I stood at the window once again looking at the Gulmohar tree outside. My shoulders ached with the effort of suppressing the sag that threatened to pull them down. Silent sobs teetered dangerously at the corner of my lips. The tree was all afire with its brilliant red and yellow tinged blossoms. Its scientific name is royal Poinciana. It stood as a repository of memories that lingered from childhood days. There used to be several Gulmohar trees lined outside the school where I had had my primary education. In the afternoon when the school bell rang, my friends and I would rush out and start picking the flowers from the ground where they had fallen. It was important to pick one that had not yet been crushed underfoot. We would then compare to see who had the most number of flowers. This kept us occupied until we were ready to go home. We traveled by a cycle rickshaw and on the way home we would discuss the joys of collecting miscellaneous flowers and bird feathers. We would imagine that the filaments of the gulmohar flower were swords and parry with them. They each had a tiny oval seed-like particle on top which I am told are known as anthers in the botanical community. To us they determined whether we won our combat or not; for whoever managed to decapitate the opponent’s filament, was declared the victor - the meaningless triumphs of a typical middle-class life where the parts are more valuable than their sum, which often amounts to naught.
“Rickshaw man! Rickshaw man! Arun’s sitting in my place. Ask him to sit elsewhere”. I remembered our petty quarrels and the adjudicator of all them – Mani or ‘Rickshaw man’ as we called him. He was a tall, dark, and handsome man with a nice mustache covering most of his upper lip. His lips were dark from the beedi he was fond of smoking. He was fairly young when we knew him – probably in his thirties. His face always sported a smile, no matter how pesky we were – and we could be most annoying at times. He would buy us ice-candies if we didn’t have money ourselves. We were a big rowdy bunch but he was always generous when he had the small change to indulge in our cravings. It must have been tough for him since he didn’t earn much and had a family to support. He usually wore a shirt with a red or white banian inside and a lungi that he would fold up and tie around his waist. When he rode the rickshaw, you could see his leg muscles knotting up with the exertion. He would be dripping with sweat and on hot summer days, no one wanted to sit directly behind the rickshaw man for one could smell the pungent odor of his sweat. He was a huge fan of MGR and wouldn’t hear a word against him. He always sang ‘Thalaivar’s songs’ and had his rickshaw painted with the AIADMK party symbol and MGR’s mugshot.
“C’mon Rickshaw man! C’mon! We’ve got to beat the other rickshaw….go faster please!” Those excited shrieks and pleadings seem so cruel and sadistic now; but when I was a child, those races were no less than Formula One. There was anticipation, hope, exchange of insults, booing and cheering, all parading one after another. Mani would pedal as fast as he could and the initial rhythmic pedaling would soon turn to strained movements periodically interrupted by wheezing gasps of breath. We were sore losers. We targeted our frustration on our charioteer and told him what we thought of his prowess: “You are such a weak and useless rickshaw man! It’s no good traveling in your rickshaw.” He found them funny and always shook with laughter as his pedaling turned into an exertion.
There would be fresh races every afternoon and rickshaws would compete with one another…more importantly, brothers would compete with one another – Mani and Mari. Mari usually won on the account of having a less worn down and motor enabled rickshaw. His rickshaw was brightly painted and had colorful seat covers. We always chided Mani about upgrading his rickshaw, “Rickshaw man, when are you going to fix a motor to this rickshaw? That’s why we always lose no matter how hard or fast you pedal!”
