Weaving along the busy, thronging streets of Delhi, a sweet smell suddenly envelops your nostrils, displacing any other sensation of the body. It is the smell emanating from cobs of corn slowly being cooked over endless rows of recently created coal fires, the embers of which glow and crackle in the dark of the night. Old women; young men; boys; a disparate group, fan these coals to encourage the heat, many using the faded green leaves the cob began life within. Nimbly turning the blackened cops atop the hot coals, I wonder, who this sweet-smelling delicacy is for?
I have yet to see one being eaten, could they be purely for self-consumption? Surely not, else why set up these ingenious, makeshift stoves by the side of the main roads? My guess is they are sold to the auto-drivers; a early form of the drive-through, for the men who maintain the autonomy of Delhi through their constant ferrying of men and women to work. This allows us to achieve a progression of sorts in our jobs; we earn our monthly income which enables us in turn to pay the richshaw-wallahs. Where does their money go, I ask myself? To support families living in makeshift houses, slums or villages outside the city?
Coming home from the bar late at night last week I saw many drivers asleep in the back seat of their rickshaw, so do they serve a double purpose then as sleeping quarters also? Probably. I think they must work as often or as long as possible, only returning home for brief respite to wash and see loved ones, before once more back into the saddle. Do they own their rickshaws? Highly doubtful, they must rent these clever, little machines, whose engines are made by Harley Davidson no less, I learnt the other day, which might explain why the auto drivers work all hours of the day.
After a while I have become sick of haggling with them over 10, 20 rupees. Although I understand they shouldn’t be allowed to get away with ripping off a foreigner, I do respect that they will try to raise it but at the end of the day what is 15 pence really worth to me? Certainly a lot less than it means to them, that’s not being arrogant but just simple fact.
So the street sellers supply the rickshaw drivers who rely on us fro service as much as we rely on them to get around. Thus mouths are fed, lives are led and the wheels of this wonderful city, like my rickshaw, keep on turning.
I have yet to see one being eaten, could they be purely for self-consumption? Surely not, else why set up these ingenious, makeshift stoves by the side of the main roads? My guess is they are sold to the auto-drivers; a early form of the drive-through, for the men who maintain the autonomy of Delhi through their constant ferrying of men and women to work. This allows us to achieve a progression of sorts in our jobs; we earn our monthly income which enables us in turn to pay the richshaw-wallahs. Where does their money go, I ask myself? To support families living in makeshift houses, slums or villages outside the city?
Coming home from the bar late at night last week I saw many drivers asleep in the back seat of their rickshaw, so do they serve a double purpose then as sleeping quarters also? Probably. I think they must work as often or as long as possible, only returning home for brief respite to wash and see loved ones, before once more back into the saddle. Do they own their rickshaws? Highly doubtful, they must rent these clever, little machines, whose engines are made by Harley Davidson no less, I learnt the other day, which might explain why the auto drivers work all hours of the day.
After a while I have become sick of haggling with them over 10, 20 rupees. Although I understand they shouldn’t be allowed to get away with ripping off a foreigner, I do respect that they will try to raise it but at the end of the day what is 15 pence really worth to me? Certainly a lot less than it means to them, that’s not being arrogant but just simple fact.
So the street sellers supply the rickshaw drivers who rely on us fro service as much as we rely on them to get around. Thus mouths are fed, lives are led and the wheels of this wonderful city, like my rickshaw, keep on turning.
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