Riding Shotgun

Stepping out of the office premise I look around for a shared rickshaw, when I hear a voice go “metro... metro station... metro”. I instinctively look in the direction the sound seemed to be coming from. I ask him “Metro Station”, a stupid redundant question. He asks me if I am ok sitting in front. Not wanting to wait, I said i was ok riding shotgun, and so got into the rick.

I sit keeping my bag near my feet and holding on to either end of the vehicle. And as we go it’s almost like I am wrapping my arms around him in a semi-hug. Was I sharing an intimate moment with him? My head screamed nooooooo! I could almost smell his sweat, his body odour, which definitely far from sweet, testing how long could I hold on to my breath before giving up to inhale a wisp, or a nose full of his odour, a good training for those who would like to test their breathing skills, or wanted to unclog the clogged up nostrils.

While my hand held on tight, my butt cheeks complained about being discriminated against. While one sat comfortably on the seat, the other hung precociously for it derrière life (if I could use the term in this context). One in while the other out. Along with the poor derrière, the knees felt exposed, exposed to the chances of it getting knocked out of its sockets as he negotiated the triviality of the evening traffic like only he could. Weaving through traffic, like a formula one driver would navigate its competitors, making their way to the front. There was nothing holding him, not even jams. He sure did fancy himself worthy to the mantle of a certain Mr Schumacher (choosing to ignore a Hamilton).

So if there was a jam on one side, the opposite side is where he went. If the road no longer yielded itself, on the pavement he went. There was no holding him back. And as he went, twisting and turning, I clung on to what I could, holding on to my dear life while my poor derrière trying to hold on to whatever seat it could place itself on. Should hold on to the bar or should I hold on to him. Come on I was already sharing an almost intimate moment, but hey I didn’t.

If this was an amusement ride, I had the front row seat, a first hand experience of all that transpired. Should I keep my eyes open with wide eyed amazement (or was it fear), or should I shut it tight, not wanting to see what is to come, lest my poor heart would not be able to take all the excitement. Wondered should I hold on tight for dear life or should I put my hands up in the air and let out a whoop whoop, or a woohooo, the way you would on a roller coaster (after isn’t life one).

So when the ride finally ended, I gave thanks that I came out in one piece with no parts displaced or dislocated. I quickly paid my fair and off I went. Wondering if the Gods May just have blessed this guy for the many people he got to pray, the many atheists he may have converted, brought back home, a ghar wapasi, by just driving the way he did.