WHAT THE RICKSHAW HEARD ALL DAY

 

The world is a river of voices and I am the little boat that ferries them. My wheels hum a constant song, a low, metallic murmur that is the backdrop to a thousand whispered secrets. From dawn till dusk, I carry the weight of stories, each one a fragment of a larger, unseen tapestry.

"Did you tell him? About the price, I mean. He'll want a discount, I know it."

"The doctor said no sugar. Not even a little bit. How am I supposed to live without sweets?"

"She looked right through me. Like I was a ghost. I don't know what I did."

"I told her, 'You can't live a life like this, you have to choose.' But she just smiled and said, 'Maybe I don't have to.'"

A young couple, their knees touching, their hands intertwined. "My mother wants to meet you," he says, his voice a nervous whisper. "She's already planning our wedding." The girl laughs, a sound like wind chimes.

"Just to the market, please, and take the long way around. I want to see the new lights they've put up for the festival."

"My son, he's a doctor now. In America. Sends money every month. But what's the use of money when he can't even come home for his father's funeral?"

"The old man is selling his shop. Says he's tired. But I think he's just lonely. Since his wife died, he just sits there, watching the world go by."

The sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. My final passengers of the day climb aboard, their bodies heavy with the day's fatigue. A woman sighs, a sound that holds all the weariness of the world. "Another day, another dollar," she mutters.

I carry them all. The hopeful, the broken, the lonely, the joyful. Their words, their stories, their lives—they all become a part of me, a rolling monologue of the human heart. I am a rickshaw, and I am a keeper of secrets. And at the end of the day, as I am parked and the world falls silent, their voices remain, a ghostly chorus humming in my metal frame.