Wheels of Burden, Dreams of Light : The Cycle Rickshawala

 

They come at dawn with dreams in tow,

From distant fields where rivers flow.

With arms grown strong from village toil,

Now grinding wheels on urban soil.

A meager meal, a hurried prayer,

Before the sun begins to glare.

Each knot of muscle, every bone,

A silent promise whispered home.

Their hands are cracked, their shirts threadbare,

Their feet know roads that do not care.

Yet still they ride, through sun and rain,

Through aching limbs and silent pain.

The blistered heel, the searing ache,

A constant battle they must make.

Through dust that chokes and fumes that bite,

They push their weight with fading light.

The city looms with blinding speed,

But gives them only what they need:

A chance to earn, to push, to strive—

Not live with ease, just stay alive.

Each rupee earned, a weighty sum,

For mouths to feed when day is done.

A transient life, from dawn till night,

Chasing pennies, with all their might.

They sleep in corners made of tin,

A world of noise, of dust, of din.

Their rest is short, their dreams deferred,

Their worries long, and rarely heard.

On pavement hard, or cramped, shared room,

They battle shadows, chase the gloom.

The fleeting sleep, a brief escape,

From burdens that their spirits drape.

Rent to pay, rice to buy,

Medicine for a fever high.

A call from home—a child is ill.

The rickshaw moves, but never still.

The phone's soft buzz, a sudden dread,

A distant worry in their head.

A sick mother, a sister's plight,

More weight to pull through endless night.

They speak of duty, not of choice,

In every ride, their inner voice:

“To feed my wife, to clothe my son—

This is the work that must be done.”

No comfort offered, no respite near,

Just grinding gears, year after year.

A father's promise, a husband's vow,

Etched on the sweat that wets their brow.

For many, manhood is defined

Not by power, but staying aligned

With promises whispered in the night

To family far from city light.

Their youth, a fleeting memory now,

Replaced by lines upon the brow.

The strength they once possessed, consumed,

By silent burdens, deeply doomed.

They come and go with seasons’ flow,

A month at home, then back they go.

Circular lives, not set in stone—

Half here, half there, and always alone.

A brief reunion, sweet and brief,

Then back to city's bitter grief.

The aching void, the yearning deep,

For loved ones guarded in their sleep.

In Delhi’s lanes, they rarely trust,

Their friendships dulled by urban dust.

Too often judged, ignored, dismissed,

A caste below the modern list.

The scornful glance, the hurried plea,

"Move out the way!" they often see.

Reduced to function, not to soul,

A cog forgotten in the whole.

“Whether Hindu, Muslim—what does it mean?

Here we share the same routine.”

A rickshaw man once said to me,

“In struggle, all are family.”

For hunger knows no creed or name,

And weariness is all the same.

A shared existence, stark and raw,

Bound by the city's unforgiving law.

The city’s rich look through them all,

As if they're shadows on the wall.

But every pedal, every ride

Is weighed with quiet, sacred pride.

The meager tip, a grudging coin,

While hidden wounds begin to join.

Yet still they carry, day by day,

The city's weight, come what may.

Some day they dream to leave behind

These endless roads and fumes that blind.

To build a home, to plant a tree,

To watch their children wander free.

A patch of land, a simple shed,

Where worries vanish from their head.

A quiet evening, bathed in grace,

A smile upon a loved one's face.

For now, they pedal with the weight

Of hunger, hope, and twist of fate.

Invisible to passing eyes—

But they are Delhi’s beating cries.

So next time, pause, and truly see,

The man who pulls your journey's plea.

Know there’s a heart that holds so tight

To burdens borne and dreams of light.