When I came to Delhi in 2015 to join a new organisation, the first thing that caught my attention was the ubiquitous cycle-rickshaws.
Initially I was reluctant to take the ride. I couldn't put a person through the ordeal of pedalling me around, sweating and panting when it was the peak of summer.
The rickshaw wallahs, as they are called, are mostly men. He rarely sports an untorn shirt or a proper footwear with the struggle writ large on his face often. From the comfort of a seat that has a roof behind him, I often feel guilty of the harsh sun that hits him hard. In winters, the sweaters in tatters and torn shoes speak of their struggle.
I stayed away from the humble vehicle for some days. Then I noticed the pair of eyes shining at the sight of a prospective passenger walking to the apartment gate. He gets ready for another gruelling ride, probably in an empty stomach. I realised I wasn't helping them by staying away.
Whenever I step out of the apartment thinking I should walk a kilometre to the metro station and burn some calories, I spot those men waiting hopefully for another 20 rupees. And I get on to the rickshaw.
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