The Silent Weep: Memoir of a Rickshaw
Prologue:
The Echoes of a Hollow Soul
Amidst the cacophony of the city, we see thousands of things every day. We see luxury cars glinting in the sun, bustling crowds rushing to their destinations, and a battered, dust-covered rickshaw abandoned at a street corner. We dismiss them as mere skeletons of iron and wood—lifeless objects with no voice.
But have you ever wondered... what if those iron frames had a soul? What if they could recount the stories of a thousand strangers they carried, the history of a master's cruelty, and the silent tears shed alone during those lonely, rain-drenched nights? This is not a human story. This is the memoir of a broken heart resting on two wheels—a voice that will force you to see the world through a different lens.
Chapter 1: Birth in the Womb of Fire
The world began for me in the shadowy depths of a cramped blacksmith's shed. Outside, a torrential rain was pouring, but inside, every breath of air felt like molten lava. There was no mercy there, no room for compassion. That was the place where my existence was forged in pain.
I was once nothing more than a bundle of cold, lifeless, and rigid iron rods. I had no name, no voice, and no sensation. Suddenly, a pair of calloused, sweat-slicked hands gripped me and, without warning, thrust me into the heart of a roaring furnace. As the crimson flames licked my skin, I felt it for the first time: the sheer agony of existence. My rigid body began to soften, melting away like a heart breaking under the weight of silent sorrow. I wanted to scream, to crawl out of that fire, but the chains of my servitude were written in iron long before I was even born.
When they dragged me out of the embers and slammed me onto a massive anvil, the true nightmare began. The blacksmith's heavy hammer came down with full force, and with every strike, it felt as though my very atoms were being shattered into shards. Each blow felt like a curse. The sweat dripping from the blacksmith's brow hit my glowing body, hissing and vanishing into steam instantly. Was my silent scream hidden within that steam? Perhaps. But beneath the thunderous clangs of iron-on-iron, there was no one to hear my voiceless cry.
With pliers and brute force, they twisted and molded my body into a skeleton of metal. My wheels, my frame, my handles—every part of me was a map of hidden scars. Finally, a grand deception began: the beautification. They draped me in vibrant plastics, adorned me with painted flowers, and coated me in a brilliant, glossy blue. To the world, I looked exquisite—like a new bride waiting for her procession. But no one saw the bruised history hidden beneath that blue paint, the marks of the hammer, and the scorched memories of the fire.
As I was stood in front of the shop, I wondered: Is this my life? Where does this torment end? I didn't know then that the glittering life of the showroom was just a mirage. The real hell hadn't even started. Suddenly, a man stopped in front of me. His eyes were filled with a strange, calculating greed. He pressed his weight onto my seat, testing my resilience with a jarring force. My frame trembled. Was this man my future? Did he have any idea that beneath this beautiful blue paint, I was already black and blue with pain?
As I was dragged away from the artificial lights of the shop and into the harsh reality of the streets, I realized one thing: there was no escape. I was merely moving from one womb of fire into another kind of darkness.
(To be continued....)