The economics of the cycle shop under the tree

A cycle puncture again. Took my cycle to my cycle repair person. The one legged man with his shop, a small wooden box, under the shade of the neem tree. At the side of the busy road. Where fancy cars whiz by.

And yet, there are simpler people who also live in rich spaces. And he usually has a friend sitting with him. Chatting. Or a customer with his, her cycle.

I always wonder. When ones livlihood space does not even have a roof, what does it mean on rainy days. No food those days ? 

I have never had the audacity to ask ...

He welcomed he with his cheery smile. Adjusted my cycle pump which also I had taken along and made it work. Repaired the puncture.

I asked him if he would overhaul my cycle one day. He said that was not needed, the bearings were good. And if I gave it to him for a day, he would wash it with kerosene oil and clean out all the rust stains. That that would do.

I promised to bring it on a day I didn't need it.

For this 1/2 hour work, he charged only 30/-.

The economies of this land. Designed to maintain the poor in their poverty, and me in my privilege.
How much longer ...

...

One knows how money generats money, and poverty feeds into poverty. And yet it hurts each time one deals with it.

I usually cycle an extra road when I need air for the tyres. There on the footpath sits a man with one leg, with his wooden box of instruments. I pay 10/- and he pumps air into the tyres, balancing on one foot. It sears me each time, and I have never had the face to have a conversation with him about how he manages, and where he stays.

Today as my cycle pedal had broken I asked him if he could replace it. He said he does not have spares. I knew that, seeing his small set of items and I asked him if he could get it for me tomorrow. He said that if I go to the shop in the next street, they could do it for me immediately. He was being straightforwards and honest. What could I say.

I went to the next road and got it done. And understood once again how the poor cannot even claim ways to improve their business and their lot. How the lottery of where you are born, seals your fate.

...
I called an auto as I was running very late. The auto driver said 50/- for the 2 km distance to the busstop. I got in.

It was the standard rate. The 'fair' rate. After which one may make a magnanimous tip.

This rate that would maintain him in his poverty, and me in my privilege. That would keep the class divisions unchallenged.

That is how we have structured fairness in my country. Justice. Status quo.