Delhi’s roads are capable of springing all sorts of surprises, I know. Even so, what we saw the other day was definitely in the realm of the unexpected. There we were, sailing down Africa Avenue, when ahead of us, a strange white thing on wheels braked before a red light. “Is it a toy elephant?” asked my daughter looking at its rotund backside. “Or a pig, maybe?” suggested my son, his eyes on its thin tail. “No!” they both cried in unison as we drew up alongside, “It’s a white rat with Ganeshji riding it!” And so it was — a large rodent on wheels with a life-size statue of the elephant-headed god of good beginnings. The statue was garlanded with fresh flowers, spewing flower petals from its right hand, and holding a crazily spinning <I>chakra (wheel) </I>in the left.
As soon as we could, we hailed it down. When it stopped with much wheezing and rattling, we realised it was actually a refurbished autorickshaw. Standing by the rat’s bejewelled and bedecked flanks, I was startled to find the driver crawl out from beneath. “We just had to flag you down to get a closer look at this magnificent vehicle,” said I, “Hope you don’t mind.” The driver grinned: “I’m used to it, this happens all the time … you can’t imagine how long it took me to get to Haridwar in this — people were making me stop all the time!”
Kallu, for that was his name, obviously loved all the attention he and his rat-shaped autorickshaw received. “Let me show you how ingenious this is,” said he, switching on the spotlights that fell on the godly statue like a halo. A battery in the boot powered the music system and mikes, as well as the rotating <I>chakra </I>and the little motor that threw out flower petals from the statue’s palms. A large salver that was strategically screwed on at arm’s distance was obviously meant for offerings. “We are just returning from a big puja in west Delhi,” said he, adding, “All I’d to do was drive around the venue for an hour playing bhajans and entertaining the crowds!”
There was, he assured me, a great demand for such religious tableaux. “Whether it is an all-night <I>jaagaran, </I>a prayer meeting or a Navratra celebration, we add that extra bit of interest to it!” said he. “Earlier, such tableaux were made on trucks or tractors. But they were expensive to run. In comparison, this refurbished auto costs peanuts!” said Kallu. The returns, said he, were very good: “We could charge a daily rate of up to Rs 12,000 depending on the job,” said he.
Kallu said he was the only driver experienced enough to drive this vehicle. “You see, in order to preserve the illusion that this is indeed the Lord riding his steed, this has been modified in such a way that the insides are completely invisible. So, the windscreen has been reduced to the size of a small window. And the single rear view mirror is tiny, and camouflaged by that pink swastika,” he explained.
It couldn’t be safe to drive, I commented. “Probably,” he agreed, “but who’d dare crash into Lord Ganesha?” He had a point. Were there others like this vehicle, I asked. “If you hang around, you’ll probably catch sight of Shiva, Krishna and <I>Maa </I>Durga,” said he, “We were all on duty together on a one-hour job for which we charged Rs 24,000 — but got separated on the road!” The owner of these tableaux had at least 16 others, including Sai Baba and Guru Nanak. I waited for a while, but the gods eluded me…. Well, at least now I know that even they aren’t immune to Delhi’s traffic!
