Rickshaw Girl: Chapters 1–5

Most of the homes in the village looked the same, with smooth clay walls, thatched roofs, dirt paths, and large stone thresholds. They only looked different on holidays, when girls decorated their family’s paths and thresholds with painted patterns called alpanas, just as their ancestors had done for generations.

Most of the homes in the village looked the same, with smooth clay walls, thatched roofs, dirt paths, and large stone thresholds. They only looked different on holidays, when girls decorated their family’s paths and thresholds with painted patterns called alpanas, just as their ancestors had done for generations.

Most of the homes in the village looked the same, with smooth clay walls, thatched roofs, dirt paths, and large stone thresholds. They only looked different on holidays, when girls decorated their family’s paths and thresholds with painted patterns called alpanas, just as their ancestors had done for generations.

Naima had made the prize last for months. She’d mixed colors from the paint box to create new ones. She and Rashida had discussed how to use each precious piece of fresh paper. Should Naima paint a crocodile slinking through lily pads? Or a monkey clutching a coconut as it swung from branch to branch?

The ring of a rickshaw bell made Naima look up.

“You are getting old, Sister,” Rashida said. “You probably won’t be able to wear a salwar kameez much longer.” Both sisters were dressed in cotton pants under long-sleeved tunics that came to their knees.

“You are getting old, Sister,” Rashida said. “You probably won’t be able to wear a salwar kameez much longer.” Both sisters were dressed in cotton pants under long-sleeved tunics that came to their knees.

Father was coming downhill. The wheels of his rickshaw stirred up a flurry of dust. He raised a hand to greet the men who were playing cards in the shade of a mango tree. Their rickshaws all waited idly in the lane, and Father had to steer through a tangle of tin and tires. He parked in front of the hut.

Father was coming downhill. The wheels of his rickshaw stirred up a flurry of dust. He raised a hand to greet the men who were playing cards in the shade of a mango tree. Their rickshaws all waited idly in the lane, and Father had to steer through a tangle of tin and tires. He parked in front of the hut.

Each time Naima cleaned the rickshaw, she imagined scenes the rickshaw painter might invent once these panels faded. Maybe a waterfall cascading down the snowy Himalayan mountains. Or a tiger, eyes blazing, peering through a leafy jungle.

Saleem drove by again. This time a plump passenger sat on the bench of the rickshaw. He was a rich-looking passenger, juicy with money. Naima scowled and followed her sister into the hut.

“Lie down for a few minutes, Husband,” Mother urged. “You get so little rest. Even on Fridays you drive other men to the mosque before joining them to worship.”

Naima went outside into the stifling noontime heat. The card-playing men had gone inside. Somewhere a radio was blaring Bangladesh’s national anthem.

The wheels in Naima’s mind were spinning wildly. She stared at Saleem’s clothes. He wore a short lungi, a kurta shirt, and a cap.

Somebody switched off the radio, and Saleem climbed back on his cycle seat. “There has to be another way for you to earn some money,” he told her. “We’ll think of something, Naima.”
“There isn’t another way,” Naima said, folding her arms and jutting out her chin.

In her mind’s eye Mother got teary as she unwrapped a silk saree that Naima had picked out. An imaginary Rashida giggled as she popped one roshogollah after another into her mouth, devouring the whole pot that Naima had brought home from the sweet shop.

Before she realized what was happening, the lane began to curve at the bottom of the slope. A thicket of bushes loomed ahead. They were coming closer and closer. Desperately Naima tried to turn the rickshaw, but she couldn’t seem to change directions.

Before she realized what was happening, the lane began to curve at the bottom of the slope. A thicket of bushes loomed ahead. They were coming closer and closer. Desperately Naima tried to turn the rickshaw, but she couldn’t seem to change directions.

Before she realized what was happening, the lane began to curve at the bottom of the slope. A thicket of bushes loomed ahead. They were coming closer and closer. Desperately Naima tried to turn the rickshaw, but she couldn’t seem to change directions.

Just before the rickshaw careened into the bushes, Naima managed to jump off the cycle.

The rickshaw just kept hurtling through the thicket like a stampeding animal.
Naima stayed where she was and listened to the rasp of thorns clawing the tin. Her heart was beating like a tabla drum.

The rickshaw just kept hurtling through the thicket like a stampeding animal.
Naima stayed where she was and listened to the rasp of thorns clawing the tin. Her heart was beating like a tabla drum.

“Eesh!” Mother wailed. “You’ve ruined the rickshaw, Naima! What were you thinking?”
“I—I was trying to drive it.”
“What? Why in the world would you do something like that?”

Father didn’t say anything. His face was grim. He climbed on and pushed the pedals. The rickshaw moved slowly, like an ox obeying its master even though it didn’t want to.

“It still works,” Father called over his shoulder, heading for the hut. Naima could hear the relief in his voice. She spanked the dust off her hands and clothes, hard, and trudged uphill slowly behind Mother and Rashida.