The last rickshaw painters

The workshop's portfolio is parked all over the city. If an auto's back panel carries a tiger mid-leap, a sunset with improbable colours, or a couplet about mothers and destiny, odds are it passed through this lane and under these brushes.

The painter's apprenticeship was classical: two years of only borders, one year of lettering, and then — the promotion he remembers precisely — permission to paint eyes. 'Anyone can paint a tiger's body,' he says. 'The customer pays for the eyes.'

Vinyl stickers nearly ended the trade a decade ago, faster and cheaper by every measure except the one that matters at resale: a hand-painted auto, drivers insist, holds value and respect. The brush shops now outlast the sticker shops that were supposed to replace them.

Commissions have widened lately — café walls, wedding backdrops, one museum piece the painter describes with suspicion. But his heart stays with the fleet. 'A gallery hangs one painting in one room,' he says, loading a freshly signed panel. 'Mine crosses the whole city by lunch.'