sharp, that one. Wants to be a doctor. I pedal harder, hoping each fare takes her closer to that dream.

“And what about your own dreams?” I asked softly.

Raju, leaning in, ”To retire, behenji. To sit by the Yamuna, watch the sun dip, and tell stories to the river. Maybe write them down. Who knows?”

As I left Chawri Bazar that evening, Raju waved. His rickshaw merged with the crowd, but his spirit lingered—the spirit of resilience, of stories etched in sweat and spokes. I realized then that Raju wasn’t just a rickshaw puller; he was a keeper of dreams, a silent companion to the city’s heartbeat.

In the labyrinth of Chawri Bazar, I found Raju, a man who pedaled not just a rickshaw but the hopes of a thousand passengers. His unwritten memoirs whispered of love, loss, and the rhythm of life. And as I walked away, I knew that sometimes, the most profound conversations happen on the humblest of wheels.