Janakpur was just waking up when Ratan pulled his rickshaw through the street of Sonar Patti. It was a part of his morning commute—to pay a visit to Janaki temple at the onset of a turbulent day. Ratan put a vermillion tika on his forehead and returned to the street back again.

“A big day today, TukTuk,” he said to his rickshaw. Well into his late forties, Ratan had tanned skin and curly hair; he was short and well-built. His eyes were dark as if the sands of time were inscribed in it.

Ratan’s TukTuk was an electric rickshaw topped by khaki cover. The black plate with the number “77” written in white would have been a charismatic symbol for gypsies. But the number brought no luck to Ratan’s life. The word “Sumitra” written in a contrast of yellow and red in the back seat was the memory of his long-lost love. Ratan lost Sumitra to malaria when Raju, their son, was barely two-years old. This changed Ratan’s life. Ratan would leave no stone unturned in bringing up Raju, fulfilling all his needs and sending him to a decent school. 

TukTuk and Raju were Ratan’s only possessions; they were Ratan’s love. They were Ratan’s life. 

As Ratan ascended to his TukTuk, a gorgeous red sun appeared—what looked like an island in a canvas of horizon as blue as the Pacific. The sunbeams refined from the coconut trees kissed the surface of Ganga Sagar tarnishing every drop of water. The Janaki temple was glowing in magical synchrony with morning freshness. The aroma of Jalebies and Gulab Jamuns from nearby sweet shops conjured the atmosphere. And that was the sign—Ratan started his rickshaw.

Ratan knew how hard times could be. But Ratan was a superhero who didn’t get deterred by the hot summer wind and cool winter breeze. The rickshaw’s pace was Ratan’s lifeline. It was Raju’s school fees.  The horizon was Ratan’s clock and the seasons his calendar. Every day and every fare was crucial for survival. 

Another day. Raju’s deep sleep signaled Ratan that it was a Saturday. In his schooldays, Raju got out of bed with Ratan and revised his lessons. And Ratan left for Janaki temple.

Raju was a bright boy. Books were his friends. The teachers were fascinated by Raju’s curiosity and hard work. His school had just resumed after a month of Madhesh Andolan. The week had been one of the most precious for Raju.

Saturdays were often the same for Raju. He and his friends would go mango hunting in prosperous gardens near the train station. The joy of swimming in Ganga Sagar in the presence of the scorching midday sun… And the afternoons were booked by grueling cricket innings.

Ratan picked his first passenger at Pethia Bazaar. As he drove through the streets, he saw the yellow walls painted red with slogans and question marks which Ratan never understood; they were said to be the slogans about the Madhesh government and prosperity. They were said to be the voice of the Madhesi people, but Ratan had never raised any such voice. 

Ratan tuned his radio as he drove past the abandoned cigarette factory. A playlist of Mohammad Rafi songs was his ultimate quest. But as he tuned, he heard few fragments of news. He could sense that agitators were planning for havoc in the city today. Ratan had a controlled concern for himself and Raju. A sense of chaos surpassed his concentration. He could have gone home today. He could have spared a day. But Ratan didn’t give up. Every day was crucial.

The afternoon presented a merciless misfortune to Ratan. He had just dropped a passenger and was returning to Murli chowk, and that was when realised that he was in the buffer zone. The police group seemed to be even close. The signs were all there—he was about to be part of the brutal clash which could start in no time.

Drops of sweat ran down his forehead and cheeks. The roar of the crowd magnified even more. He turned the handle and looked back. Alas! The way had vanished.

Ratan could vividly hear his heart beating. “TukTuk, I am afraid.”

The verbal abuse and dissent turned into a physical violence in the blink of an eye. The police charged the protestors ruthlessly. The protestors used stone, stick and iron rods in response. Ratan witnessed the clash from a corner, uncertain and anxious. 

But he was surprised: The valiant fighters didn’t comprise of leaders and morchas who were often heard about. There were so many kids of Raju’s age. Kids, who were just being used.

Ratan was shocked to notice Anand and Pradip, Raju’s dearest friends. With placards and stones in their hands, they were singing slogans with the crowd; slogans, Ratan never understood. Neither did the kids.

Ratan’s heartbeat accelerated at a dubious rate. A third image grew clearer and clearer near the two boys. And that was the last thing he wanted to see. It was Raju.

Ratan wanted to lose no time in response. But the policeman approaching them had much prior timing. Before Ratan could get out of his rickshaw, the boys were charged. They fell in the black topped road, heated whole day by the sun. Alarmed, Ratan ran towards them. He examined their minor bruises and supported them to get up. Raju was speechless due to the terrible mistake he had committed. Ratan could sense regret and guilt in their eyes. But one truth was clear: They had no serious intention of attending the protest. They were just persuaded. Their innocence was misused.

“Raju, go home. Hurry!” 

Raju cleaned his dusty jeans and helped Anand do so. The three friends were ready to leave. As the three walked together, Raju turned about, “I am sorry dad.” Ratan nodded and smiled. The boys vanished out of the crowd.

Ratan walked back. But TukTuk was no longer intact. It had been the guiltless victim of gruesome violence. It had been a sink of anger of all the agitators. TukTuk lied upside down in distance, isolated and damaged. Two of its tires were already taken away.

Ratan knelt down in the road. He looked up to the sky. A series of uncertainty flurried in. The basis of his life had been destructed. Time was too cruel to provide him sympathy. Once again, Ratan’s life would take a detour. His struggle for life could never be justified by red paints in those walls and requirements of Morchas. It was his life, it was his fate; and he had to write it.

The pain of losing dear ones cannot be explained in words. And sometimes, when time catalyses a setting and betrays, the joy of living is gone. It hurts even more. Ratan’s circle of life was just a mere glimpse of consequence of rebel and fight. Ratan’s life was just a representative of innocence impacted by wars. That’s why they say, a war does no good to anyone.