Cyclerickshaw

Cyclerickshaws are one of the modes of transport in Lucknow.

You can’t be very finicky about transport here because the public transportation system is so bad. Public buses were introduced a year ago and are still infrequent. There are no bus stops, so to board a bus you just wave your hand when you see one approaching and the driver stops just enough for you to hop in. Similarly to get off you yell at the driver to stop and jump off when he slows down.

Then there are the ‘vikrams’, basically motorised three wheelers that pack humans in like sardines. The Sumo SUV jeeps are even worse in this regard. You can barely breathe in one, let alone move. The stench of human sweat is nauseating.
There are ’share’ autorickshaws, but these ply only on the major routes. So, despite personal misgivings and morals, you cannot afford to be too choosy about your transport. It is mix and match that gets you from point A to point B.

I first encountered the cyclerickshaws and felt a personal aversion to riding in one. A cyclerickshaw is basically a three wheeled contraption which resembles a bicycle with a large carriage at the back to carry people. The rickshaw is peddled by the driver who is thin and emaciated from the physical toil. There are thousands of cyclerickshaws on Lucknow’s streets.
Now this is the problem I had: There was an odd sense of guilt in riding one. The rickshaw driver cycles all day and late into the night in all seasons. And in Lucknow the seasons can get pretty extreme with brutal bone jarring summers and frigid mind numbing winters. Moreover, the rickshaw driver gets paid pittance for the amount of physical work he does. One rickshawallah told me he earns Rs 100 a day.

I am not being overly moralistic. I can’t afford to because I don’t have the complete picture yet. But the issue of human dignity keeps cropping up in my mind. Riding on someone else’s toil, sweat and, dare I say it, tears. But as I said I don’t have much choice, so I end up rickshawing quite a bit.

Before getting onto a rickshaw, I negotiate with the driver, which basically means haggling over the price. When he demands 10 Rs I am willing to pay 8 and when he pleads for 6 I say 4. The price fixing is not in his favour because there are so many of them willing to undercut each other. If this on demands 2 rs more there is always the next one eagerly waiting to poach customers.

The rickshawallahs have little bargaining power. They know it, I know it and they know I know it. People like me ride these rickshaws and haggle for every rupee like this is our last ride. And yet, when we walk into a store, showroom or mall, like the ones that increasingly dot the urban Indian landscape, we look at the ‘Fixed Price’ notice on the saffron walls and pay up without questioning.

That then is the dichotomy.