The Rickshaw Angel Zhou

The Rickshaw

Angel Zhou

His stomach grumbled, protesting the lack of sustenance felt deep in his abdomen, while his eyes focused on the sagging ceiling composed of gaping metal boards, unable to sleep. It wasn’t the putrid smell of liquid filth seeping from the narrow walkways that kept him awake, not his aching vertebrae pleading for a softer surface to lay upon, nor was it the alarming news of another vicious virus spreading in a neighborhood where clean water had always been a luxury. It was the deafening cries of his infant son that kept him awake, among many other concerns like the few rupees hidden underneath the insole of his left shoe. Were they still there, and if so how many were, and did it even matter? When news of the pandemic and a government-issued quarantine approached, Amit was still sweating amidst the sultriness of the March air. His back arched and ached. That day, the rickshaw he commanded held an unusually corpulent customer, an American lady-her accent gave her away-who repeatedly asked him to speed up in a muffled voice as she held tightly to her cheap fleece, not wanting to be late for an international flight back home. Upon their prompt arrival at the airport, she hastily searched through her wallet, only to find crumpled sheets of five hundred rupees. After some hesitation, she gingerly handed him the money, treating it like soiled underwear, it was a pandemic after all, then rushed through the glass doors. In return for receiving a generous smile from the green Gandhi, Amit’s wife tended to a new blister on the bottom of his left foot. The second blister could wait, for now. That was the last time Amit pulled his rickshaw. Walking back home, he heard from another rickshaw driver, Dheeraj, that people living in the city were becoming sick with “the crown prince virus.” The germ wasn’t allegedly deadly to young adults, Dheeraj told him, but fatal to the old and the young-it tended to extremes. Dheeraj also announced that the government had ordered a “lockdown” for the next twenty-one days. What was that about? Moreover, Amit was told to imminently stock up on necessities, which would be subsidized for those who lived in the slums, if one had a proper ID that wasn’t expired. With a valid purple sticker issued this year. Signed in blue ink on the back, not black. Amit didn’t even want to look. All Amit could think about was the fear that if the virus spread among the slums, like the odor of curry and spice, his son, Rahul would be among its first victims.

Only five months and six days old, his eyes were dark like Amit’s yet unclouded, and his smile bright enough to light up the night; an age much too young to die. Moreover, Amit worried about the subsidy, and that purple sticker, because, after all, Dheeraj lived in a slum approved by the regulators and he resided in one without legal recognition. There would inevitably be a bureaucrat who had a problem. That was life. And no, the bureaucrat wouldn’t care about poverty, which Amit was more familiar ever with. Engulfed by the looming darkness of the busted and crusted ceiling, Amit contemplated for solutions, afraid to let his mind even go to the idea that this time, there may not be one. Then again, just yesterday, Amit witnessed a woman who lived across the street from his shack, surreptitiously scurry a plate of cold rice in her arms. When Amit asked her where she had gotten it, the woman didn’t say a word, for fear of spreading the virus through her lips, but she pointed...towards the dumpster. His bushy eyebrows converged as another thought entered. Amit still did have his rickshaw. And even though everything was technically on pause or mute because of the crown prince bitch of a virus, people would still need necessities - some aspects of life would have to carry on. Perhaps, Amit’s rickshaw was the last straw his family could clutch on to. Or was it a dagger? Amit knew that driving the rickshaw meant two things for sure - more green buddhas and another green - the lurking germ of the crown prince unseen. He shut his eyes, tight. Should he stay locked down at home, as the government ordered, or join the fight? A man had a duty to feed his family, that was for sure, but what if he caught something in that rickshaw, and like a stalking ghost, it followed him to his home and had its dinner there? Amit knew, were anyone to get sick, the hospitals would be overrun anyway. Even if they were lucky enough to beat the crush of a line, the medical bills would bankrupt them for life. After all, Amit was in that middle zone, not destitute enough for free care, he wouldn’t ever be there, but no health insurance either. Once any doctor found out, he would be kicked out. Pleasantly. That night, Amit mentally chastised himself for having to reside by the slum, but eventually, he figured that perhaps in his case, history was the guilty culprit. If he were a rickshaw, history was the driver who pulled Amit towards his destiny. Amit’s ancestors were called the untouchables, victims of the now abolished caste system. But its shadow lurked. Although Indian Independence brought an end to the loathed colonial system, Amit often felt the ominous echo of its history. It was an omnipresent and obscure cloud stalking him and all those who live in the slums. He saw its reflection in the eyes of his neighbor as she carried home the plate of rice. He saw it everywhere.

Amit saw something else however-stars that embedded into the night sky. For the first time, due to the lessening of human activities, the air grew clear of dust and smog, and obtained a hue of blue-magnificent in both days and nights. He felt a kinship in these bright lights, which he briefly imagined were holes poked in the sky, looking up and into a brighter world, like the holes in his bedroom ceiling. This evoked in him for the first time, a sense of hope. So, he began to think, though this virus ravaged lives now, would it save some too? Was this earth’s way of healing, or at least resting? Would animals be happier while they bathe in the coming day’s rays of unfiltered virgin sun? By dawn the next morning the first ray of pure sunshine shone through the uneven holes above Amit’s tiny shack, landing upon his forehead, gently caressing his taut cheeks. Almost like God’s apology for a restless night. His gleaming jet-black lashes fluttered, then revealed a pair of determined eyes. Without disturbing his wife and son who were still in slumber, he lifted his back and swiftly swung his feet to the edge of the squeaky bed. Carefully, he fitted his swollen feet into the worn canvas shoes and pushed through the thin screeching door. Amit carefully examined his callous hands, so as to position the unworn parts on the wooden handless. His feet started out in a shuffle but steadily increased to a stable trot with no signs of fear. No signs of fear whatsoever. No fear.

None. He stepped out into the sun.