Bade Miyan: ‘Aye rickshaw. Chalthe kya Chandrayangutta? Rickshawallah: baitho saab. Teen rupye. Bade Miyan: Teen Kaikoo. Do rupye bas. Rickshawallah: Teen waajbee hai saab. Chadhaav bhi hai naa. Achcha aajao.
I wonder if we come across this kind of conversation these days in Hamara Shahr. For today’s young people, it may sound like a dialogue from distant times, although it was everyday interaction for most commuters till the end of the Seventies. The rickshaw, as a popular mode of transport, started fading away, signifying a telling sign of the changing times. One can still find the ubiquitous three-wheeler in the Purana Shahr, ferrying schoolchildren and women or transporting goods.
My mother told me that as a five-year old I used to go to school by rickshaw. One day when she asked me why I gave four Annas to the rickshaw puller, I innocently replied ‘ because I liked his beautiful hat’. Interestingly, my first school was Stanley Girls’ high school, Gunfoundry. Nobody knows how even though I was only four or five years old, I was admitted in a girl’s school. I was moved to another school in a few months.
Next, it was the turn of auto rickshaws and motorcycles to swamp the roads in thousands, weaving their way dangerously through a maze of different types of vehicles. Today one finds more cars on the roads than arguably the bikes, because banks make tempting offers of loans to white-collared wage-earners and professionals. Such being the case, few care to be seen moving about on a rickshaw.
An outmoded means of conveyance, the rickshaw had its moments of glory. Hyderabad had at one time boasted of the largest number of them after Kolkata. It was a popular and affordable option for the poor and the middle class.
Old timers recall the thrill of travelling by rickshaw. Life was sukoon unlike today’s frenetic pace of life. People had time to indulge in light-hearted banter or discuss the state of the nation with the rickshaw-puller to ease his burden. Rickshaw-pullers who ferried school kids on a monthly basis built special bonds with them. The rickshaw capacity was two, but more often three or four persons squeezed in. Rickshaw offered purdah facility for women passengers. Sometimes passengers would get down to assist the rickshaw-puller negotiate a steep gradient. Cycles and rickshaws had licence until the system was abolished in the 70s.
Films have celebrated the popularity of rickshaw-pullers with hits like Sabhash Ramudu (Jayammu nischayammu raa….), Mattilo Manikyam (Rim Jhim Rim Jhim Hyderabad, rickshawallah zindabad), Dil Tera Deewana (Rickshe pe mere tum aa baithe ab mera hunar dekho), Chhoti Bahen (main rickshawallah) etc. Edged out of the road and out of a living by autos and other fast-moving vehicles, the rickshawallah’s condition has become pitiful. A few of them still slog in the scorching sun or in pouring rain, moving goods and material. Some may feel izzat ka sawal to travel by rickshaw while the more enlightened consider it ‘inhuman’ to ride on a fellow human being.
Cycle is another ubiquitous mode of transport to fall on bad times. I learnt as a boy that Hyderabad had the largest number of cycles in India next to Poona.
My father had gifted a Made-in- England ’Sunbeam’ to my elder brother on his passing Intermediate exam in 1952. The beauty passed into my hands in the early 60s. I would take it all the way to the Madina centre for fancy upholstering and decoration. My Sunbeam was in active service under my brother-in-law until it was stolen from the Victory Playgrounds in the year 2015. He pedalled daily from Nallakunta to Moulali and back! I too had used it during my days in The Daily News, Deccan Chronicle and The Indian Express.
Some MLAs belonging to the left parties used to come to the Assembly on cycle till the Seventies. What a contrast with today’s picture of the likes of BMW, Mercedes, Fortuner, Land Rover and other SUVs, Mercedes, BMW, Audi occupying every inch of parking space in the Assembly, the Secretariat or other important places.
As a student, I was wary of the cop springing up from nowhere and catching me for riding without ‘kandil’. Such cops were contemptuously referred to as ‘chor kandil’.
Cycle repairs and air fillers parked themselves at important junctions. Cyclists dragged the bike and themselves to these points to fix a punctured tube or a flat tyre. The bikes had wick-type kerosene lamps fitted to the handle. The lamp, blackened by a heavy coat of smoke, was just an apology to please the cops, barely serving as a tool of navigation. Street corner repairers supplied kerosene for the benefit of the Hyderabad Night Riders.
Increasing awareness of the need for a clean environment is kindling a revival of interest in the cycles as a supplement for the fuel-intensive cars and motorbikes. Some of the roads in the city are earmarked for bike users only. The new-age bike with modern features has come to be regarded as a status symbol or a fashion statement by the corporate fraternity and fitness buffs.