My husband would not ride in a jinrickshaw, nor did he wish me to do so. Of course, I was curious—very curious—to know how it felt to be rushed along, drawn by a “human horse.” He thought it wrong to use men in that fashion, and would neither step into a jinrickshaw nor countenance my doing so.
The night before we left Colombo it rained furiously. I suppose every one feels caged, once in a while. I felt caged that night. I remember walking up and down our long sitting-room, up and down, until my husband laid aside his book and said, “What is the matter?”
“I want to go for a ’rickshaw ride,” I cried.
“In all this rain?”
“You know I love to be out in the rain——”
“I can’t let you go alone, and I will not ride in one of those cruel carts.”
“I’ll take Nurse with me, if you’ll see that the ayah minds the children.”
“All right. I don’t think it’s right; but if you do, I’ll go and get the ’rickshaws.”
I flew into the nursery, and encountered another obstacle. My nurse did not approve of ’rickshaws either. She proposed a gharri ride. I told her that I was going in a ’rickshaw, and that, if she didn’t come, I’d go alone. She was incapable of letting me go alone; so she sighed and put on her things.
Does every one in England know what a ’rickshaw is? Almost every one ought by this. A ’rickshaw is not unlike a bath-chair. It is higher, lighter, more comfortable. It is not pushed; it is pulled. A jinrickshaw coolie runs between the two shafts, which he holds firmly in his hands.