On Rickshaws And Being Pulled

Hold like god.

Actually, scratch that,

Hold like how a rikshaw wala holds your weight up, like a mama cat holds her kitten.

Actually scratch that,

Hold like how a rikshaw wala holds your

Weight up like only he can.

Sweating profusely

Biceps quivering

Feet naked

He will not let go

Even as you you feel jostled about

The bumpy road

Hold like his calluses,

Like those those calluses but after years of pulling and pushing

Weights and humans

And human weights

Those dead weights.

Entitled in the high seats

Treating him like the animal

He now believes himself to be

As he works

To just feed himself

Another morsel

To pull tomorrow.

Hold like the questions that pour into your mind

Actually, scratch that,

Hold like the guilt that claws itself into your mind

The what ifs,

The what if you are using him?

But what if you are half the pay of his day?

But what if he wants to keep himself off the street by doing this?

But what if your guilt is just unacknowledgement of the value of physical labour?

What if this is just justification for the wrong it might be.

Hold them.

Hold like the man without a name pulling his life away.

Hold like god

And feel as unsatisfied

As unsacred

As undivine

As you can only feel yourself

When you deeply believe

That you might be desecrating

A person.

Hold like the veins in his hands

Tying everything together

To help him hold on

Just another story

With an unknown end

Among too many books

In this human library.