rickshaws and wings

I spend several hours a day transporting myself around the city. Perhaps I should more accurately say that rickshaws, buses, and the metro transport me around the city. If only I really could transport myself, I would, of course, choose wings. They would be varying shades of green... bright, chlorophyll green, and dark, earthy green fading into brown. This way I could sometimes sit unnoticed in the trees.

Anyway. The buses are insane, I have yet to figure out the number system (as evidenced by my hours spent wandering unknown parts of the city.) They are numbers like 45 B/1, 205 (not to be confused with 205 A,) and 1C/15,000. Okay, the last one might be an exaggeration. I'm sure they are systematic... but it's a system that is far beyond my comprehension. Sort of like the periodic table of elements. At this point, most of you are wondering why I don't understand the periodic table. If you figure out why I am so bad at chemistry, please, let me know. Sometimes one must have a running start to board the bus, or exit with a flying leap as the money man announces they just passed your stop. This is not so easy as it sounds, since you are shoulder to shoulder with more people than could possible fit on this bus. And then ten more come on.

I take a bike rickshaw to and from home to the metro when I'm too lazy to walk, or when it's dark outside. The first one I took was hard for me. It provides jobs to many men, and I want to be able to support them. Yet, sometimes it's hard for me to ride along, the cause of physical labor for a few rupees. I feel a bit like a Turkish princess in a veiled stoop, riding along on four muscular shoulders. Except for the pot holes and speed bumps and the lack of wine. The bike rickshaw wallahs all look older, I think, than they really are, and there isn't an extra ounce of fat on their bodies. Perhaps their thin faces contribute to their aged appearance. They also have a community that interests me. They wait together, and take turns. I would imagine them competing for customers, but it seems, rather, that they take care of each other.

In travelling around Kolkata, I find, you cannot escape from people. Such is life in India. In the US, we get in our own personal car, and we (in some states) pump our own personal gas. We drive in straight lines, awkwardly looking away if we make eye contact with the person driving in the other lane. In this city, I cannot forget by whose labor I am getting to where I want to go. I slide around in the water on the floor of the metro, while a group of men scrape the dirty liquid over the edge of the platform and onto the tracks. I sit across from men and women staring unabashedly at my Western form. This is exhausting. But it is also humanizing. I am a part of something. One in a million. I must choose which part, and which something. Hopefully, the rebuilding part. The broken part. The part that fights for freedom. Hopefully, the friendship something. The God something. The world something. All these thoughts and a ride home... and it only costs me ten rupees.