Halloween Party

Re: # 63
Mr Beej,
What is your obcession with Rickshaw Wale?

Did someone dump you in the slums of Mungeyr?

Re#65 Kiddo

It is easy enough to wonder – why the heck go to a country then come back and take it apart?

But what about the other side of the story – our ancient sub continental desire to take advantage of foreign “guests” faster than it takes to blink the eye – and in the process, also conducting a wholesale stereotyping of out-of-towners. Assuming that (1) they are all rich, (2) they are all unable to speak the local language, and (3) they are all fair game! As long as the person who wrote that article is accurate with his description, that’s where we need to focus. Granted his style is a little too self-sure and he may have a chip on the shoulder (who would not – after all he was probably spiritually inclined and went to India for satiating some “deeper” desires – only to crash into these shady individuals), are we not a little – in fact a LOT more than a little – crooked?

Even when domestic travelers land in town – usually at a train station or bus stand – the first sight for them is the local rickshaw puller offering them service. It not uncommon to find the two sides engaged in a long discussion regarding what would be an appropriate fare to get to a certain destination.

Arriving at the correct fare is strictly an art! The experienced rickshaw puller appraises his fare carefully. Such factors as the level of the local knowledge of the visitor (whether he speaks the local dialect, has knowledge of the neighborhood), his state of need (whether he is aged, has children, or is carrying luggage), availability of alternatives, the time of the day and the state of the weather, all get included.

There is also the alternative of NOT agreeing to a fare up front – and then haggling over it after the destination gets reached – this approach is usually preferred by the party which is physically stronger and has a better chance of winning an argument – it is entirely possible for a verbal argument to turn very physical and the home turf (whether it is the rickshaw puller’s or the rider’s) offers distinct advantages.

#63 that was a sad article. why do such people go to ``tour`` asian countries if they want to come home and bit*h about it?

An interesting article on rickshaw pullers of Calcutta from BBC

---

Calcutta’s rickshaw pullers fear future
By Rifat Jawaid
BBC Urdu Service

Hand-pulled rickshaws have been a feature of Calcutta’s streets for more than a century, but they could soon be a thing of the past.

Rickshaw pulling: Back-breaking work
In a city which loves its traditions the authorities and human rights groups want the rickshaws phased out.

They say having people, rather than petrol or pedals, power this form of transport is inhumane.

But the rickshaw pullers disagree - many have been doing their job for years and face an uncertain future if their work is stopped.

Hand-pulled rickshaws are known locally in West Bengal as tana rickshaws - or if you’re a non-Bengali, haath rickshaws.

Until a few years ago, there were about 6,000 licensed owners of tana rickshaws in Calcutta.

This number has now shrunk to 1,800 after the local administration stopped issuing new licences.

The rickshaws were first introduced in Calcutta in the late 19th century by Chinese traders, primarily to carry goods.

But India’s British rulers made them the cheap mode of transport in 1919.

Health toll
Most of the rickshaw pullers today are daily-wage labourers from the neighbouring states of Bihar, Jharkhand and Uttar Pradesh, who make ends meet by pulling their masters’ rickshaws.

Zafirul is a 40-year-old father of four from Bihar.

Emaciated and frail, he’s been pulling rickshaws for nearly 15 years.

He says his job has had drastic consequences for his health.

“I was recently diagnosed with tuberculosis and have been in bed for six months,” Zafirul told the BBC.

“I will pull rickshaws for a few months before returning to my native land in winter. We work in the farms during winter and store crops for the rest of the season.”

Another rickshaw puller, Narain Rai, says hauling a load sometimes four times his weight has taken its toll.

“During summer the mercury goes past 45C. You hate being anywhere near the sun. But despite the sweltering heat, we carry out our duties, providing comfort to fellow human beings,” he says.

Police ‘harassment’
And human indignity is not all these rickshaw pullers apparently have to contend with.

Many accuse the local police of harassment.

Abdul Sattar, another veteran rickshaw puller, says: “Come Friday and local police begin to raid the areas where we pull our rickshaws. Often we are locked inside the police stations and fined.

The rickshaw pullers don’t want to stop working.

“If you don’t pay the fine, you end up staying longer in the police station. We consider ourselves extremely lucky if we avoid a beating.”

The police deny the allegations.

Sandhi Mukherjee, assistant commissioner of Calcutta’s traffic police, says the raids target only those rickshaw pullers “whose licenses have either expired or who never got legitimate permission to ply Calcutta streets”.

Many residents of Calcutta prefer the hand-pulled rickshaws to other forms of transport, saying they’re particularly good for short journeys.

Rana Akram often uses hand-pulled rickshaws to go to the local market or to drop her daughter at school.

“It’s relatively cheap and very handy for short-distance travel, where neither auto-rickshaw or taxi drivers would agree to drop you.”

But she agrees that enjoying the luxury of a rickshaw ride at the expense of another human being’s health is something “we should stop doing”.

Like Rana Akram, many of Calcutta’s residents and human rights groups believe hand-pulled rickshaws should be withdrawn as soon as possible.

But the question is: where will these needy members of society go once they have been deprived of something they have been doing so efficiently for years?

Re#62 Delhiwala

Dear Delhiwala,

Your continuous bantering regarding rickshaws, along with your name, reminded me of this article on Delhi – the fun an American had visiting the city and encountering those creatures called “rickshaw drivers”.

Clearly, they represent a VERY different breed of individuals than those from the eastern part of the country!

Have fun reading! You may become homesick (or at least sick)! (By the way, the “nice man” mentioned in here was not you by any chance, was he?)

Sincerely,
Beej.

---

From the web-site of Lou Hawthorne.

Delhi After Dark
by Lou Hawthorne
3/08/96

Last night we pulled into the Delhi train station at about 11:00 PM, without hotel reservations. Walking down the platform in search of a phone, we rounded a corner and were spotted simultaneously by a dozen rickshaw drivers just standing around. They all scrambled towards us at once shouting “Rickshaw! Rickshaw! Where you wanna go?” I felt like a baby seal who accidentally swims into a pod of orcas. I surprised myself -- and the orcas -- by shouting “NO!” quite loudly as I walked towards them. Several of them stood directly in my path -- a common tactic -- but stepped aside at the last moment when it became obvious that my pack and I were not decelerating.

We found a phone that took rupee coins, but it seemed out-of-order. Then a nice, clean-cut young man explained to me that you put the rupee in after the person answers, or it doesn’t work. The Nice Man then held my guide book open while I dialed one hotel after another -- all of them completely full. The Nice Man then expressed concern about all the rupees I was wasting, and informed me that there was a government-run tourist office not far away with a free phone. “Free” didn’t sound right for Delhi, but we were out of coins and Delhi Station is no place to loiter. “Just two minutes walk!” said the Nice Man. As we crawled under our piles of stuff and began the schlep, Anne whispered, “He stinks of booze.”

On the way out of the station, a typical Indian dog came over to sniff us warily. “You like dogs?” asked the Nice Man. “Sure, I like dogs,” I replied. It’s mangy, wild curs I’m not crazy about. “This my dog,” said the Nice Man. What do you say to a blatant lie from a drunken stranger you’re following into the darkness of Delhi? “You dog has a skin problem,” was all I could come up with.

After walking in the dark for several minutes, occasionally dodging auto-rickshaws -- which sometimes travel without lights, for some rupee-pinching reason -- I asked the Nice Man his profession, though I sensed that leading naive foreigners into the darkness was somehow his profession.

“I am student. Majoring in psychology and... engineering.” Now there’s an interesting combo. With that degree, he could encourage cantilevers and trusses to discuss the stress they’re under. Speaking of stress, about then I noticed a shadowy figure walking a few yards behind me, then circling around to my right -- which meant we were flanked. We walked that way for a minute or so, then the Nice Man pointed to his shadow and asked softly, almost timidly, “Could you beat him in a fight?” My stress level hit Defcon-2 at that moment -- bombers in the air, awaiting the final order for nuclear assault. Why would he ask something like that, in this situation, if not to psyche me out before... I quickly review my martial arts training, which consists of four years of karate as a teenager, and ten years of tai chi after that. Yes, tai chi is a martial art, despite the joke that it’s only effective if you’re attacked by an NFL replay film. I’m still nervous, because I haven’t been in a real fight since third grade -- and how real was that? -- so I move on to reviewing the Bruce Lee films I’ve seen.

I remember that a question is pending. “Probably,” I reply, “but I’d really rather not.” The one factor in my favor was that Indian men -- including both the Nice Man and his shadow, now wandering off the road -- tend to be about eight inches shorter and 30 pounds lighter than I am. I wish Zack were here. Zack is an online video editor I like to work with in San Francisco, who defies the stereotype of editors as scrawny, dweeby, geeks. Zack was both a boxing and a wrestling champion before becoming an editor. He now spends long hours staring at monitors in darkened rooms, his enormous back, chest, and arms barely moving as he twiddles tiny knobs.

We arrive at a dingy, florescently-lit office -- apparently government issue, and my stress eases a bit. Inside are six or seven dour-looking young Indian men, mostly slouching in plastic chairs and smoking. A dour-looking Indian man wearing a tie is slouching behind a desk, smoking. I explain to the tie-man that we need to use the phone. He says, “You need hotel? No problem -- I get you hotel. Which country you from?” Before I can check myself, I blurt out “USA” -- then remember that they only ask this question to know by how much to overcharge -- the most dramatic rip-offs reserved for Americans, Germans, and Japanese, who have the most money.

“No problem. I can get you hotel for...” -- he scribbles on a pad and rotates it for me to see -- “this price...” 3000 rupees, a truly preposterous, deluxe 5-star price. Worse even. A Western price. In Rishikesh, Anne and I both stayed for three days in a clean, quiet room on the banks of the Ganges, for a total of 250 rupees -- about a dollar each per day. Extraordinary bargains are one of the prime compensatory advantages of traveling in India, an otherwise extremely challenging country for Westerners, what with rampant dysentery, constant crowds, horrific pollution, strange and spicy food, and a hole where the toilet belongs. I remind myself that even if we paid 3000 rupees every night, being here would still be cheaper than traveling in France, a country whose expense I accept without complaint -- well maybe with a few complaints but not with such indignation.

Anne sits in one of the empty plastic chairs, both our packs at her feet, and pulls out her Lonely Planet. I say to the man with the tie, “We were told we could make phone calls here -- that’s why we came.” The Nice Man and Mr. Tie hurriedly discuss the matter in Hindi. Mr. Tie says, “No problem. What number you want to call?” This could have been another scam or simply the Indian tendency to treat telephones and elevators as complex machinery requiring trained professionals to operate. We give him a couple numbers of different hotels, which also turn up full.

Mr. Tie says, “I can get you hotel for this price...” More scribbling. It occurs to me that Mr. Tie might not trust the other men to refrain from laughing, should they overhear the proposed prices -- the new one being 1500 rupees. I glance at Anne. Her look says, “We’re not going to do any better in this situation.” I tell Mr. Tie we’ll look at the room. A minute later we’re jammed into a rickshaw with all our stuff, careening down the dark, filthy streets of an especially seedy section of Delhi. Sitting next to the driver is...the Nice Man of course, going way out of his way once again to see to our welfare.

We pull up to the Hotel Lal’s Havelli -- pronounced like you’re hocking up a phlegm ball -- and immediately the Nice Man and the rickshaw driver begin grabbing at our bags, and end up in a tug-of-war with Anne inside the rickshaw, who keeps saying “No thank you... No thank you...” After regaining control of our stuff, we schlep through the hotel doorway, and out of the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of a relatively large, dirty, disheveled, wild-haired, possible hippie maniac to my right. I immediately pivot, prepared to kick him if the nuts if necessary -- only to be confronted by my own reflection in the mirrored walls of the hotel foyer. After my pulse settles, I am reassured by how scary I look.

“Welcome to the Hotel (hock phlegm ball)!” says the gap-toothed, oily-haired, smudgy black-tattooed charmer behind the counter, smelling of sandalwood and cigarettes. Six or seven of the requisite pouty young men are scattered around the lobby, smoking, perhaps awaiting their cut for prior misdeeds. Perhaps I’m being unfair. They might have been awaiting assignment of misdeeds.

“I’ll watch the stuff,” says Anne, as I drop the bags and move in to negotiate. Gap Tooth shows me a tiny, dilapidated room worth maybe a third the asking price, though of course it’s worth what we’ll pay, and after consulting with Anne and considering the time (after midnight) we decide to take it. After we fill out the paperwork, Gap Tooth says, “Now you pay me 3000 rupees.” Big smile.

“Excuse me?” I ask.

“Two-night minimum,” he replies. I look over at Anne, her limbs draped over our bags, exhausted. I notice my own exhaustion, beneath which lies a swirling reservoir of anger and fear, and when I peek underneath that, I’m surprised to discover I’m actually impressed with the relentlessness and creativity of the scams in Delhi, after dark.

“One night or we leave right now,” I say quietly. His smile fades. The phone rings. Gap Tooth picks it up and immediately begins yelling in Hindi. Then he hands me the phone.

“Tourism office. For you.”

“Hello?” I say. The man on the phone begins an officious-sounding rant in Hindi-glish, something about a special regulation, a certain time of year or night, then mentions the police, or perhaps he says “please”. I’m not really listening. After a minute or so, without taking my eyes off Gap Tooth, I hang up the phone. “One night,” I repeat. Gap Tooth stares at me for several seconds, before smiling broadly.

“One night, no problem! We want you feel at home!” Good luck buddy. The only thing I’m farther from right now than my home is the feeling of being at home.

The last hurdle between me and my bed at this point is the rickshaw driver, waiting to be paid. It’s less than a kilometer to the train station so the fare should be about five rupees. “100 rupees” says the driver, without meeting my eyes, when I ask how much.

“You know,” I say wearily, “I’ve been here a month already. I know how much a rickshaw is supposed to cost.”

“Tonight special night...” begins the Nice Man, but I cut him off.

“You shut the f*ck up,” I say, and couldn’t be more surprised at myself. Is this me talking -- peace-loving, sensitive, spiritual guy? Who -- what -- am I becoming? “The fare should be five rupees but I’ll pay you ten because tonight is so special,” I say to the driver.

“50 rupees,” replies the driver, still without looking at me. My fear and anger are joined by an overwhelming boredom, mixed with disgust -- for them, for myself, for India, for America. I could just pay him the money, and it would be over. Or...or...

“Ten rupees,” I say softly, “Not one f*cking rupee more.” Then I lean into the driver’s personal space -- which takes special effort, given that most Indians barely have the concept of personal space. I know he can feel my breath on his cheek, but he keeps his eyes averted. “Problem?” I ask, sweetly. The driver silently accepts the ten-rupee note and slips from the room, as does the Nice Man.

“No problem...” says Gap Tooth wanly, but his face is troubled.

© Lou Hawthorne, 1996 , All Rights Reserved

Re: # 61
SRAO,
Please stay away from Mr BeejWa, a rich Landlord from Bihar, who exploits poor Biharis then use his wealth to come to USA to study in some third rated college, and now decides to become a COMMIE.

SRAO, thoree Desh Bhagtee ki Bhavna ki Jawala Mai Agnee Daliya.

Re#60 by srao

Dear SRao,

Thanks for visiting my board. It would have even more fun if you had some comments on my write-up too!

And I have always admired your choice of food – a little bit fattening perhaps – but nothing like what we meat-eaters (and meat-eateresses) so greedily dig into!

Pay no attention to this Delhiwala guy! If he had any sense don’t you think he would have come up with a more imaginative name – like your name – instead of that old fashioned crappy one after such a defunct city?!!

And what a city that is! Can ANYONE even imagine singing –

“Aye dil hai mushkil jeena yahan
Zara hat ke zara bach ke, yeh hai New Delhi meri jaan”

It just does not do it for me!!

Sincerely,
Beej.

Re: # 55
Mr Delhiwala,
Please stop annoying Mr Beej. He lives in Amreeka now and he has become a Brown Sahib.

#49 kbg
Wow! Was that a stream of consciousness outpouring? Double wow! You paint nice word pictures. I am gearing up to read your story..

Beej, I did not say you treat people badly, and when it makes you happy, why feel guilty? Brain smashing isn`t a bad pastime as long as you don`t cause hemorrhage. cheers!

Re#52 by mirmir

[Where did I claim this??? You write very good fiction, Beej. You can`t read particularly well. ]

You are right, of course MirMir – I must have imagined all of that!

And since I notice that NOBODY bothered to translate that old Hindi song your name reminded me of – let me take a crack as follows – first the song, then the translation:

“Mur-mur ke na dekh – mur-mur ke
Mur-mur ke na dekh – mur-mur ke
Jindganee ke safar mein
Tu akela hi nahin hai
Hum bhi tere sung mein hain….”

Don’t turn
And look back
In the journey of life
You are not alone
We travel with you, too…

Sincerely,
Beej.

Re#51 by kidbeegorilla

[I just read the brain smashing you gave the rest of the interactors. maybe I shouldn`t have posted.]

Dear kidbeegorilla – what would life be like without a little bit of this (brain) and a little bit of that (smashing)!

I’ll try to be nicer and softer and gentler – until the next time that I am not!

Seriously, writing is sacred – but interacts are just a way to express myself – although where the dividing line is only the Good Lord knows!

Am I that bad in treating people? – now I am feeling guilty all over!

What’s that old saying – hang around with the turkeys long enough and soon you will be soaring just like them – at the same altitude and with the same speed!

The reality is the janitor tries to call it like the janitor sees it – at a given moment – in a given piece of write-up or interact – and the janitor tries to keep re-adjusting his view of the interactors based on every new bit of information that keeps coming along – however, it is perhaps already jelled up for a few (based on observations over a year) because I keep getting the same numbers no matter how many measurements I keep making!

I ask those individuals – I challenge them – surprise me!!

[…you know though, reading the story, I didn`t at all feel it was a poverty thing with some hidden agenda to it. I sincerely felt like it was just a well laid out story.]
You KNOW there was no agenda – there never is one with this individual – but let’s be serious – does one really NEED an agenda to have compassion for those who invariably get the short end of the stick? Of course not!

[… The title didn`t really jell with it, (the ``party`` bit),]
I know. There is a little bit of tenuous aspect to that connection – however, in awareness of the approaching Halloween, the “ghost-like” appearance in dim light, the grotesqueness and all that … indicated a Halloween party-like title!

But a tenuous connection is better than no connection!

Also, those who have been reading my i-logs over the past few months or so can identify the “other” underlying thread running through all the titles!

[…but I didn`t think it had THAT much emotion to it, as opposed to what I see in all your comment posts. Plenty of jumping up and down emotion there. Whereas the story itself was pretty moderate paced, matter-of-fact, told as it is, and yes, believable, c`est la vie.]

I think you have hit that nail right on the head – you are NO kid – you have hit it with the force of a gorilla!

Re#50 by delhiwala

[Since when Anandmargi admirer is not a COMMIE?]

Like I said elsewhere – the Marg was just an entity I picked to use for the story. If I had picked Hare Krishna or something along the lines, would you still be making the same accusation?

By the way, my guess would be that those who would affiliate themselves with the CPI, CPM, or one of those political entities you designate as “commie” would be more likely to empathize with that worker – the rickshaw puller – and less likely to beat one up.

But what do I know – I have not really DRIVEN a rickshaw myself – like SOME people around here!

Re: # 53

``Some of the rickshaw drivers – especially the young ones new to the trade – really put the force of “pawan doot Hanumana” into those pedals and the riders better watch out – especially as the vehicle negotiates those sharp turns and jumps over ditches and obstructions! It is quite easy to find oneself landing on the ground a little ahead of plans and on the wrong part of one’s anatomy! ``

LOL ....

Re#48, #49 kidbeegorilla

Thanks for liking the story. I made up the five rupee number – I have no clue how much a bike lock really costs – it is a sad fact of life that prices in India have gone through the roof – and few things seem to have kept pace (with the possible exception of politician` wages of sin) – or for that matter how much a sari costs and how many five-rupee coins would be needed to save for one! Details. All a necessary part of life, unfortunately. (Confession: I wrote the piece in two hours only – and had originally thought of putting it in as an i-log!)

[Ah! the cycle rickshaw, as opposed to the ``auto rikshah``.. the picture was a nice reminder of a few childhood summer holidays. I always wondered how the boy on the seat used to be so carefree, waving to people of his trade when they passed by, while using his thumb to ring the bell on the handle bar, and his other hand to steer. And all the time his left buttock would go up and the right one down, right one up left one down, thighs pressing the sides of the bike together, his bum not even touching the seat, you could feel the muscles working inside his backside to push those enormous pedals, and him so small yet he would be flying in the air and you could make out the threads sticking out of his back pocket with the missing button, and the cuffs of his navy blue trousers rolled so tight with more navy blue threads sticking out and you`d wonder what would happen if a thread got caught in the wheel spoke or the pedal, and you squatting there on the ground next to your aunt`s white Bata chappals with the blue toe bands which are right up against another aunt`s dark brown kolapuris the ones she uses for visiting people on special occasions, and you dangling on the ground with your frock flying in the air like the rickshawala and then you tuck the dress under you as best you can without falling off the side and feel like a balloon coz the air is still getting in, and all the time the rickshawala is chirping like a cricket bibiji this and bibiji that and you just want to smack him for flying so fast and not having any thing to hold on to in this rickety transport mechanism of his with the red vinyl hood and the window cutout at the back where you can see the zigzag lines of the sewing machine and the cheap aluminium frame that he probably sits up all night to polish it glistens so! whew... memories...]

I reproduced the whole paragraph above because it deserves another reading because it is so excellent, so picturesque! There is nothing wrong with the sharpness of your memories! Hang on to those babies – with all your might – they are precious things!

Some of the rickshaw drivers – especially the young ones new to the trade – really put the force of “pawan doot Hanumana” into those pedals and the riders better watch out – especially as the vehicle negotiates those sharp turns and jumps over ditches and obstructions! It is quite easy to find oneself landing on the ground a little ahead of plans and on the wrong part of one’s anatomy!

Re: #44 by Beej

``Okay, now that that is out of the way – let me address this issue of you putting me on your “ignore” list – that you claim to have done on that other board of yours!``

Where did I claim this??? You write very good fiction, Beej. You can`t read particularly well.