If they go jump into a well, will you do the same? Radha’s family, which belonged to Old Delhi’s Meena Bazar, posed the same rhetorical question. Her life’s ‘once-upon-a-time’ was when she went strolling about a fair at the Red Fort at the age of 12. She peeped into the 30-plus feet shaft of a dry well and saw two men, suspended side-ways, grinding their bikes along its curves. The heads in the crowd resembled yarn-balls as if searching for strands that fell apart from it. They stood there watching amidst a colourful jumble of fright and fascination. That instant, Radha decided to thread her way through this. She hopped atop a bike, descended into the well and mimicked their moves. No knowledge of gears, legs ending inches before adolescence, the only thing graceful about the attempt was her intent and that was noticed by stuntman Dilshad who later became her ustaad. This intense indigenous public stunt act is Maut Ka Kuan (well of death) and it was banned in Delhi after a bloody accident took place at the Red Fort, four years ago. Barring a few Hindus, the trade is run by Muslims largely from Muzaffarnagar in Uttar Pradesh.
Today, one finds this 32-year-old daredevil spinning Suzuki Samurais and Yamahas two-feet into long wells. She is the only woman in India to participate in the aath gaadi waala khel where four maruti 800s and four motorcycles ride together inside one well. Radha, who dropped out of middle-school, earns herself Rs 8,000 a month when she travels to Porbandar in Gujarat during Sawan Somvar then to Rajkot in Rajasthan for Janmashtami mela and to Kota and Banswara for Navratri fairs, and finally to Solapur to perform at a republic day event. She wishes to spend at least one wintery morning of January 26, riding the bike sideways without gripping handle bars or standing up on a fast moving bike, on Rajpath.
Radha’s sisters cry each time they see her putting her life at risk, especially when she lets go off the handles and stretches her palms to collect tips, mostly Rs 10, Rs 50 and rarely Rs 100. If a sarpanch or a mantri show up, stakes are higher by a couple of hundred. There have been times when her blood has spilled and mixed with the mud below, but those aren’t the memories she chooses to remember. What recurs in her mind is the image of the old women and young girls who stand around clapping and cheering her and the thought that they might go home inspired by her fearlessness. Her husband Arjun, who drives an autorickshaw in Ghaziabad, had a problem marrying a girl wearing jeans and high-soled shoes, and rides bikes with men. But Radha’s dedication made him a different person. Ask her if she feels scared and she replies “are women are any safer on the streets?”