Goti-e Jibon (Speed is life) — a tiny phrase, yet one that hides a profound philosophy. I first heard it on a languid Thursday afternoon in the nineties. School had ended for the day, and I was on my way with my mother to my aunt's house in Azimpur, riding a rickshaw from Motijheel.

Seated close, my mother held her little child tightly as the rickshaw-puller pedalled recklessly. Alarmed, she pleaded, "Please, ride slowly." He turned his head slightly, smiled, and replied, "Apa, speed is life."

Though my mother was anxious, the thrill of that swift ride delighted me. Later, in adolescence, when I first began riding rickshaws alone to school, I felt suddenly grown up — independent, free.

Do you remember the days of landline romance? Back then, the rickshaw was not just a means of transport; it was also a vessel of love. When I first fell in love, long telephone conversations eventually spilled into real-life encounters — often beginning on the seat of a rickshaw. I still recall that first meeting: shy hesitation dissolved when she suddenly hailed a rickshaw and climbed in. Caught off guard, I joined her. Thus began our destination-less journeys — wandering from one end of the city to another. So much joy, so much lightness, as though even the sky and air had grown softer, brighter, kinder.

Such aimless rides cultivate a peculiar meditative state. In a city where crowds, traffic, and the relentless race against time define daily life, the slow rhythm of a pedal-driven rickshaw reminds us that life is not always about speed. Rather, to pause, to notice our surroundings, is to uncover meanings otherwise hidden. The rickshaw offers an unexpected chance to converse inwardly with oneself.

The rickshaw teaches the virtue of slowness. In our modern-day race, we often forget — seeing slowly is seeing truly. Its leisurely pace reveals tiny joys: a stranger's smile, the patter of rain, the sunlight glittering through green leaves. Seemingly trivial, yet these are life's primal beauties, often lost in the rush.

As the wheels turn slowly, Dhaka reveals itself in curious fragments: cars trapped in congestion, fading political posters on walls, roadside stalls with their humble trade, or the hurrying feet on pavements. Buses and cars whisk us away too quickly, but the rickshaw teaches us the art of slow seeing, slow understanding. Much like life itself — within restlessness and disorder, if one slows down, every person, every moment, every colour reveals its distinct story.

The rickshaw seat carries its own silence. Amid the clamour of the streets, it creates a small private cell where one can retreat within. As you pass through alleys, you hear the laughter of children, catch the warm aroma of fresh bread wafting from a local bakery, or — halted at a traffic signal — meet the fleeting gaze of an unfamiliar face. These little moments alter how we sense life.

Some rides turn into timeless memories. On a full-moon night, as the entire city glows silver, a rickshaw journey feels like an otherworldly experience. On a rainy day, the rhythmic bell mingling with the splash of wheels slicing through water forms a symphony of its own. On an autumn afternoon, with cotton-white clouds drifting across the sky, a rickshaw ride can make you feel as though you are living inside a rural poem, despite being in the city's heart.

And then there is Old Dhaka. A rickshaw ride through Nazirabazar unveils a different city altogether — cauldrons of biryani steaming, kettles whistling for tea, skewers of meat sizzling, the pungent aroma of spices in the air, vendors shouting, buyers haggling — an exuberant, sleepless Dhaka in its truest form.

Rickshaw rides also preserve the city's greener memories. Take Fuller Road, past Udayan School, towards Palashi. The short stretch near SM Hall and BUET, where giant old trees lean overhead, creates a canopy of shade. A rickshaw passing slowly under this leafy tunnel transforms into a journey through tranquillity itself.

In truth, we are all passengers, seated on different rickshaws of life. The pullers differ, the roads diverge, the destinations vary. Yet it is the experience of the journey that ultimately shapes us.

The rickshaw teaches the virtue of slowness. In our modern-day race, we often forget — seeing slowly is seeing truly. Its leisurely pace reveals tiny joys: a stranger's smile, the patter of rain, the sunlight glittering through green leaves. Seemingly trivial, yet these are life's primal beauties, often lost in the rush.

Dhaka's rickshaw is not merely transport — it is the city's soul made visible. Its rhythm, the puller's labour, the passenger's dreams — all fuse into a philosophical mirror. To ride a rickshaw is not only to reach a destination, but to embark on an inner journey, to rediscover time, and to perceive life's chaos and beauty as inseparable companions.

Tanjim Ferdous is a development activist who works with The Daily Star and can be reached at [email protected]

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