Rickshaw (Nadia/Omar)
I have yet to meet someone who is from Pakistan and has not experienced a rickshaw ride at least once in his or her life. The rickshaws may not be eco-friendly or passenger-friendly but they are economical. Sitting cross-legged often with a cigarette in one hand the driver weaves through the traffic while the passenger violently tosses around in the back. It is advisable to sit in a rickshaw tightly packed with people to prevent yourself from flinging around like a solitary grape in an empty salad bowl. I have wondered many a time why the rickshaw-walas try to squeeze through narrow gaps, drive their vehicles over the non-existent footpaths and run into cyclists and pedestrians. I came to the conclusion that they believe their rickshaws have the power to become invisible once the engine is running.
The vile carbon fumes from the silencer located under the back end increase the unpleasantness of the journey. The vehicle itself has never been known to run silently. Through the noise it is perhaps possible to not hear even your own thoughts. Of course if it is raining or has recently rained you can count on your trusty rickshaw-wala to drive through all the puddles on the roads, even the ones that are off-road, and the water splashes on to you and the people or cars passing by.
What I like about them is that they are very colorful. I like to think that they are like a canvass for the owner to display a collection of things that mean much to him. After all, he spends a greater part of his day in that little blue box on three wheels; it has to have a feeling of familiarity to it. Each rickshaw has its own ‘personality’; blue fronts, silver bases with multicolored plastic canopies, matching uncomfortable seats and quotes or verses painted on the back. On the inside they are decorated with mirrors and painted bars that separate the passenger cabin from the drivers space. I always feel that the rickshaws have too less leg space which makes the ride even more uncomfortable. The rickshaws do have a lot of useless accessories attached such as rear-view mirrors, who needs them? In fact, who uses them?
The drivers themselves are mostly polite and friendly people. If you notify them of a turn a bit too late they will not snap at you; they simply turn around on a one-way street and drive against the flow of the traffic! They are quite chatty as well, I had to take a rickshaw with my father once; the car and my driver had been sent somewhere to run an errand. It was the cricket season and the rickshaw-wala was infuriated with the performance of the national team. He discussed each player as if he knew them personally; infact he even identified one of the star players as his neighbor with whom he had played cricket in the streets. Thirty minutes later we stepped off the rickshaw and my father was on first name basis with the driver.
Another incident of the rickshaw-walas genuine humility that I recall is what a friend experienced. One morning he happened to be in need of a ricki. He found one just a few blocks from his house, they greeted each other with smiles and my friend asked how much he would be charged for the journey. The driver named an amount that he believed was reasonable and my friend named another. The driver claimed that as a rule he never refused his first passenger of the day and agreed to take what my friend had offered. When they reached the destination, as my friend was getting out the driver shook hands with him and thanked him, it was something that usually rickshaw drivers don’t do, but it was a good gesture.
All things aside, there is a sense of comfort I get when I look at a rickshaw on the road. It makes me feel at home. In this age and time when you can’t depend on anything you can always depend on the rickshaws and their drivers to behave in the expected manner. They don’t ever let you down!
Broken Cycle (Nadia)
They were about the same age Kali being 12 and an inch taller than Asad who was nearly 14. “Come on Kali I’ll teach you how to ride a bicycle.” Kali paused for a moment before he spoke, “No chotay sahab, its okay I don’t think I should be riding your bicycle, my father will be mad at me.” “Oh who will tell him? I wont I promise. Come on now!” Asad rode on ahead and Kali ran after him. They were headed for the empty space the children of the neighborhood used as a playground. Someone had just bought a part of it and a house was to be made there. The younger boy sat on a pile of gravel that was to be used for that new house while Asad rode in circles around the playground.
Then it was Kali’s turn. He mounted the bicycle skeptically. It was not his first time; he used to ride with his father on his black bicycle. He was not an expert. After a few wobbles he fell down. He wasn’t hurt just a scrape on the knee and a laugh from Asad. “Give it another try Kali” Twenty minutes later Kali was able to ride without falling much; the wobble was still there.A lot of people had come by then, those where were going to be building the house, the architect, the foreman and the laborers. The children’s quiet and secluded haven was not so private anymore. Kali continued to learn and Asad took his place on the gravel. A few trucks came to deliver more building materials. Kali wobbled and fell. He managed to move away from the cycle just in time to hear the cycle crunch under the tires of the backing truck.Asad ran to where the frozen cyclist stood. “My cycle! My new cycle!” He looked at Kali and ran home with large tears in his eyes. Kali remained standing where he was. He remembered the time Asad’s Star Wars action figure crumbled in his hands. How bad his father had thrashed him!
Back at the house Asad ran into his mothers arms crying, clutching at her dupatta. “Kali the cook’s son broke my bicycle. He let a truck run over it.” He cried till his eyes puffed up. Him mother tried to calm him down “Don’t worry we will get you a new one, a bigger one! Stop crying now. Look what I got for my little son” She brought out a bar of chocolate. The child’s face brightened; the cycle soon forgotten.
That night Asad and his parents were forced to go out for dinner. The cook was out too looking for his son.
Basant (Nadia)
Basant the festival of kites is celebrated each year to mark the coming of spring in South -East Asia. Spring in this part of the world, is when the first yellow mustard flowers appear in the fields of Punjab. It started off as small-scale celebration of harvesters at the beginning of spring, but today Basant is very different from what it originally was. Kite flying is now a sport and Basant an excuse for people to socialize, throw huge parties and spend large amounts of money on special kinds of threads and kites.Unlike in western countries, kite flying in Pakistan and India is like a war. You have to tangle the thread of your kite with that of another in the sky and cut it. This requires practice and skill and of course, the last kite to remain in the sky is the winner. People often have threads prepared months in advance with multiple coatings of powdered glass and colors.
This year on Basant I happened to be in Lahore again, the city most known for this celebration. One of my friends, Aliya invited me to a party her father had organized in the heart of old city of Lahore. The party was on the Basant eve at an old mansion that her father owned. It was and old haveli made some time in the twentieth century. Subtle yellow lights lighted up the entire façade. It was still early in the evening and not many guests had arrived.My friend took me up to the roof. It was three stories above the ground. In a corner kites of different sizes, shapes and colors were piled next to them was another pile of threads on large plastic spools. In a different corner were hired cooks setting up their grills for the night. Rows of powerful spotlights lined up against the edges of the roof facing up towards the sky and illuminated it. Loud music blared through the huge set of speakers strategically placed on the roof facing outwards. A microphone was attached to scream out “Aii! boo kata!”, the traditional victory chant.Aliya’s brother was already up there with his friends and some cousins, getting their kites ready; we greeted him and watched him tie his kite to the thread. It looked simple: make holes, pull doubled-thread through, tie knots and then tie a bigger knot in the middle to which the single end of the thread on the spool would be tied. The wind was favorable and there were many kites in the sky already. Since it was night people only white kites or of light colors, they spotted the bright night sky like little flecks of snow. All the rooftops in the area were crowded and not one roof was left dark.
Aliya and I decided to fly some kites too. I told her that I flew kites when I was little so I should remember how to do it. We asked one of her cousins to help us tie it up. After trying a couple of times I managed to get it up in the air. Moments later, I felt a little jerk in the string of my kite. From the other side of the roof Aliya’s cousin told us that my string had tangled with another kite’s. He constantly yelled out instructions to help me cut my rival’s kite. Sadly, the match did not last for more than a minute and I felt the string in my hand go limp. A huge scream of “Aii! boo kata!” came from the roof to the left. It was the pesky little kid who had cut my kite last year as well!The humiliation was unbearable so we decided to leave kite flying for a while and find some food. The cooks had prepared traditional spicy food and pieces of chicken and beef were being freshly barbequed on skewers. Everything smelled and tasted delicious! By then a lot of guests had arrived and after eating a bit and talking to come of the people I was acquainted with we decided to give kite flying another shot. This time we had an expert with us. One of our friends Sonia was an excellent kite flyer and it was time for revenge. We let Sonia pick the kite and thread and as soon as she had her kite in the air the little kid made an attack. We all cheered for our friend and watched her skillfully handle the kite. A few seconds later she managed to cut his kite. We made a hell of a noise at our first victory over him… it was also our last!I felt a little sleepy and looked at the time it was already two in the morning! The sky was still bright from the lights on the rooftops and little white specks still danced around. We flew three more kites, all of which were mercilessly cut by unknown rivals. Sad at the loss and very much excited by the activities around us we sat and watched other people on the roof fly their kites. Around 3 am people started to leave and the music was turned down. Aliya’s brother came to show us his hands covered in blood from the cuts made by the sharp thread. He had a lot of bandages on and a huge satisfied smile on his face. Aliya and I went down to get some sleep, I was staying over because the celebrations were to be continued the entire next day.
