Of dreams and men

I met the man of my dreams a couple of days ago. On the penultimate day of the Durga Pujo festivities. The fabulous news is that the whole thing is so brilliantly unrealistic than I cannot pine away at the possibility of it never clicking.

My dream guy is a rickshawallah. A tad above twenty would be my guess, who seated me on his three wheeler chariot and pedalled me home for about ten minutes. The guy, who, after a month and a half, has finally managed to wake me from the stupor I had got myself into, will probably never cross paths with me again. It is, probably, just as well.

Most Rickshaw journeys are sullen affairs devoid of smalltalk. For most people. The people who sit are far too busy or important to talk to the "little" people. The "little" people are much too overworked or worried about surviving the night to indulge their temporary masters.

I hailed him at the Lake Gardens Crossing; comfortably seated myself; gave him my posh address and reclined, at ease. He turned back and flashed a smile. I was surprised. Rickshawallahs are seldom so upbeat. He was bursting with energy, almost maniacal. Wary of talkative people in general, I didn't really like the guy. He asked me the time. I informed him. He asked me how I like his rickshaw. I mumbled an incomprehensible reply. He compared his rickshaw to a rocket, then a train," The Tufaan Mail". Slightly disappointed by my lack of enthusiasm, he vowed to show me his might. "Dekhbe, koto jore jete paari?". And, as if to win my appreciation, suddenly the rickshaw was the fastest thing on the road. He even managed to race a couple of "dudes" on a couple of bikes. And when they zipped past, he let out a laugh. He took both hands off the handlebar and felt the wind whipping past. He was smiling the whole way through. Not only was his smile infectious, his energy was too. He zoomed past the other rickshaws; performed semi-dangerous manoeuvres; let out deep roars of satisfaction at how fast his "baby" was.

At the Rickshaw Stand, I alighted and he looked at me, slightly flushed and asked me, " Baaro taka debe?". He was asking me for twice the normal fare. Ashamed probably at his seeming avarice, he sought to explain," Na..maane dada, Pujo-r shomoy..." Stammered an apology about it being the Pujo-s and him needing the money. I paid him the double fare and a rupee over that. He flashed another brilliant smile and asked sheepishly,"Raag koroni toh?"..." You aren't angry, right?"

I would not like to be with someone like him. What amazed me was his vivacity. The spirit that he had managed to retain after a day of back-breaking work. The hope amidst a desperate festival. The desire to feel the wind in his hair on an empty stomach. In a world where many of us succumb to much, much less, he isn't an inspiration. He is a dream.