The Ratha That Waited for Us

I was never as grand as the great chariots that rolled through crowded streets.

I had no enormous wheels, no towering canopy touching the sky, no thousands of hands fighting for the privilege of pulling my rope. The newspapers never carried my photograph. Television cameras never waited for me.

I was just a small Ratha.

A little wooden chariot, painted in bright colours, made for the tiny hands of children.

And once upon a time, that was more than enough.

My life usually began several weeks before Ratha Yatra.

In a small workshop, surrounded by pieces of wood, bamboo sticks, colourful cloth and the smell of fresh paint, a craftsman would slowly give me a shape. First came my wooden platform. Then my wheels—small, round and sometimes a little uneven. A thin wooden structure rose above me, and over it came my colourful canopy, usually dressed in red, yellow, green or blue.

The craftsman's hands were rough.

But whenever he made one of us, his touch was gentle.

He knew that somewhere, a child was going to fall in love with us.

After my body was ready, I was painted carefully. Flowers were drawn on my sides. Decorative paper was attached around my roof. A long rope was tied in front of me.

That rope was perhaps the simplest part of my body.

But it carried the most memories.

Because one day, a pair of tiny hands would hold it.

And then I would finally become a Ratha.

A few days before Ratha Yatra, the markets would begin to change.

Small Raths like me would stand in rows outside shops. Some were tiny enough for a toddler. Others were taller, stronger and more decorated. We would stand there proudly, watching families walk past us.

And then the children would arrive.

Oh, how I waited for them.

They would come holding their parents' hands, but the moment they saw us, those hands would loosen.

"Ma! Look at this one!"

"Baba, please! This one! I want this one!"

They would run from one Ratha to another, examining us with the seriousness of kings choosing their royal chariots.

Parents would ask the price.

Children would not care about the price.

To them, we were priceless.

Some children wanted the biggest Ratha in the shop. Some wanted the one with the brightest colours. Some would spin our wheels to check how fast we could move. Others would immediately grab the rope and pull us a few steps before their parents had even decided to buy us.

And then came that magical sentence.

"Fine. We'll take this one."

I still remember the first time those words were spoken for me.

A little boy stood beside me, smiling as if someone had handed him the entire world.

He held my rope all the way home.

His father offered to carry me.

The boy refused.

"No. It's my Ratha."

My Ratha.

Those two words became my identity.

But I was still incomplete.