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If you’ve ever been to Kashmir, you’ve undoubtedly encountered the omnipresent auto rickshaw. These three-wheeled marvels are the lifeblood of the region’s urban transportation system. Driven by men who could double as stand-up comedians, philosophers, and daredevil stuntmen, auto rickshaws are more than just a ride—they’re an experience. And nowhere is this experience more theatrical (and chaotic) than during the morning school rush.
An auto rickshaw in Kashmir isn’t just a vehicle; it’s a magical contraption capable of fitting an impossible number of people, school bags, lunch boxes, and even the occasional harissae daeg. The drivers are masters of spatial mathematics, somehow squeezing in more children than you thought humanly possible.
It’s not uncommon to see an auto zipping by with a dozen school kids packed tighter than kaeth. (sheep) There’s always that one kid hanging out precariously from the side, grinning like it’s the best ride of his life, while another is half-sitting on the driver’s lap, offering unsolicited advice like, “Bhaiya, shortcut se chalo!” (Take the shortcut!).
If there’s a single spectacle that defines the morning hustle in Kashmir, it’s auto rickshaws ferrying school children. These miniature buses are the stuff of legend. The sight of a brightly colored rickshaw overflowing with children, school bags dangling from every possible hook and corner, is both hilarious and heart-stopping.
You’d think the drivers are competing in an unspoken game of “How Many Kids Can Fit in One Rickshaw?” And somehow, they pull it off. A typical school ride looks like this: (1) two kids in the front with the driver, one occasionally leaning over to honk the horn, (2) five kids on the backseat, sitting sideways like puzzle pieces, (3) three more crammed in the luggage space behind the backseat, clutching onto school bags and, possibly, each other.
If there’s extra luggage or sports equipment involved, it’s either balanced on the roof or strategically placed so that half of it sticks out of the rickshaw. The driver, meanwhile, drives with the calm confidence of a man who knows physics bends to his will.
For the stay-at-home women of Kashmir, the auto rickshaw is more than just a vehicle; it’s a savior in times of need. Whether it’s a quick dash to Lal Chowk for shopping, a trip to the neighborhood bakery, or even an emergency ride to the doctor, the rickshaw is always there. It’s the superhero of public transport—minus the cape but with plenty of charm.
Then there’s the thrill of bargaining. These women, seasoned negotiators in markets and bazaars, relish the verbal jousting that comes with getting a fair fare. The rickshaw driver might start at an astronomical ₹200 for a 2 km ride, but the woman’s “Aap bas lootna jaante ho!” (You only know how to loot!) can bring it down to ₹70 faster than you can say “meter.”
For Kashmir’s working women, especially teachers, office-goers, and medical staff, the rickshaw is a reliable partner in their daily grind. The morning commute often turns into an impromptu networking event. Imagine four women squeezed into a rickshaw, each holding a conversation about everything from politics and weather to the rising cost of mutton.
While the streets of Srinagar bustle with schoolchildren-packed rickshaws, the working women’s autos are no less chaotic. A passenger juggling her handbag, a thermos of chai, and a conversation about deadlines is a common sight. Yet, the auto remains their cocoon, where they steal moments of camaraderie before stepping into the day’s chaos.
For homemakers, the auto rickshaw is a source of endless fascination—and sometimes, pure entertainment. When the family car isn’t available or they prefer not to navigate Kashmir’s narrow streets themselves, the rickshaw becomes their chariot.
But the most delightful sight is the school run: a stay-at-home mom in a rickshaw, squeezed in among schoolchildren, her own child’s lunch box precariously balanced in her lap. Her exasperated expressions as the driver swerves to pick up yet another child! Priceless!
Despite the complaints about reckless driving, rickshaws hold a strange charm for Kashmiri women. Many of them reminisce about their childhood rides, when the thrill of sitting on the edge of a rickshaw was the closest thing to an amusement park ride. Today, even as they navigate adulthood, the rickshaw offers a slice of nostalgia.
For others, it’s the freedom the rickshaw represents. In a culture where mobility for women hasn’t always been easy, the rickshaw is a no-questions-asked ticket to independence. The fact that you can hail one at any street corner makes it an ever-accessible escape—be it for errands, work, or just some well-deserved “girl time out” at the nearest cafe for a plate of spicy and steaming kanti.
While kids dominate the morning rickshaw rush, their mothers aren’t far behind. Some moms prefer to supervise the chaos, hopping into the rickshaw with their little ones. These rides are a spectacle in themselves: a mix of maternal instincts, stern instructions (“Tumhare shoelaces khule hain, wahan se uth jao!”), and whispered prayers as the rickshaw speeds through narrow lanes.
The rickshaw is not just a vehicle; it’s a stage where Kashmir’s daily life unfolds. From women balancing their dual roles as homemakers and professionals to kids clinging to the sides during their school adventures, the rickshaw brings everyone together in its confined chaos.
The school run isn’t just about transportation; it’s also about the music—if you can call honking music. Rickshaw drivers communicate with a complex symphony of horn blasts during this chaotic time. A quick honk means, “Hurry up, kids, we’re late!” A long honk translates to, “Move aside, your car is blocking my rickshaw filled with the future of this nation!” And rapid honking? That’s the driver warning a rival rickshaw to stop stealing his shortcut.
Parents wave helplessly as their children are whisked away in what can only be described as a moving circus. Mothers shout last-minute instructions about tiffins, while fathers glance at the overloaded rickshaw and mutter, “Khuda Hafiz,” entrusting their child to divine protection.
Rickshaw drivers in Kashmir are not just drivers; they’re crisis managers, crowd controllers, and, during the school rush, unofficial babysitters. As the kids squabble over seat space and loudly debate the latest cricket match, the driver maintains Zen-like focus, offering pearls of wisdom like, “Zindagi mein tehzeeb rakho, seat mein toh nahi hai” (Keep discipline in life, even if it’s not in the seat).
They’ve also perfected the art of multi-tasking. One hand is on the steering wheel, the other is swatting away kids attempting to stand on the footboard for extra adventure. All the while, they’re expertly navigating Srinagar’s winding alleys, potholes, and occasional cows.
The school rush often turns into an unspoken competition among rickshaw drivers. Who can drop off their batch of kids first? Who can take the riskiest shortcut? As they weave through traffic at breakneck speeds, the kids cheer their driver on like he’s Lewis Hamilton (British Formula One driver for Ferrari.) “Bhaiya, jaldi karo! Assembly miss ho jayegi!” (Hurry, brother! We’ll miss assembly!)
An auto rickshaw ride in Kashmir is not just transportation; it’s a slice of life, and the school run is its most chaotic chapter. Sure, it’s noisy, bumpy, and occasionally terrifying, but it’s also charming, adventurous, and deeply human.
So, the next time you see a rickshaw in Kashmir brimming with kids, lunch boxes, and dreams, give the driver a nod of respect. He’s not just ferrying passengers—he’s ferrying future Nobel laureates, poets, and, let’s be honest, probably a few future rickshaw drivers too.
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