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It happened by accident. I was in this wonderfully Indian to the core city, Varanasi, which despite its place on the international tourist map is essentially still a small town, and decided to play tourist over the weekend.

We soon discovered that walking was not a viable option, there was too much happening on the roads by way of drama, and the fact that autos, cars, SUVs, rickshaws and large, puzzled-looking cows with designer horns were all the actors, made it quite a formidable challenge to walk any great distance.

Auto rickshaws and taxis, we realised could not quite navigate the tiny lanes so it was against my more humane instincts that we decided to take a cycle rickshaw. I’ve ridden enough and more cycle rickshaws as a kid. In what was then Gauhati, they were stately carriages that one rode with a sense of regality.

In Hyderabad, where I next lived, the rickshaw was a common enough mode of transport, though rendered acutely uncomfortable by the fact that the seat and the leg room are only about a metre apart and I for one, had just discovered the romance of really tight churidars that the old tailors of the city cut on a bias to fit almost as a second skin.

In Nagpur I remember one horrendous time when I urged the rickwalla to go faster and faster, upslope, because I would miss the beginning of a movie. The poor man obliged, but now I cringe at the memory of my extreme thoughtlessness.

But I need not have worried. This rick was in great condition, its well-oiled wheels ensured that it shot off like a rocket at the mere push of the pedals, and the rickshaw man knew Varanasi inside out, and zoomed across with alacrity, taking turns and crossing lanes as if there was nothing else in his way.

It occurred to me that the slightest nudge by a passing car would send us flying out of our seats on to the road, but I looked at many others like me riding with equanimity and snuffed the thought. But I soon realised that the stance the rickman held of being king of the road was a front.

He would be cycling up a narrow road, and a car would come behind him, and the impatient honking of the horn would be like a whip. Of course he could only pedal that fast, and there was no way to give… but the honking would continue till he found space to pull over to one side. It was not, I realised just the might of a powered vehicle over an unpowered one, at play, but the attitude of a man who had the wherewithal to buy such a vehicle over one who did not.

When we entered crowded spaces, the pressure on him would multiply. Everyone who was bigger and faster would make it very clear that something that went along on manpower was not to be tolerated on a road that gasoline-powered vehicles used, and could the contraption please disappear? I realised then how might could be right, and what it meant to be an underdog. I had seen it happen in Mumbai too: horns impatiently urging a man pulling a laden hand cart to go faster or get out of the way, but I had never really experienced it from the other side. It was not pleasant.

One evening, we entered a small gully, and sailed briskly along. Suddenly, we were jolted out of comfort when the rickshaw came to a sudden halt, its wheel had hit the back of a stationary motorcycle. The bike was well in the centre of the road, and its owner was talking on his mobile phone. He turned around and glared at the rickshaw man. Then at us, then back to the rickshaw man. Then a string of abuses followed.

In my city I would have retaliated with a shout, asking why he was parked in the middle of the road, but I held my peace. The rickshaw man, on his part, apologised in a mumble, bent his head low, and pedalled his craft back into motion.

All these people do this, he answered, they stop where they please and talk on their mobiles…but who am I to say anything to him, he mumbled. I knew he was angry, but there was no way he could express his anger. The offender would not let it pass, and he would have to pay for it dearly. I wondered then at the imbalance of human rights, of when the right to expression and justice would ever reach my rickshawman, and people like him in places like these, which, all said and done are part and parcel of the great Indian Republic!

Email: ssaran@dnaindia.net