The Bicycle Rickshaw of Dhaka and Its Painted Backs
The Bicycle Rickshaw of Dhaka and Its Painted Backs — an invention story. 10 illustrated pages, narrated, on the kids shelf, free to read on Wonder Inventions.
Page 1
The steamer's winch groaned, swinging a net of wooden crates out over the ghat. Jamil had left his rickshaw parked by the steps, chatting with Dadu Bokul about the new coat of varnish it needed. Nobody saw the net swing wide until it slammed into the rickshaw's side with a hollow bang. The hand-painted tin back panel, its tiger mid-leap in red and gold, popped loose from its frame and clattered down the slimy stone steps toward the brown river water. Rupa was already running, flip-flops slapping stone, brush-tin rattling against her chest. She snatched the long bamboo pole leaning against a tea stall and jabbed it down hard, pinning the sliding panel just as its edge kissed the water. Jamil came hauling down the steps two at a time, grabbing the panel's other corner before the current could tug it free. Dadu Bokul arrived last, stooping to steady the pole with both blue-stained hands, scolding the winch-men up above, his cracked spectacles flashing in the morning light.
Page 2
Dadu Bokul hauled the river-dented panel onto the waist-high iron block and raised his flat-faced hammer, slamming it down in hard, even strokes. Old paint showered off in bright flakes like confetti, drifting down over his stained fingers and settling in the dust. Rupa crouched close, catching some flakes in her cupped palms, laughing as they tickled her skin. Jamil crossed his thick arms, watching the tin ring under each blow, then leaned in to steady the panel's edge so it would not skid off the block. Dadu grunted, flipped the sheet, and struck again — until the hammer suddenly punched clean through with a dull crack. He froze, lifted the tin, and held it to the light: a long crack split right across it. He shuffled to the wall shelf and ran his blue-stained hand along the splintery wood. Nothing. Bare. Rupa's face fell as she peered over his stooped shoulder, and Jamil crouched to search the floor corners, pushing aside curled offcuts, finding only dust.
Page 3
The scrap heaps of Dholaikhal rose taller than a man, car doors and bent pipes glinting under flapping tarpaulins. Tuku, barely up to Jamil's hip, scrambled up the clanging pile, bare toes finding gaps between rusted fenders, hunting a sheet of unspoiled tin he'd spotted gleaming near the top. 'Got it!' he shouted, yanking the sheet free — and the whole heap groaned and slithered sideways, pipes rolling, hubcaps spinning loose downhill. Jamil lunged, throwing both arms wide, catching Tuku and the tin sheet together against his chest as scrap clattered past his sandals. Rupa darted after the escaping hubcaps, dropping to her knees and grabbing one, then diving sideways to trap another beneath her flip-flop before it vanished under a tarpaulin. Dadu Bokul steadied the swaying tarp pole with both stained blue hands, keeping more metal from crashing down. Dust and rust flakes settled slowly in the narrow alley as the heap stilled at last, the rescued tin sheet shining clean and whole in Jamil's arms.
Page 4
The paint seller's counter, waist-high and crowded with glass bangles and conch shells, filled up with tins of enamel as Dadu Bokul counted coins into a cloth pouch. Jamil leaned over, lifting the precious tube of chrome yellow to check its cap, setting it back beside the till. Then a shadow dropped from the carved balcony above — Noyon, swooping low, snatched the tube clean off the counter in his chipped beak and beat his wings hard down the narrow lane. Tins rattled as the seller slammed his hand down too late. Rupa shoved her brush-tin box against her hip and bolted after the crow, dodging between shoppers and swinging baskets of conch bangles. Tuku pelted behind her, arms pumping, shouting for people to move. Jamil shouted after them while Dadu clutched the counter, steadying the stacked tins so none fell. The lane narrowed to barely two arms' width, forcing Rupa to duck under a hanging string of shells as the crow banked around a corner with the yellow tube flashing in his beak.
Page 5
The crow sailed low across the pink palace lawn with the yellow tube glinting in its beak, and Tuku did not even stop to think. He grabbed the banyan tree's lowest branch, thick as his own waist, and hauled himself up hand over hand, scattering bark. 'Come down, chor! That's not yours!' he yelled, shaking the branch above the dome's reflection in the fountain. Startled, the crow squawked and let go — the tube plopped into the fountain's rippling water with a splash, sinking near a stone lotus taller than Rupa's knee. Rupa dashed across the gravel path, skidding to her knees at the fountain's rim. 'It's sinking, it's sinking!' Jamil came running with the bamboo pole, his bicycle pump taped crosswise at its tip, and plunged it down into the water. Dadu Bokul gripped Jamil's shirt collar to steady him as he leaned far over the rim. With a scrape and a lucky hook, the pump's nozzle caught the tube's cap and lifted it, dripping, into the sunlight.
Page 6
The sky went the colour of a bruise, and then the wind arrived all at once, banging the water tanks and ripping a drying rickshaw hood off its frame. The new tiger panel, laid flat near the ledge to finish drying, lifted like a kite on a string. Jamil dropped the rivet hammer and threw himself down, chest-first, pinning the tin before it could sail off the edge into the alley below. Dadu grabbed one corner of a folded plastic sheet, shouting for Tuku, and together the old man and the small boy hauled it overhead, stretching it tight against the slapping rain. Rupa ran low across the slick corrugated tin, skidding on one mismatched flip-flop, and flipped her brush-box lid open to shield the wet yellow paint of the tiger's eye from the first fat drops. Noyon huddled under a water tank, feathers flattened, scolding the storm. Nobody let go until the worst of the squall screamed past over the rooftops.
Page 7
The water under the flyover had risen to their shins overnight, brown and cold, swirling with onion skins and bits of straw. Dadu Bokul led the way, lungi knotted higher, gripping one end of the tin panel flat above his head, while Jamil hauled the other end, his bell chiming with every splashing step. Rupa and Tuku waded alongside, steadying the middle so it would not dip and wet the fresh paint. Suddenly headlights swung wide — a delivery van skidded through the flood, its horn blaring, and everyone lurched sideways to let it pass. The van's bumper clipped a tall tower of pumpkins stacked on a cart, and down they came, bobbing and bumping into the water, rolling heavily against everyone's legs. Tuku shrieked and grabbed a pumpkin before it struck the panel's edge, shoving it away with both arms. Rupa stamped through the current to block two more from rolling under Dadu's bare feet. Noyon flapped up shrieking from a vegetable heap, circling overhead as the whole group staggered, laughing and gasping, through the drifting orange globes toward drier ground.
Page 8
Halfway up the steel arch, the chain let go with a sharp crack, whipping loose from the pedal wheel and snapping against the spokes. The rickshaw lurched sideways. The tiger panel, propped on the seat, began sliding toward the open edge of the bridge. "It's going!" Rupa shouted, grabbing for the frame instead, too far to catch the tin. Tuku didn't think, he dropped flat and jammed his pink slipper under the sliding corner, wedging it against the footboard with his whole small body braced. Jamil hauled on the dead pedals, cursing softly, while Dadu Bokul dropped to his knees beside the broken chain, already unwinding the coil of copper wire from Tuku's wrist. His stained blue thumbs twisted the wire fast around the snapped link, knotting it tight. Noyon landed on the railing, head cocked, watching the wire tighten. "Hold it, hold it," Dadu muttered, hands shaking slightly with the cold morning air, until the chain clicked whole again, and the rickshaw rolled on over the arch toward the mirrored towers glowing pink in the lake below.
Page 9
The exhibition hall was tall as a temple, its ceiling strung with wires and waiting hooks for a hundred rickshaw panels. Rupa scrambled onto an upturned wooden crate, hip-high, and hugged the new tiger panel flat against her chest, bracing her flip-flopped feet wide for balance. Jamil knelt beside her, hammering rivets through the tin with quick, ringing strikes, his bell chiming with every swing of his arm. Tuku crouched at the little borrowed burner, pumping the bellows so hard the flame roared and hissed, feeding heat to Dadu's waiting iron rod. Dadu pressed the hot tip against each rivet, sealing it smooth with a careful push. Suddenly wings clattered overhead — Noyon swooped down and landed square on the rickshaw hood, hopping twice before lifting off again, leaving three small yellow footprints stamped right across the drying paint. Rupa gasped and nearly dropped the panel, but Jamil lunged and grabbed its edge just in time, steadying it in her arms while Tuku scrambled up to wipe the footprints with his sleeve, laughing instead of fussing.
Page 10
A thousand rickshaws burst across Manik Mia Avenue, wheels hissing on wide grey stone, and Jamil pedals hard at the front, pumping his legs so the brass bell on his wrist clangs and clangs. Rupa and Tuku balance together on the narrow wooden footboard, no wider than a plank, hauling the freshly painted tiger panel up between them, arms stretched so the sunrise catches every orange stripe. 'Lift it higher, the sun wants to see him!' shouts Rupa, and Tuku scrambles up on his toes, jamming his shoulder under the tin to steady it as it tips. Behind them Dadu Bokul strides along the footboard of another rickshaw, waving his gamcha towel over his head like a flag, shouting instructions nobody follows. Suddenly Noyon swoops low, snatches the loose end of the towel right from Dadu's fingers, and glides above the whole parade with it streaming behind like a banner. Dadu laughs and grabs for it, missing, stumbling against the rickshaw hood as Jamil steadies him with one quick hand without ever slowing his pedalling.
About this story
- Audience: kids (ages 6–12)
- Format: 10 illustrated pages, narrated, on the kids shelf, free to read on Wonder Inventions
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