The town was small and quiet,
its pulse was tall and vibrant.
It was nestled in a valley of sorts,
with the hills around bouncing off the heat,
a cleft where clouds could pause to rest.

A cozy two-storied brick and concrete house,
tucked-in at one end of a dusty winding street.
At other end of the street was a station for rickshaws,
each powered by an aching yet strong pair of calves,
and fueled by a firm quest to earn livelihood.
Shivu knew the nooks and corners of his street,
well memorized and always ready to dash out and play.

Each day he walked, biked or rode-a-scooter to school,
Shivu would keenly observe the frail man leaning on his rickshaw,
patiently waiting under the scorching sun,
feet bearing the heat, waiting for next patron.
A patron, that he quietly hoped, would board
the rustic three-wheeler without much haggling.

Every day as Shivu returned from school,
be it a humid summer day or monsoon afternoon,
the frail man would be dusting off his most priced seat,
while resting his aching calves tired from ferrying folks.
An army of sweat droplets marching on his forehead,
soon to be pulled by gravity onto the unpaved street.

One day the ageing man returned Shivu’s smile,
radiating a sense of contentment of a happy breadwinner.
That same day,
Shivu’s secret wish, of hailing a rickshaw, came true
to send off the family that was visiting their house.

He jetted to the station in a jiffy,
hopping with a hope,
greeted by the much familiar face.

As the wheels rode on the street towards the house,
one pair of legs were pushing hard at the pedals,
and two cheerful hearts riding back.
One barely seated on the driver’s seat,
and the other safely perched on the patron’s retreat.

Photo Credit: www.google.com