The Last Rickshaw

I was 24, working night shifts at a call center in Pune, a city that never truly sleeps but often pretends to. I lived in a rented room on the top floor of an old, crumbling building near the edge of the city, where the streetlights were sparse and the silence was thick enough to choke on. The building was called ‘Shanti Niwas’, a name that felt like a cruel joke. The landlord, a gaunt man with sunken eyes, warned me on the first day: ‘Don’t go out after 2 AM. And whatever you do, don’t take the last rickshaw from the stand near the old temple.’ I laughed it off, thinking he was one of those superstitious old men who believed every shadow hid a demon.

My job was to handle customer complaints for a telecom company, and most nights I worked until 5 AM. The best part was the ride home in the pre-dawn darkness, when the city was empty and the air was cool. One night, as I was leaving the office, my colleague, a cheerful girl named Meera, asked for a lift because her usual cab hadn’t shown up. I didn’t mind, and we shared an auto-rickshaw to her place, which was on the way to mine. As we passed the old temple at the edge of my neighborhood, I remembered the landlord’s warning and glanced at the rickshaw stand. There, parked alone under a flickering streetlight, was a rickshaw with a driver who seemed to be waiting. I felt a chill but dismissed it.

After dropping Meera, I continued alone. The driver of my rickshaw, an old man with a crooked smile, asked, ‘Why so quiet, sahib? Scared of something?’ I forced a laugh. ‘No, sir, just tired.’ He nodded and said, ‘Good. Because tonight is the night of the last rickshaw. Be careful who you ride with.’ I thought he was joking, but his tone was flat. When we reached my building, he refused to take my money. ‘No, sahib. This ride is on me. Consider it a blessing for the journey ahead.’ That was the last time I saw that driver alive.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every creak of the building startled me. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the landlord’s warning and the old driver’s cryptic words. I must have dozed off because I woke to the sound of a rickshaw engine idling outside my window. I peeped through the curtains and saw a rickshaw parked right below, its headlights off. The driver was a burly man with a cap pulled low, and he seemed to be looking directly at my window. My heart pounded. I pulled back and tried to convince myself it was just a random coincidence.

The next day, I decided to investigate. I asked the local tea stall owner about the ‘last rickshaw’ legend. He lowered his voice and said, ‘You’re new here. Many years ago, a rickshaw driver was murdered on that very stand. They say his spirit still waits for passengers, and whoever rides with him never comes back. The rickshaw appears only when the night is at its darkest, and the driver’s face is never seen clearly. If you ever see that rickshaw, don’t get in. No matter how tempting the fare.’

A week later, I had to work late to meet a deadline. I left the office at 3 AM, exhausted. My regular auto wasn’t there, and I started walking toward the main road. As I approached the old temple, I saw the rickshaw stand from a distance. There, parked alone, was the same rickshaw I had seen the night I couldn’t sleep. The driver was sitting in the driver’s seat, but his face was hidden in shadow. Despite my fear, I felt an inexplicable pull, as if the rickshaw was calling me. I shook my head and walked faster. But the rickshaw slowly started moving alongside me, its engine humming softly.

‘Where are you going, sahib? It’s late. Let me give you a ride,’ a voice said. It came from the driver, but his lips barely moved. I refused, but the rickshaw kept pace with me, matching my speed. I broke into a run, but the rickshaw didn’t fall behind. It was as if the street had become endless. Panic set in, and I ducked into a narrow alley, praying the rickshaw couldn’t follow. I ran until I hit a dead end, and when I turned around, the rickshaw was there, blocking the alley entrance. The driver’s face was now visible under the streetlight, and it was the old man who had refused to take my money. But his eyes were pools of black, and his smile was too wide.

‘Why are you running, sahib? I’ve been waiting for you. You have to pay the fare for the journey I gave you.’ His voice echoed, and I felt a cold hand on my shoulder. I screamed, but no sound came out. Then everything went black.

I woke up in my room, lying on the floor, with a terrible headache. My phone showed that it was 6 AM, and I had missed a shift. I thought it was a nightmare, but when I looked at my arm, there was a mark like a burn in the shape of a handprint. I never spoke about it to anyone, but from that day on, I never walked past the old temple at night. I always took a different route, even if it was longer. And I never, ever took the last rickshaw.

A year later, I moved out of Shanti Niwas to escape the memories. But sometimes, when I’m in a city that has a similar old temple and a rickshaw stand, I see that parked rickshaw out of the corner of my eye. And I hear the old man’s voice, ‘The journey never ends, sahib. You just have to pay the fare.’ I still get chills, and I’ve learned to trust the warnings of old landlords.

Now, I’m writing this story to warn you, dear reader. If you ever find yourself alone in a strange city at 3 AM, and you see a rickshaw parked under a flickering light, with a driver whose face you can’t quite see, run the other way. Don’t let the last rickshaw take you. Because you might never come back.