In India, particularly in the city of Kolkata, summer descends before winter can take its proper leave. By the middle of March, the streets warm up and begin to exude heat. Between April and June, the afternoons are as humid as it is hot, and no amount of water, sunscreen, umbrella or whites can make one feel comfortable. The warm breeze, grey exhaust fumes from the overcrowding cars, gleaming hot stretches of asphalt and the white sun together produce the effect of a boiling oven. Even the sunlight filtering through the tinted glass of a car causes the skin to smart.
One late February afternoon, I was returning home from North Kolkata to the South in my car, leisurely leaning back with music in my ears and the air conditioning on, mentally grumbling at the tremendous heat so early in the year. We were stuck at one of the many prolonged traffic jams that hinder smooth traveling in our city. As per habit, I was looking around at my neighbouring vehicles, their occupants, the driver behind the steering wheels, the people walking on the footpath – all of whom had rather disgruntled frowns on their foreheads. To my left there was clear space for another car to come forward and wait, and I watched, as a dark, wiry man appeared, pulling a rickshaw behind him. He must have been about fifty. His brow was glistening with sweat, and beads of it were rolling down the sides. His thin, tattered, white T-shirt clung to him, drenched. He was wearing what in India is known as a dhoti, a length of cloth wrapped around his waist, and, which he had lifted above his knees and tucked behind him to enable easier and faster limb movement. His limbs didn’t have much mass in them, just hard muscle and burning skin. Sitting inside a cool car, I couldn’t fathom what that must be feeling like. I looked down at his feet. He had no shoes.
The man sitting on the chair was guarded from the sun by the hood of the rickshaw and a tarpaulin sheet drawn like a curtain in front. He was wearing dark shades.
Just as I began contemplating the potent illegality of this kind of manual labour, the signal turned green. My car revved up and pulled away, leaving me looking back at the thin man heaving his load in the white hot sun. I sympathetically wondered what will become of these rickshaw pullers during the months of May and June - my philanthropist sympathy from my air-conditioned car.
One late February afternoon, I was returning home from North Kolkata to the South in my car, leisurely leaning back with music in my ears and the air conditioning on, mentally grumbling at the tremendous heat so early in the year. We were stuck at one of the many prolonged traffic jams that hinder smooth traveling in our city. As per habit, I was looking around at my neighbouring vehicles, their occupants, the driver behind the steering wheels, the people walking on the footpath – all of whom had rather disgruntled frowns on their foreheads. To my left there was clear space for another car to come forward and wait, and I watched, as a dark, wiry man appeared, pulling a rickshaw behind him. He must have been about fifty. His brow was glistening with sweat, and beads of it were rolling down the sides. His thin, tattered, white T-shirt clung to him, drenched. He was wearing what in India is known as a dhoti, a length of cloth wrapped around his waist, and, which he had lifted above his knees and tucked behind him to enable easier and faster limb movement. His limbs didn’t have much mass in them, just hard muscle and burning skin. Sitting inside a cool car, I couldn’t fathom what that must be feeling like. I looked down at his feet. He had no shoes.
The man sitting on the chair was guarded from the sun by the hood of the rickshaw and a tarpaulin sheet drawn like a curtain in front. He was wearing dark shades.
Just as I began contemplating the potent illegality of this kind of manual labour, the signal turned green. My car revved up and pulled away, leaving me looking back at the thin man heaving his load in the white hot sun. I sympathetically wondered what will become of these rickshaw pullers during the months of May and June - my philanthropist sympathy from my air-conditioned car.