Wrong Number in a Small town

Satish Kumar, bed number 53 Rajan Babu Tuberculosis hospital, is dead. He was discharged on the 11th of July. They said his TB was in recession, they said he would make it. He died on the 13th of july 2006 at Sewa Ashram, Narela. No one at the mandi even knew when it happened. They still don’t know. I found out today. I am preparing myself to tell them. A nurse at the Ashram told me that the last rites were performed at the electric crematorium at Rajghat.

I found out when I went to the hospital and found someone else in his bed. Singh Sahib, right across in Bed 56, told me that the bed had been re-assigned to another patient. He told me that several people had been discharged in the same week. Singh Sahib and the gruff babuji down the hall are the only recognizable faces left. Singh sahib is an emaciated shell - TB has hollowed him out. Satish is only one of the many he has seen die around him. He has been in ward M-13 for almost four months without dying or being discharged – practically a record of sorts. He spends most of his time lying flat on his back, alternately calling up his “chandigarh walle sardarji,” who doesn’t pick up his calls, and castigating his family via telephone for not visiting him. It used to be a running joke in the ward that no-one who walked in with a cell phone could walk out without having dialed a number for Singh Sahib. But now there is no-one to laugh anymore.

Everyone has left: Manoj the electrician in the yellow shorts who used to fill Satish’s water bottles, Krishna the aspiring social worker who used to run down to the STD to make calls for Satish, Pratap Singh – Satish’s self appointed caretaker, and former colleague at Chunna Mandi, and even Ammi and her son Salil. Ammi who used to stay up nights nursing Satish’s cough with glucose solution.

Singh Sahib says that, after a point, Satish just lost his will to live. Three months in hospital had worn him down. Then a young boy across the room died and someone else took his place. Then Pratap Singh was discharged and went home to his village. Then Krishna, then Ammi and Salil, and finally Manoj. Only Satish and Singh Sahib remained – staring blankly at each other across the narrow aisle. And then Satish left.

Now there is only Singh Sahib in bed 56. Someone else has taken Satish’s place - the same way he took someone else’s. On the bedside table, Satish’s earthen water pot is gone, as is his spare underwear that used to hang on the headrest. His pink plastic bowl and steel tumbler have been replaced by plastic pepsi bottles (now filled with water), a loaf of Harvest Gold bread, and a solitary boiled egg. The hospital authorities claim to change linen as often as possible, but the sheets still bear un-washable traces of their many previous occupants: sweat stains , grime, and flecks of blood.

During what were to be his last days, Satish often vacillated between going home and staying back in the hospital. Some days he declared he wanted to leave for Beena by the next train. “Its a big junction ..Beena Junction.. everyone knows of it.” He had a phone number- a simple six digit number with a bulky imposing area code. He last dialed it 10 years ago, He wondered if the number would be the same – so much had happened since he left home at thirteen.

Ashraf often wondered why Satish left home .. What sin could have forced him out of the cozy sleepiness of Beena junction into the uncontrolled chaos of Delhi? What could he done at 13? Murder? Rape? Theft? While Satish spoke little of his motivations, Ashraf spent hours agonizing about the past of the quiet, deaf painter who reminded Ashraf of his own brother. “He must have stolen some money from his father’s pocket, that could be the only thing,” Ashraf concluded, “But how much could it have been? Now he will go home, and I will give him 500 rupees and even if his father doesn’t forgive him outright, his mother will; and she will make his father forgive him!” But Ashraf never did convince Satish to go home. Satish just sat through Ashraf’s remonstrations – smiling grimly, and occasionally shaking his head to indicate his disagreement.

Satish borrowed a cell phone from someone in the ward, and dialed the number…07580-221083.. the phone rang for a while, and then disconnected – so the number still existed. Fortunately Beena was a small town, its phones insulated from the incessant violence of changing numbers and differing exchanges. He prefixed a “2” as with all phone-numbers in India, but the number itself seemed reassuringly solid. He dialed the number again and this time a strange voice picked up the phone ..

“Hello, who is this?”
“I’m calling from Delhi, I want to speak to Lallan Singh of Paliwal.”
“Sorry, you have the wrong number, there is no Lallan Singh here.”
“Wait, wait, is this Beena junction, Madhya Pradesh? I am calling from Delhi,”
“Yes it is, but..”
“Lallan Singh is your neighbour. He doesn’t have a phone. Please call him, I am his son speaking.”
“No, I’m sorry, Lallan Singh’s not my neighbour. You have the wrong number.”
“No wait, one last question, I’m calling all the way from Delhi. Is this the kirane ki dukaan near the doodhwalla?”
“No, it isn’t. I’m sorry.”

Beena is small town, and the numbers don’t change. But people do. People change and people move- from one house to another, from one mohalla to the next. Boxes are packed, trunks are brought out from under the beds, telephone numbers surrendered , security deposits collected, and the numbers, just like hospital beds, are transferred to other homes and families. They are circulated among new sets of relatives, new colleagues at work, new sons in different towns, new daughters now married and settled. But the sweat, grime and flecks of blood remain, forever staining the wires of the telephone exchange in a small town near a big railway junction; waiting to respond to the call that came ten years too late.
“Hello I’m calling from Delhi, can I speak to Lallan Singh?”
“I’m sorry, but this isn’t his number anymore."

JOB OPPURTUNITIES FOR LLPS

Job oppurtunities for LLPS looks at the networks that surround the mandi. The mandi is no longer simply a place to find construction work - but a hub for all sorts of work. The peice is also a first attempt at a "seasonal" peice.
a.

Part I: Summer

It was that time of the year when everyone began short-listing the “hottest day of the year.” This year the countdown began early when the 13th of February was declared, some what ambiguously, as the “hottest day in February in a very long time,” by a leading English publication. But, that was a mere 28 degrees. By April 7, Delhi had recorded “the hottest day of the season” at 39 degrees; by May, the city was a smoldering 44 degrees (the hottest 8th May in five years) – two degrees below that white-hot 26th of May 1998: the hottest May in 50 years.

Incandescent winds prowled the main streets of the city, knocking on windows and battering doors. Like a withering flower, the city slowly contracted into herself. Her filmy, makeshift outer layers peeled away; forcing her inhabitants deep into cool, solid, shadowy gullies, far from the biting heat of day.

In Bara Tuti too, summer had left its mark. After a winter of frenetic construction, the summer had brought pareshaani after pareshaani. MCD demolitions, sealings, moratoria, had brought construction activity to a standstill. The heat had sent many back to gaon, but still others stayed back in Delhi – marooned on a baking island, ruing their burnt boats and uncrossed bridges.

The focus of the mandi had slowly shifted to the “palli taraf”, or other side, of the road in an attempt to escape the worst of the noon-day sun, but some labourers still sat out by the big tyre, waiting for work. This was low season for construction anyway. The rains were expected in a month or two; and most work would probably finish before the first showers, but no one really wanted to take a “chance.”

When adding extra rooms to a fourth floor in Delhi, chance can mean very many things – an MCD official whose asking price is too high, a mistry who decides to leave for gaon without giving a day’s notice, or a delayed payment that makes further construction financially impossible. When “chances” such as these abound, it is best not to tinker with the roof just before the rains set in. Work really picked up in the Id-Diwali period when people fixed their houses, painted their walls, and invited rishtedaars over for the holidays. But Diwali was still some way off. It was still summer, and the mazdoors had to find work in a market that seemed to be in a permanent state of siesta.

Ashraf, Rehaan and Lalloo sat on the stairs of a shuttered kirane ki dukaan. Collectively, they were down to their last hundred rupees. The battered bluish note that had been charged with providing them with beedis, chai, food and alcohol until they shook themselves up and walked down to the butcher’s shop to paint his blood-smattered walls a dizzy pink. The work could wait, and if it didn’t, some more would probably turn up.
For now, there was time to drink a leisurely round of chai, and dream about other, better ways of making a living, in places far removed from the sapping heat of summer.

Part II- Scheme a little scheme on me. Job opportunities for LLPPs.

“It is important to remember,” said Ashraf, as he pulled on his beedi, “that the mazdoor is essentially a versatile being. He is not just a body, he is also a state of mind; a sharply focused will that can be utilized for purposes that go beyond laying one brick on another. And in the lean season he must do just that.”

However, choosing the right job is a delicate matter. In the lean season, any job is the right job, but if you want the RIGHT job – a little thinking is required. “Akal lagaoge, toh ek hi din mein mote ho jaoge.”

The most important thing is pay or kamai: how much you earn per hour. But pay is not just about the sum, it is about how often you are paid – per day? Per week? Or per month? The “per month” salary cycle is the biggest drawback in any regular job. You may get the job, but what will you eat for the month preceding your first paycheck? A per week cycle is good, but a per day system is the best. Anything longer simply holds you hostage until the payday – and every further delay makes it harder and harder to leave.

The pay cycle is intrinsically linked to your freedom, and this is the beauty of dehadi ka kaam (daily wage work). You settle at price, finish the work, take the money and leave. If he pays you the agreed price, great. If he doesn’t, no-one at the mandi works for him again.

The right job then, is the perfect balance of pay and freedom. A job that allows you the luxury of not going, but also the comfort of assured pay if you do go. A job that requires no qualifications other than the universal LLPP degree.

“An LLPP,” said Ashraf, to an increasingly awe-struck Rehaan, “is a qualification that we are all borne with, and may be claimed by even the most stubborn illiterates.” So when asked:
“What is your qualification?”
“LLPP.” You may answer with pride.
Chances are the interviewer will never know its expansion: Likh Lowda, Padh Patthar.

Such jobs are hard to find. But they exist, and in the unlikeliest of places.

*

“The mazdoors are everywhere,” says Rehaan, “And that is why we understand the city and sarkar better than anyone else.” For the average denizen, the Sarkar is far-away and remote; protected by high walls topped with jagged glass and gun-toting security men in ill-fitting uniforms. Access is close to possible only through a number of small “side entrances” (“Please form a Q”) that open out like hundreds of trapdoors in the boundary walls of a medieval city.

The last time the public really got a view of the Sarkar, was on the 13th of December 2001, when five armed men stormed “the most guarded 5 acre patch in country”- Sansad Bhavan. The made-for-television drama that lasted 30 minutes and resulted in 12 deaths, and 12 injuries, and brought India and Pakistan to the brink of war.

Rehaan storms Sansad Bhavan on a routine and regular basis – he just gets an entry pass made at the gate. “I worked at Sansad Bhavan for more than a year,” he says, “Ek dum thaand ki naukari hai. All you have to do is move files from one room to another, carry chairs from one office to another, and roam around the building as you please.”

Contractors recruit mazdoors from chowks across the city, and get their passes made. On entry, mazdoors are thoroughly checked by armed security men, given a standard-issue trolley, and sent off into the labyrinthine corridors of power. Once in, the mazdoor is called as and when he is needed, and in the meantime is free to roam as far as his access pass lets him.

At least 15 mazdoors work at the Parliament on any given day – carrying files, moving furniture, installing air-conditioning units and pushing trolleys. Apart from Rs 250 per day, the job entitles you to meals, transport to and from the mandi, and various air-conditioned spaces to dream in.

In sharp contrast to the stated sameness of the outside of Parliament, the inside seems to be a frenzy of activity. Several new offices have been constructed, and an entire universe of files is being shifted from Parliament to these newer buildings. Rumours abound of buildings rented for 20 lakhs a month near Khan Market, of newly built cash-rooms over-flowing with currency, and of course of the luxury in which the officers conduct their daily business.

According to Rehaan, every bada officer’s office has the following things: an Air conditioner, double bed, sofa set, television, computer, and two chaparasis who appear at the ring of a bell. Each bada officer has about 10 officers under him, and each officer has several others who report to him.

Files ka kaam touches the nerve centre of sarkariyat. The file is a governmental neuro-transmitter: The sarkar sees, hears and acts through these files. It is how the Sarkar makes sense of the world around it. Mountains of files, piles of files, rooms full of files. So many files, that they are threatening to overrun Sansad Bhavan. So many files that the government hires mazdoors everyday to load thousands of files into trucks bound for Lok Nayak Bhavan.

Apart from acting as the senses of the Sarkar, the file is also the memory of the Sarkar: A record of every entity that has ever encountered the state. A record of every square foot of land bought, sold, or disputed. Every suspect, accused and victim. Every murder, hanging and encounter. Punjab, Sindh, Gujarat, Maratha.

A charged, viral being, the file infects every thing it touches. Files record those who made them, changed them, issued them, borrowed them, or signed them. Every action related to a file is the genesis of another file, and so the only agent that can really move them, without getting sucked in, is the mazdoor- unregistered, unidentified, na baap ka naam, na ghar ka pata. They live in along different coordinate axes- intersecting only occasionally, and so mazdoors are ideal for moving files.

Working in the heart of the Sarkar also makes the outside world easier to understand. Every micro-process within the Sansad Bhavan finds resonance in the outside world, every law starts as a rumour in the corridors of Sansad Bhavan. Some Bada officer passes on a memo to his messenger chaparasi, who tells the chaiwallah, who tells a some else, who tells a mazdoor, who tells the mandi. Occasionally, everyday occurrences in Sansad Bhavan illustrate just how serious the government is about a particular scheme, policy or directive. For instance, the mandi knew of the scale of the demolitions way before anyone else. Rehaan claims that the first giveaway was when, as a per Supreme Court directive, the Sarkar demolished about 28 “illegally constructed” departments in Sansad Bhavan to make way for a pleasure garden. Phir toh pukka tha. Agar Mantralaya mein bhi todh phod mach gayi, toh Dilli ka kya hoga.”

*

Back to the Railway Station.

Crucial as a means to slip into and out of the city at will, the emergency exit in the heart of the maze, the station also the site of one of the more taxing, but well paying jobs: “Railway ka kaam.” There plenty of work at the railway station, which is hardly surprising considering that the Indian Railways is the largest utility employer in the world with nearly 1.6 million employees looking after a staggering 5 billion passengers, and 650 million tonnes of freight every year. Exams are held, political parties are mobilized, CBI enquiries are demanded and riots are staged to join this behemoth of a public utility. But, these aren’t the jobs that Lalloo refers to, when he speaks of railway ka kaam. At the mandi, railway ka kaam is also called “loading ka kaam”.

On the face of it, railway ka kaam is 12 hours of back breaking labour. The job essentially involves loading packages from trucks coming from the godown onto out-going trains, and unloading packages from inbound trains onto the same trucks to take back to the godown. Fed up with dealing with the vagaries of labour, the railways have now handed the task over to a private contractor who hires people from the chowk.

Labour can either choose to work with the contractor on a semi-permanent basis – in which case they are paid Rs 3500 per month, with advance payments if required; or can work on a per day basis for about Rs 250 per day. However, dehadi jobs are hard to come by and most labourers opt for semi-permanent jobs. The work is hard, and the loads are heavy, but it’s a four-day week and Tuesday and Thursdays are off. Crucially, two holidays a week allow a mehnati mazdoor to work on dehadi, and so easily earn an additional Rs 500 per month. Thus, the complete package comes to about Rs 4000 per month. Contractors working with the government also tend to get their money on time, and so usually pay their labourers with comforting regularity.

The only thing to watch out for in railway ka kaam is that your time is no longer your own. The freedom of mazdoori - of working at one’s own pace and time, does not remain. You are a gulaam to the whims and fancies of the railway time table. Trains scream in and out of the station all day and night, and it is your business to ensure that loading the bogie doesn’t hold up the train. Any delay costs the contractor a minimum of a thousand rupees, and the chances are that you’ll end up paying for it.

Many dismiss “railway ka kaam” as sheer mule work. The money is good, but not good enough to compensate for the mind-numbing labour, and finally “Dilli mein koi Lal Qila toh nahin khareedna.” The real money, ironically, is back home in the gaon.

*

Gaon is where the Goat is.

Gaon, where the food is clean, healthy and nutritious, the hand-pump ka pani is clear, sweet and cold. Even the air back home is nice. But, everyone is still here, in this cauldron of a city: eating bad food, breathing stale air, drinking bad alcohol, and dreaming of the gaon, and of the mega scheme that will snatch them up from the footpath and allow them to return home secure in the knowledge “ki kuch kar, k’ma ke aiye hai.”

In fact, a scheme is already in place, and its basic outline is surprisingly similar to Manmohan Singh’s package for Vidarbha. In one of his few statements to the press, the Honorable Prime Minister echoed an observation that Devinder, new arrival at Bara tuti, had made to much smaller, and yet equally interested, crowd only weeks before. The smart money in the village is not on crops, but on animals, and preferably on a combination of both.”

A strapping jat from UP, Devinder negotiates the world of the gaon and the sheher with equal ease. One look at his muscles confirms that he has, in fact, grown up on pure bhains ka doodh. He spends most of his time in Chandpur gaon,(first bus-stop after the secondary school), working on his family’s sugar fields, and heads to the city in the interlude between harvest and sowing to make some money for extra seeds and fertilizer. He also possesses a keen business acumen. In a clear step-by-step programme, Devinder plots out the ultimate paisa vasool plan.

As with all plans for market domination, there is the high road and the low road, dependent on the initial capital. Each has different starting points, but ultimately the same destination.

*

You take the High Road if you are a small time sugar farmer with a few acres of land. Sugar is to the UP farmer, what coconut is to the South. Every step in the process of process of converting sugar-cane juice to white, crystalline sugar is simple and profitable. Extract the juice, and cook if over a fire until thick and syrupy. Add “sulphurous” and “choona” to remove the “maail” or residue (this acts as a bleach and gives the sugar its white color), and then cook it some more. Liberally use the pani ki pichakari to sprinkle water to prevent the syrup from settling, and then pour into a “chakkar”, or revolving mill, while sprinkling water all the time. After a few hours, the sugar shall settle down and separate from the seera. The seera is then collected and fermented to make alcohol which is sold as desi sharab. Suplhurous and Choona are usually used in large-scale commercial mills and tend to be slightly expensive. Small scale sugar production often uses the natural, desi, substitute – the trunk of the jungali bhindi.

The jungali bhindi grows to about ten feet, and is commonly found all over UP. Its trunk is used in the sugar purification process. The tree is cut, its trunk is pounded into a fine pulp, and soaked overnight in a tub of water. The pulp absorbs water and swells to twice its original volume, after which it is added to the sugar chasni (syrup) in place of sulphurous or choona (some recipes use both bhindi and sulphurous). The residue (termed gunne-ka gund with a directness that only the Jats can master) in this case, is great for rearing pigs.

Long kept in the shadows, the Pigs of UP burst onto the national stage in 2005 with the outbreak of Japanese encephalitis. As the human toll rose, day on day, anxious members of UP’s middle class demanded the elimination of pigs and piggeries – long seen to the host carriers of the deadly disease. To their surprise, the state, for once, took the side of UP’s nearly 30 lakh pigs and vowed instead to eliminate the mosquitoes held responsible for transmitting the deadly virus to humans.

Any good Jat will tell you that pigs and sugar-mills go together, and government statistics seem to agree. The lush sugar fields of UP that produce about 25 per cent of the country’s sugar are also home to almost twenty percent of its pigs. Pigs and sugar, sugar and pigs.

While pigs will eat almost anything, they gorge on the gunne ka gund combination of jungali bhindi and sugar residue. The arithmetic of pig-rearing is both, simple and exponential. With Rs 25,000 in the bank, you buy 5 sows. In six months, each sow shall give birth 10 piglets, and so in 6 months you have 50 piglets, and in one year you have 50 grown pigs, and another 50 piglets from your original stock of 5 sows. Some will be male pigs, which you sell to butchers for pork for about Rs 5,000 a pig, and some will be sows which you keep for still more piglets. And then the money just keeps coming. You buy another small sugar mill, and another 10 sows. You sell the seera for desi sharab. You use the residue to feed more pigs. You buy a few more acres of land – because pigs need space almost as much as they need gunna ka gund, and pretty soon you are the largest land owner, sugar producer and pig dealer in the village. Success!

But not everyone can deal in pigs; some, like Ashraf, refuse to have anything to do with them. Ashraf, for his part, advocates the low road – for those who don’t have the good fortune of starting with a few acres of land. The low road to success is designed for minimal starting capital and moderate to high returns. It starts at Yamuna Pushta and leads straight back to the gaon.

Yamuna Pushta, home to much of Delhi’s transient population, prone to suspiciously frequent fires, object of judicial ire, and source market for the long-eared Jamuna Par bakri. Though not as fecund and fertile as the UP sow, over the years the Jamuna Pari bakri has built a reputation for itself, making it an essential part of any farm portfolio. It is said that if you buy a goat the day your daughter is born, in 18 years you shall have a minimum of a lakh to give her on her wedding.

It works like this. The day your daughter is born, you buy a laila for Rs 300. In a year’s time, once your daughter is up and walking, the goat gives birth to 2 kids, and another 2 in 6 months. By the end of the year, you have 4 kids and one nanny goat. The female bakris you keep for further breeding, and the male bakras you sell to the butcher – thereby maintaining the natural cycle of life and death. If you are left with two bakris – keep one for yourself, and give the other on batai.

Batai is a sytem where you give a bakri to a friend or neighbour for free, on the condition that he feed it and look after it. The bakri is always yours, but its kids are divided among the stakeholders. Thus, after the fourth year, you could have a whole flock of goats – some that you keep and look after, and some you lease out on batai. Keep the females, and sell the males for meat, and if you have no qualms about dealing in pigs, set aside some money and buy a few pigs, and look out for the High Road at the next intersection.


xxx

This latest post is in four parts, and is an attempt to understand a
great vareity of things - principally "time pass", information
dissemination, and intersections between the mandi and the state. As
usual, its highly abstracted from my conversations with construction
labour in paharganj.

Part I, The News of the World.

Welcome to The News of the World: Time pass with Mamu the drunk, Lambu the philosopher and JP the lunatic. Don't miss our pet special with man's best friend "Kutiya the wonder-dog". Also, in "Ask Ashraf", the answer to our weekly poll question – Sarkar Humari Gaand Kyu Marti Hai?"

The lunatic came early that day, and with him came the news of the world. Five in the evening, and the working day was winding down, the sun was setting, and the world was slowly healing itself in preparation for a long, bruising tomorrow. Slowly the patchwork of open wounds were closing into scabs, only to be grazed open the next day – shops downed their shutters, mazdoors downed their tools, MCD bulldozers burrowed their way deep into the remains of the settlement they had just destroyed, and the Judge adjourned his Court – granting the courtiers another night of uneasy sleep.

"Deviyo, t-tha Sajjanno, bhen ke lowdo, Gundi nalli ke keedon, Jago, Jago, Jago" "Mein hu JP Singh Pagal, aur mein laya huan - Aaj ki taaz khabar". Enter the lunatic – an effervescent bubble in a sea of surliness. Weaving through the crowd of exhausted labourers, the lunatic pulled hard on his chillum, exhaling plumes of bitter sweet marijuana smoke: interrupting conversations, pushing, shoving, joking, bitching, shouting, and wailing out "The News of the World"-complete with analysis from our experts.

Undeterred by the lack of welcome, the lunatic plowed on, rattling off events and occurrences in no particular order – taking credit for most stories, placing himself, and his viewer, directly in the line of fire.

"Soft drink ke bottle me milla condom – Pepsi ki lagi gaand- ek lakh rupai jurmana.
Meerut mein lagi aag – voh toh kher, humne hi lagayi thi, Lakhme India Fashion Week mein kapade gayab - sunna tha badi taliya bajji thi, hum bhi the vahain, kyu? Sheher mein macchi khalbalee – bhai sahib, ek bomb ka dhamaka kafi hai."

His audience, by contrast, was a study in stillness- pulling their belongings closer, and then still closer, every time he passed by. Inspired by KBC, JP Singh Pagal was a firm believer in the "fastest finger first" doctrine, picking up anything that caught his fancy. Rumour had it that he prowled the mandi after midnight, walking off the effects of his chillum and stealing slippers, tools and clothes. But for now, he was tolerable as the fearless, intrepid reporter – jumping through rings of fire to bring his uninterested audience their daily bulletin.

The lunatic was not picky about his sources – far away, in the nether regions of the hinterland, news was on the move. Stories hitched themselves to the hemlines of sarees, stuck themselves to the rubber soles of countless Hawaii chappals and stealthily made their way across the vast countryside to Bara Tuti – the heart of Delhi and the centre of the universe. Suppressed by Aaj Tak, cast away by the Dainik Jagran, termed irrelevant by the English media, reports wormed their way though the narrow gullies, seeking out the lunatic – the half-mad oracle of half-truths, the Zen master of Chinese Whispers. In his ceaseless quest for the truth, the lunatic gave each story a fair hearing - nothin was too sensational, or boring, to escape the glory of the evening bulletin."Lallo Prasad Yadav has bought a new house in Patna near Anurag Bhavan," "Manmohan Desai, (sic) the new prime minister, studied commerce in college." "Kala Baba has recovered from tuberculosis, he is now in Nanital, cleaning up his act. Sources say he has never looked this good." His audience suffered him as best they could , "Aur kuch nahin, toh sala time toh kat jata hai. But saale se bach ke raho, voh pagal nahin hai, bus lagta hai."

And then, as suddenly as he had arrived, he was gone. A puff of ganja laced smoke, a small hand flashed out towards the large plastic bag on the floor, and with without as much as second glance, JP Singh Pagal, "Sadak Chaap, awara, deewana," was off in search of the next breaking story, humming tunelessly to himself, oblivious to hunt for a missing ten rupee note. "Dekh tere sansar ki halat kya ho gayi bhagwaan, kitna badal gaya insaan."

Part II: The Philosopher's Stone.

The philosopher looked up at the sky, and then at the grinning, clearly stoned, face of his departing co-anchor. He cleared his throat, and waited. Ever courteous, the crowd settled down– allowing him the opportunity to keep them waiting. He lit a beedi, the crowd waited, and waited, and waited, for the first cryptic utterance. His large hyptonic eyes panned across the sweating crowd, his lips pouted ever so slightly, and then he said, "Humme nazar aa raha hai – ek talab phel ke thanda pada ho." The crowd shifted, "ek kankar mar do – ek kankar mar do , toh poora talab hil jayega." Someone in the audience cleared his throat, the philosopher leaned back, watching the metaphor ripple through his audience. "Sheeshe mein dekh lo, safa pani mein dekh lo – chehra toh vahi hai." " Pur sheeshe ko pocket mein dal sakte ho." He added as an afterthought.

While the lunatic was clearly not one to be trusted, the philosopher was a mysterious chap: tall, dark and given to macabre allusions. He spoke rarely, but forcefully, and "jab voh mood mein aata tha," he could silence even the most loquacious lunatic. "Kya tume pata hai, ki Dilli toot rahi hai?" The crowd nodded in acquiescence. Indeed, Dilli was coming apart. Not slowly and steadily like an old leather chappal, but with the force and fury of an overloaded plastic bag. A jagging, ripping tear that threatened not just their homes, but struck at the very heart of the mandi's business – construction. A dark force was gathering on the borders of Bara Tuti – heart of Dilli and centre of the universe. An insidious ploy that sought to replace the centuries old, "rule of thumb" by the brutal "rule of law". A shrill, elite-middle class scream, urging the Courts to "Judge Do It", and the Courts had. Almost all construction activity had ceased. No one was building extra rooms anymore, no one was extending boundaries, adding floors, or converting balconies into bedrooms. Many labourers had already started moving homewards, carrying back stories of the great silence, and many more were to follow them. Yes, Dilli toot rahi thi. The great pond had been disturbed, the first stone had been cast, and Bara Tuti was slowly crumbling in the waves. Where will we sleep? Where will we work? How will we eat? What will happen to Bara Tuti chowk? The philosopher's questions brought few answers. His eyes glowed like searchlights, prying deep into the fears of his audience. "They will make it like India Gate, clean... and empty." The crowd grew restive and then repositioned itself. Beedi's were lit, chai was ordered.

A small conversation started on the side. The remark about India Gate had triggered off an intriguing chain of thoughts - Dilli mein kitne Gate Hai - Dilli Gate, India Gate, Kashmeri Gate, Turkman Gate, Ajmeri Gate,- pur ek bhi darwaza nahin hai. Gates, but no doors -a remarkable bit of construction. A gate with a door is a barrier with restricted rights of admission, but a simple gateway with neither door, nor barricade is unequivocally a sign of welcome. Dilli - the city of gates and sarais. But, there were no sarais any more. The rich had taken them - just as they had taken India gate. Now there was only Bara Tuti- the resting place of the tired and hungry. And soon, Tuti too, would become like India Gate -Clean ... and empty.

The crowd looked worried, they were begining to miss the lunatic's mindless banter. Sensing their waning interest, the philosopher weighed his options and then threw out his trump card; the Bar Tuti crowd was notoriously fickle. "Pur dilli jaise talab mein kankar kaun pheke ga?" Silence. Pin-drop silence. "Dilli jaise talab mein kankar kaun pheke ga?" All of a sudden, the metaphor was crystal clear,and the implications enormous, - who would bell the cat? Now the crowd was furious, philosopher ne mood hi kharab kar diya. They looked about, and turned their backs in unison. The philosopher folded his long limbs and went back to dreaming.

Part III. Of Kutiya the Wonder Dog and other animals.

Like most stars, Kutiya the Wonder Dog was conscious of her public appearances. As a residential audience that spent most of its waking (and sleeping) hours at the chowk, over-exposure was a very real risk for aspiring celebrities. Before you knew it, you were one of them – vulnerable to the same showers of abuse, affection and insults as any other street mongrel. But Kutiya had a real gift that no-one could take from her, she was the best ratter in the neighbourhood. Sleek, fast, and always lethal, Kutiya could smell out rats in most over-powering of olfactory atmospheres.

Muted by the philosopher's prophecies, the chowk came alive when a large burly man walked up to the lithe, beige dog and dangled a rat-trap in front of her nose. Old mistries feigned disinterest – continuing their conversations about the declining quality of work and labour, while keeping one eye fixed firmly on the young men surrounding Kutiya. The man kept shaking the trap, sending the already agitated mouse into paroxysms of terror, as Kutiya arched her back and bared her teeth. A low growl, an open trap, chaos. Men jumped and screamed like school kids as the mouse sped off in the direction of the shops. Labourers pointed frantically, and stepped out of the way as Kutiya sped by. Moment by moment she closed in on her prey, narrowing the distance between life and death, till the mouse, in desperation, took to jumping on labourers, burrowing through their laps, and sliding down their trouser legs. But Kutiya was not to be denied – the last mazdoor shook himself down – the rat broke cover and Kutiya struck with the all the force and majesty of the Law. Shaking off the other dogs with ease, Kutiya sashayed off the stage, the rat pinned firmly in her upturned mouth.


Part IV. Sarkar Humari Gaand Kyu Marti Hai?

This time on "Ask Ashraf", the concluding section of our show, we seek answers to one of life's most vexing issues –"Sarkar humari Gaand kyu marti hai?"

This time on "Ask Ashraf", the concluding section of our show, we seek
answers to one of life's most vexing issues –"Sarkar humari Gaand kyu
marti hai?"

The answer is both stark and straight forward. "Sarkar Humari Gaand
isliye marti hai, kyuki sarkar rundi hai. Jis ke pass paisa hai, uske
paas bethti hai. Sarkar ka kaam hai gaand marna, aur kisi ki nahin,
toh humari hi kyu na?"

The more interesting question is "Sarkar humari gaand kaise marti
hai?" For the Sarkar is both brutally blunt, and insidiously creative.
The only way to beat it is to prostrate your self before it, and
offer it your ass. Admit to yourself "Hum kissi se kum nahi, khali
gaand mein dum nahin". Rub off that war paint, and don the disguise
of the Lawaris.

The only entity to have successfully infiltrated the fortress of
governmentality, the Lawaris is the antidote to the Sarkar's most
potent weapon - fixed address. Without a fixed address, you may as
well not exist - and the more often that not, the sarkar will make
sure you damn well don't. Every free tablet in a government hospital,
every subsidised grain of rice, every form you fill, is subject to
fulfilling that ultimate criteria - a legitimate,, fixed address in an
"authorised residential area." Without the address, the state can't
follow you back on the streets to make sure you swallow your tablets
in the right sequence, and eat your grain and don't sell it. But
when you fight your way from Buland Sheher to Bara Tuti, you learn a
cold hard truth on arrival: "Footpath, Bara Tuti Chowk" is not an
address.

The genius of the Lawaris reveals itself in the recognition that not
belonging is also belonging - that every category has its
anti-category, and the lawaris is just that. It is option d) - none
of the above. As per government regulations, the category of lawaris
- synonymous with destitute - entitles you to free treatment, free
boarding and free meals at government hospitals. Definitionally, it
implies that you have no fixed address, no fixed employment or trade,
and so are freed from the clutches of sarkar once you walk out the
door - formless, and shapeless, you are free to melt back into the
twilight zone.

But the lawaris is much, much more. it is the frightening realisation
that you are on your own - rootless in a ruthless city. A half-mad
teller of half true-tales.
"Sadak-Chaap, Awara Deewana"

"Welcome to Nowhere" is an attempt to explore the lure of Delhi - the idea behind the "dilli Chalo" movement of labour from UP, MP, Bihar and Rajastan to Dilli. As usual, it is a highly abstracted and stylised account of a number of interviews held at Bara Tuti labour Chowk in Delhi.


Welcome to Nowhere. You are Here.

Part I

You are Here: Railway Station. The perfect platform for the great escape. You could not stage it better even if you tried. Hop on the train from Ithaka, Muzzafarpur, Secunderabad, Patna; put your head down and push your way in. Deep in. You are now a suitcase, a bundle of cloth, a historical baggage from the country side. A three tier, third class sleeper cell, on an unreserved ticket; camouflaged among a million self-respecting, hardworking, god-fearing, undeniably boring, do-gooding legitimate sons of married mothers; watching every move of yours – lest you decamp with their VIP strolley well before the train reaches Delhi.

Dilli, Jehan goli maarke log aate hai; Goli kha ke log aate hain. The resting place for failed bullet biters. The old age home for obsolete superheroes. The revolving restaurant for retired hunters, and tiring quarry. Every kid knows Delhi – Jama Masjid, Qutub Minar, Lal Quila. Delhi is huge, sprawling, remote. Delhi is small, cozy, crowded. There are no towns in Delhi, there are no cities in Delhi. There is only Delhi in Delhi. So when you’re running away from home, there is only once place you’re going. “Dilli ko log dil mein yaad rakhte hain. U.P. ko kaun yaad karta hai?”

Jump off. Don’t look back. Abusive fathers, obsessive mothers, restless policemen, devious moneylenders: They can’t find you. The trail has gone cold. A thousand bodies have rubbed against you: wearing you down, shaping you up, shaking you, breaking you, making you. Congratulations. You are now a mazdoor. By the Grace of God and the Northern Railways, you have large, hard hands, tightly coiled ropes for muscles, strong legs, and a body that just won’t quit. You are the ultimate building machine; waxed, oiled, and ready to go.

You are Here: Bara Tuti Mazdoor Mandi. The city is waking up and so are you. You are a beldaar. You pay attention to the head maistry when he gives you instructions. You watch as he mixes the masala. You watch his hands as he measures cement, you watch his shoulders are he mixes in water, you watch the his fingers as he sifts sand. You watch and you watch and you watch, because this is Delhi – where even kabadiwallahs become crorepatis.

In two years, you are a maistry. You have your own special spot on the road. No one can dislodge you; not even the sweeper who takes five rupees from every worker to ensure his broom doesn’t sweep their tools into the MCD garbage bin. You have a contractor who gives you exclusive business. You have beldaars who pay you ten bucks a day in the hope that you will give them work. But, you are not rich. Something is going wrong.

And so you listen to the babble of the mandi. You listen because there is so much that you still don’t know. You listen and you listen and you listen, because this is Delhi-where even kabariwallahs become crorepatis. “To make it big, you need three things,” says the big man with the moustache. “Bharosa or belief, Sahara or Support, Abhilasha or Ambition.”

Bharosa is the belief that things will work out. In the pictorial directory of obsolete superheroes, he is the big, blue, bulky guy. He isn’t very smart, but he gives you the courage to make it work in spite of contractors, policemen, MCD officials, Public Interest Litigants and Supreme Court Judges. Sahara, the support from afore mentioned policemen, contractors and officials, helps you out when the PILs and Judges want to shut you down. She is blonde, earnest and motherly, quiet and political. Abhilasha is the two edged sword of ambition. If sharpened to a knife-edge, she is dark, fast, lithe and sexy. She gives you the very drive needed to think big. She is both, the spark and the fire. She is merciless, ruthless, and topless. Bharosa, Sahara and Abhilasha. With their powers combined, you are Captain Bignuts, and no one, but no one, can stop you.

But as everyone knows, no-one is also someone.

Meet Sub-Commandant Samjhauta (alias Colonel Compromise). He is your best friend, and your arch nemesis. He is the ultimate double agent, on no one’s side but his own. He is essential as an infiltrator of networks, as the anvil on which deals are struck. He has a paternal relationship with Sahara – without Samjhauta there can be no Sahara. He also gels well with Bharosa – using Bharosa’s impressive bulk to ensure that deals once struck remain thus. It is with Abhilasha - the temptress of tempered steel, the Kaya Skincare Kali, that the Sub-Commandant crosses swords. Like White Fang fighting the bulldog Cherokee, Abhilasha’s quickness and fury are no match for the stubbornness and strength of Samjhauta. Samjhauta is the silent assassin; sweet talking you right up to the moment of the final thrust. Samjhauta is the dream-killer, and like everyone else, he is at his deadliest in Delhi. “Dilli mein humne zindagi se samjhauta kar liya: na kuch bunna hai, na kuch baneinge. Joh sapne insaan dekhta hia voh chuot gaye, sub kuch mil gaya, aab kuch nahin chahiye.”

And then there is always the option of opting out. Forget Bignuts and forget Samjhauta, they are only occasional visitors in the dreams that you dream everyday. Forget Kabadi, it is a “do number ka business” – fit only for cut-throats and thieves. Kabaris buy stolen goods at throw-away prices, and sell them for huge margins. They are the launderers of stolen goods. They are the sifters of the city’s refuse. They are excluded from even the labour mandi. They are the bhangees.

More constant is the stoic path of mazdoori, mehnat, izzat and majboori. The path of the hardworking, respected and responsible man that you hope you tread everyday. You are older, wiser and a long, long way from home.

Sometimes you are a drunk, sometimes you aren’t. Sometimes you are hungry, sometimes you aren’t. Sometimes you are poor, sometimes you feel rich. And then one day you trip over the broken pieces of a dream you once had, and out of the corner of your eye you see black leather.

Abhilasha!

After all, this is Delhi – where even a kabadiwallah can become a crorepati.

This is several weeks too late, but hey, atleast its here. Presenting Shveta's brilliant
translation of "Something Happened" or "Ashraf Ki Kahani".

"Kuch ho gaya" or "Ashraf's Story"


Bhago, bhago, bhago, bhago. Footpath par shor machate kadam, pakad
banati chappalen, sapaat, phislan pakki sadken, Bombay. Aunty se
sambhalte huwe, thele se bachte huwe, bheed ko kaat kar nikalte huwe.
Guzre din ke vakyaat Ashraf ke zehan mein bheed ki tarah jama ho rahe
the, par us ne unhen door dhakela. Kuchh ho gaya tha. Is tarah ki
galtiyan khatarnaak ho sakti thin. Bhago, bhago, bhago, bhago. Jab tak
Ashraf market tak pahuncha, uske mann ko pata chal chuka tha ki bahut
der ho gayee hai, sab khatm ho gaya hai.

Natakeeya chaunkne mein uthi bhavon ne us ka swagat kiya, "Aur Ashraf
Bhai, Sunday ko kahan the?" Phir use tatolte huwe bhaven judin, aur ek
phusphusahat ki lehar har taraf se Ashraf tak pahunchi, "Maalik bahut
gussa hai, tum yahain se chale jao."

Ashraf ruka. Jab wo janta hi tha ki use kaam se nikaal diya jaayega, to
kya zaroorat thi maalik ka chillana sunne ki? Koi X chicken ki dukaan ka
mukhya karigar hote huwe Sunday ko kalti kaat jaaye, yeh to namanzoor tha.

X Chicken ki dukaan us locality ki sab se mashhoor chicken ki dukaan
thi, aur us ke maalik bhi. Unhen "Maalki" naam se hi jaana jata tha, aur
un ki wahan bahut takat thi. Unhone wahan kaafi zameen par kabza kiya
huwa tha, ar aas paas ki chhoti dukaanon aur thelon se woh hafta wasool
karte the. Poore shehr mein un ki dukaan ka chicken sab se badhoya tha.
"Hur Sunday dukaan ke baahar line lagti thi", aur kayee hazaar rupaye ka
chicken bikta tha.

Mohamaad Ashraf X chicken ki dukaan ke murga karigar the. Aam kasayee ki
haisiyat unhine kab ki peeche chord di thi. Ab unhen kaarigar ka maan
diya jata tha - mukhya karigar. Kaarigar ko mehaz ek jaanne wala kehna
matlab bahut badi galti karna - kyunki ek kaarigar chicken ko samurai ki
talwaar ki mustaidi se kaat sakta hai, aur ek swiss ghadi ki barreki se.
Kisi bhi successful murga business ke liye mukhya kaarigar bahut aham
hota hai. Har kaarigar ki apni ek rehsyamayee taknik hoti hai, aur
shagirdon ko salah di jaati hai ki us ke haath ko dhyaan se dekhen aur
seekhen.

Ashraf mashhoor tha, murge ke sabse lazeez tukron ko kaatne, aur us ke
awajood apne liye chhatan bacha paane ke liye. Chhatan se wo din ke 50
se 100 rupaye kama leta tha. Chhaatan - murge ki twacha aur wo hisse jo
khaas log hi khareedte hain. Aur yeh to Bombay tha, to chhatan baaki
meat se bhi pehle bik jaati thi - mazdoor, palledar, mistry, aur Ashraf
jaise hi log use fatafat khareed lete the. Baaki murge se wo ek
chauthayee daam par mil jata tha.

Sunday sab se masroofiyat ke din hote the. Dukaan ke bahar lambi line
lag jaati thi. Log zinda murga chunte aur helperon ko keh dete, yeh
wala. Helper murge ko nikalta, tolta, us par plastic ka token paandh
deta, aur ek shagird ko pakda deta. Shaird murge ki gardan kaat deta,
aur us ke phadphadate shareer ko ek dibbe mein thoons deta. Ek ek kar ke
kasayee murge nikalte, token number utarte, aur khareedne wale ki pasand
ke mutabik - chicken fry, chicken curry, tandoori vagerah - use kaat dete.

Us Sunday, Ashraf pahunch nahin paaya tha. "Kuchh ho gaya tha", us ne
ape aas paas jama hote logon ko samjhane ki koshish ki. Mukhya karigar
ke bina X chicken ki dukaan apne yahan aaye kharidaron ki maang ko poora
nahin kar payee. Us din line dukaan se shuru hoti huwi dur church tak
pahunch gayee thi. Ladkon ne bahut koshish ki, par kuchh na kar paaye
Maalik ko 5 se 8 hazaar rupaye ka nuksaan huwa, aur Ashraf ko apne kaam
se haath hona pada.

Par ab bhi bahut kuchh tha Bombay mein karne ke liye. Kyunki Ashraf ke
paas Calcutta se thekedaari ka anubhav tha, us ne concrete mix karne
wale ke auhde se is mein join kiya. Paisa achha tha, par kuchh missing
tha. Ek baar aap karigar ban jaao, us ke baad aam dehadi par kaam kar
pana bahut mushkil hota hai. Mushkil hi nahin, namumkin bhi.

To Patna se Bombay aane ke dedh saal baad, Ashraf phir train mein chadha
aur nikal liya. Saurat aur Baroda jaise kaise nikal gaye, pata bhi nahin
chala. Aur ek din, ek damm, raat ke sadhe nau baje, Ashraf Dilli mein
the. "Humne socha ki jab humne saara sansar chold diya, business chold
diya, parivaar chold diya, toh Delhi aur Bombay mein kya phark padega?
Ghoom ghoom ke kamainge, khaienge"

Wapas Patna jaana, jo un ka apna shehr tha, to Ashraf ke liye kabhi bhi
raasta nahin tha. Teen saal pehle un ki apne bhai se ladayee ho gayee
thi, aur is baar wo ghar wapas jaane wale nahin the. Halanki wo Ashraf
se chhota tha, un ka bhai unhen ek damm izzat se pesh nahin aata tha.
Aur aakhir, baat to saari izzat ki hi hoti hai. Murga karigar ke paas
koi CV nahin hoti, na hi painteron, mistriyon aur laksi ke kaarigaron ke
paas. Izzat hi hoti hai jo ek bekaar aadmi aur sahi aadmi ke beech antar
karti hai. Sahi aadmi, jis par aap bharosa kar saken. Aakhir, kaha nahin
jaata, "woh sharabi toh hai, pur izzat walah hai." Ajanbiyon ke beech
izzat zaroori hoti hai; par gharwalon ke beech izzat ke bina kuchh bhi
nahin. To koi izzat kamata kaise hai? Kayee salon ke anubhav se Ashraf
ne seekha tha ki izzat pane ke teen seedhe seedhe tareeke hain:
1) Koi galat kaam karna hai to parde ke peeche karo.
2) Buri aadat hai to chold do.
3) Doosre ko izzat do, aur who tumhe izzat dega.

To sab se maan milne ke alawa izzat kis kaam aati hai? Us ka faayda kya
hai? "Izzat ka bahut faidaa hai": Pehla to yeh ki agar aap chowk mein
bhooke bhi apni takat bachane ke liye so rahe honge to log samjhenge,
izzat wala hai, isne theek se khaya hoga. Is mein kya faaida? Agar aap
bhookhe lagoge to log laat marenge.

Doosra, aur zyada thos faayda: "agar kisi ki ma, ya behen apke saamne
zara galat raste se bhi pesh ho rahi ho, toh doosra daint dega –ki yeh
aadmi vaisa nahin hai , kaise aapne iss par inzaam lagaya?"

Izzat hi wo karan tha jo Ashraf ko Patna jaane se roke huwe tha. Aur is
tarah wo dilli pahinch gaya.

"Ab muhje lagta hai ki Bombay se Dilli aana humri sabse badi galti thi.
Dilli mein koi kisi ki izzat nahin karta."

New Delhi Railway Station, 9:30 PM, Sardi. Jama Masjid – bharosemandon
ka aakhri aasra. Gate band. Bandook dhaari chowkidar. 10 baje ke baad
dakhil hona mana hai. Masjid mein sona mana hai. Masjid mein shoch karna
mana hai.

"Arre bhai, sone ke liye yahan koi jagah hai kya?" Chaar chehre aag
seekne se hat kar munh ghuma kar dekhte hain. "Tum yahan naye ho?"
"Han, abhi Bombay se aaya hun."
Chuppi.
"Kuchh khaya hai?"
"Nahin"
Jaankar haathon ke kapdon ko tatolne ki awaz. 5 rupaye haath se haath
mein gaye. Ashraf paas ki dukaan se chawal ki ek plate kha raha hai. Us
ne Jowrah beedi ka ek packet khareeda hai.
"Kya yahan sone ke liye koi jagah hai?"
"Mod ke us taraf ja kar dekho."

Mod ke us taraf Ashraf ke dakhile par taash ka khel yakayak ruka. Sab ko
samjhaya gaya. Sar haami mein hile, sahanubhuti mein bhi. Ashraf ne apna
bori-bistar neeche rakha, aur let kar apne saamne kaala parda girne ke
intezaar mein.

Ashraf utha to taash khlete us ke saathi ja chuke the. Apna samaan utha
kar wo baazar mein kaam ki talash mein ikal gaya. Murge ki dukaan mein
jagah hai, par use sab se neeche se shuru karna hoga. Wahan kuchh din
khud ko masroof rakha, par kald hi wo doosre kaam mein lag gaya. Ek
mistry ke saath kuchh samay kaam kiya. Phir apne aap nikal pada.

Teen mahine guzar gaye. Ashraf ke paas ek ghar hai - Sanjay Amar Colony,
Puran Qila ke peeche. Us ne silayee ki ek machine khareed li hai. Apni
colony ke ek Begali babu se "sports set" silna seekh liya hai. Ab wo roz
istri huwe kapde pehenta hai. Sab us Masterji kehte hain. Sprts set ka
business achha chal raha hai. Ashraf aur Bengali babu Dubai ke baazar
mein kapde pahunchate hain bana ke.

Apne khaali samay mein Ashraf sochta hai dilli mein kuchh samay aur kaam
karega aur phir Calcutta chala jaayega - paas ke gaon mein ek chhota sa
ghar hoga, ek railway paas hoga roz safar karne ke liye, aur ek chhoti
si floor-polishing business hogi. Shayad us ki ma us ke paas aa kar
rahe. Shayad wo shaadi kar ke ghar basa le.

2004, elections, vote, numeron kakhel. Sanjay Amar Colony, Congress ki
gehri pakad. Jagmohan, visthapan.

Sab gaya. Ghar gaya. Bengali babu gaye. Samaj toot gaya. Dubai exporter
ne naye supplier dhoondh liye. Ashraf ne silai machine bech di. Wo Bara
Tuti mein hai. Us ne paint karna seekh liye hai. Wo ab paint master hai.
Calcutta dur hai, baut dur. Ashraf ab ek sharabi hai, par izzat wala
hai, aur wo jaanta hai ki "gareeb aadmi ka sirf gareeb hi dekhta hai."

"Yeh jo mandi hai, yeh ek samudar ki leher hai. Jab paise hote hai toh
yeh leher aage nikalti hai, aur jab paisa khatam toh peeche aati hai.
Leher kabhi rukti nahi.. kabhi rukti nahin."

Translation by Shveta.

It is now, with great pleasure, that I narrate "Ashraf ki kahani". Mohammed Ashraf is a painter at Bara Tuti Chowk; his Kahani is loosely based on one long interview that I conducted not too long ago, and a few informal conversations that preceded it. I would be only to glad to share copies of the recording, should anyone be interested. My honest apologies to non-hindi readers. i have translated some of the hindi bits - but, inshallah, I shall translate it soon.


Something Happened

Run, Run, Run, Run. Feet pounding on pavement, chappals fighting for grip, slick concrete roads, Bombay. Watch the aunty, dodge the pushcart, cut through the crowd. The events of yesterday crowded into Ashraf's mind, but he pushed them away. Kuch ho gaya tha (something had happened), these were just the kind of mistakes that could prove fatal. Run, Run, Run, Run. By the time he reached the entrance to the market, Ashraf knew it was too late, he was finished here.

Eyebrows raised in mock surprise greeted him, "Aur Ashraf Bhai, Sunday ko kahan the?" (So, ashraf, where were you this Sunday?) But then the eyes narrowed, the brows came close. A conspiratorial whisper, "Maalik bahut gussa hai, tum yahain se chale jao." (The boss is very angry, you should leave as soon as you can)

Ashraf stopped. Given the certainty of his sacking, was it worth getting a shouting, or worse, in the bargain? One cannot be the head butcher of the X chicken shop, and miss Sundays. It was simply not done.

The X chicken shop was perhaps the most famous chicken shop in the locality – as was its owner. Maalik, as everyone called him, was the local market strongman. He had grabbed most of the land, both inside and outside the market, and collected hafta from most of petty shopkeepers and hawkers. His chicken was the best in town, "Hur Sunday dukaan ke baahar line lagti thi", (people used to line up outside his shop on Sundays) and chicken worth several thousands of rupees was sold.

Mohammed Ashraf was the murga karigar at the X chicken shop. Having long surpassed the rank of the common butcher, he was now accorded the respect of the karigar – the master craftsman. To call the karigar a mere expert was to do so at your own peril; capable of slicing chicken with the speed of a samurai and the precision of a swiss watch, a karigar was essential for any successful murga business. Each karigar had his own secret technique, and apprentices were advised to watch his hands very carefully.

Legendary for his ability to carve out the juiciest pieces, and yet keep out the chaatan for himself, Ashraf was earning between Rs 1800 and Rs 2000 per month as salary, while the chaatan got him between Rs 50 and 100 a day. The chaatan referred to the chicken scraps that nobody wanted – organs, random bits of skin, fat and flesh. But then this was Bombay – there was nothing that nobody wanted. Less than a quarter the price of the regular meat, Chaatan often sold under the counter faster than succulent chicken above it – snapped up by labourers, carpenters, plumbers, palledars and others like Ashraf himself.

Sundays were the busiest days. Throngs would line the street outside the shop, selecting live chickens and pointing them out to the helpers. The helper would pull out the bird, weigh it, tag it with a plastic token and pass it on to the apprentice, who would then chop off the bird's head and stuff the still-flapping carcass into the large dibba. One by one, butchers would pull out birds, call out token numbers, and chop them as per customer specifications – curry, fry, tandoori – you name it.

That fateful Sunday, Ashraf did not make it. "Something happened", he explained defensively to the gathering crowd. Without its chief karigar, the X chicken shop fell hopelessly behind demand. The boys pulled hard, but it was no use; that day the queue extended all the way till the church. The Maalik lost between five and eight thousand rupees, Ashraf lost his job.

But there was still enough to do in Bombay. Thanks to his experience as a thekedar (contractor) in Calcutta, Ashraf found himself an entry level job mixing concrete. The money was good, but something was lacking. Once you were a karigar – in any field, you could not reconcile yourself a life of unremarkable, ordinary, dehadi. It just wasn't done.

So a year and a half after arriving at Mumbai central station from Patna, Ashraf got onto a train and left. Surat and Baroda passed in a blur – a few odd jobs – and, suddenly, at 9:30 one night he was in Delhi. "Humne socha ki jab humne saara sansar chold diya, business chold diya, parivaar chold diya, toh Delhi aur Bombay mein kya phark padega? Ghoom ghoom ke kamainge, khaienge"

Patna, his home town, had never been an option. Three years ago he had fought his brother for the last time – and this time he was never going home. Though younger than Ashraf, his brother never gave him any izzat; and finally, when the chips are down, it's all about izzat. Izzat – there was no escaping it. There were no C.V.s for murga karigars, or painters, or carpenters, or plumbers – there was only izzat that separated a bekaar aadmi from a sahi aadmi – a man you could trust. It was the kind of quality that made sense of statements like "wohi sharabi toh hai, pur izzat walah hai." Izzat is good when one is around strangers, but izzat is essential around family. So how does one earn izzat? Over the years, Ashraf has come up with a formula condensed into a an easy three-fold path to izzat:
1) Koi galat kaam karna hai to parde ke peeche karo.
2) Buri aadat hai to chold do.
3) Doosre ko izzat do, aur who tumhe izzat dega.

So, apart from somewhat vague exchanges of good will, what purpose does izzat serve? What is its fayda? "Izzat ka bahut faidaa hai": The primary faida being that even when you're lying hungry in a corner of the chowk, and sleeping to conserve energy, everyone assumes that as a man of izzat you must have eaten well – which seems like a rather dubious reward, until one remembers George Orwell's maxim from "Down and out in Paris and London" – "[while looking for work] It is fatal to look hungry. It makes people want to kick you."

The second, more concrete, faida is that "agar kisi ki ma, ya behen apke saamne zara galat raste se bhi pesh ho rahi ho, toh doosra daint dega –ki yeh aadmi vaisa nahin hai , kaise aapne iss par inzaam lagaya?" So it does have its advantages. Izzat was the primary reason why Ashraf could not go back to Patna, and so he found himself in Delhi.

"Ab muhje lagta hai ki Bombay se Dilli aana humri sabse badi galti thi. Dilli mein koi kisi ki izzat nahin karta."
(I often think that shifting from Delhi to Bombay was a big mistake. No one really gives anyone any respect in Delhi)
New Delhi Railway Station, 9:30 PM, Cold. Jama Masjid – last resort of the faithful. Gates closed. Armed Guard. No entry after 10 PM. No sleeping in mosque premises. No defacing world heritage site.

"Arre bhai, is there any place I could sleep around here?" Four faces look up from the fire. "Are you new here?"
"Yes, I just got here from Bombay."
Pregnant pause.
"Have you eaten?"
"No."
Rustle of cloth on cloth, practiced hands sift through a bundle of clothes. Five rupees exchange hands. Ashraf eats a plate of rice from the nearby stall and buys a packet of Howrah beedis. "Is there any place I could sleep around here?"
"Check round the corner."

Around the corner, the card game stops briefly as Ashraf walks up to them. Situations are explained, heads nod in solidarity and reassurance. Ashraf puts down his bori-bistar, and waits for the world to fade to black.

Ashraf awoke to find his card playing comrades gone. Picking up his belongings he heads out into the market in search of work. The chicken shop has openings, but he shall have to start all the way from the bottom. It keeps him occupied for a few days but soon he is back to manual labor. He works with a mistry for a while and then heads out on his own.

Three months down the line, Ashraf has a home – Sanjay Amar Colony, Behind Lal Qila. He has also bought himself a sewing machine and has learnt how to stitch "sports sets" from a Bengali Babu in the colony. He now wears "pressed" clothes everyday, and everyone calls him "Masterji." The "sport-set" business is doing well. Ashraf and the Babu are supplying finished garments to exporters with markets in Dubai.

In his spare time, he thinks about working for a few more years in Delhi and then settling down in Calcutta – A house in a nearby village, a railway pass to commute everyday, and a small floor-polishing business. Maybe his mother might come down from Patna, maybe he might just get married.

2004, elections, constituencies, vote-banks. Sanjay Amar Colony, Congress stronghold. Jagmohan, demolitions.

It's gone. The house is gone. Bengali Babuji has gone. The samaj has broken. The Dubai exporter has found other suppliers. Ashraf has sold the machine. He is back on the streets. He is in Bara Tuti. He has learnt how to paint now. He is a paint-master. Calcutta has receded to the infinite horizon. He is a sharabi, but an izzat walah, and he knows that "gareeb aadmi ka sirf gareeb hi dekhta hai."

"Yeh jo mandi hai, yeh ek samudar ki leher hai. Jab paise hote hai toh yeh leher aage nikalti hai, aur jab paisa khatam toh peeche aati hai. Leher kabhi rukti nahi.. kabhi rukti nahin."

Alas, We are always in God's Hands

“For those who came in late”; 30 days ago a man posted an idea on this very list, a record of which can still be seen today at http://abjective.blogspot.com . He swore an oath (in fact he often uttered the most filthy oaths) to write on “Alternative ways/ means of representation of the "poor and oppressed" by studying informal networks at labour mandis in Delhi.” He was the first Phantom. The unbroken line continues through the weeks; today as before – writing mysteriously, suddenly, the first part of a three part post, the Phantom works alone.

The idea behind the three-part post is to try to separate two distinct strands that emerge from my initial posting, the first deals directly with the expanse of the labour mandi and its networks, while the second is a stylized literary-non-fiction piece. The third and final part deals with a subject that I am still grappling with – the role and purpose of the media and the nature of intervention.

As I look back on my first post, I realize that I had written precious little about the labour mandi itself. Perhaps now it is time.

I first went to Bara Tuti labour mandi while working on a labour series for the Frontline. The idea was to write (some what obscenely termed) “bottom up” reports on Delhi’s informal/ unorganized labour. The idea behind the first piece was to write on “construction labour and their problems”. It was impossible to imagine a meedya report about any group (other than Page 3 of course) and not write about their problems. In fact it was their problems that one was particularly interested in- an issue that I shall deal with at length in my second post later this month.

I wasn’t really interested in the labour mandi – in fact I didn’t even know what a labour mandi was – which reminds me, I still haven’t explained what a labour mandi really is. In my article for Frontline, (http://www.flonnet.com/fl2224/stories/20051202001408800.htm), I described a labour mandi as “[the] last resort for the unemployed. Usually situated in densely populated pockets of Delhi, it is unmarked and unmapped by city planners, and unseen by those who do not come with the express purpose of looking for it; no placards announce its existence, no road signs give directions. Rickshaw-pullers, tea shops owners and cigarette-sellers wave their hands and paint elaborate maps in the air - the third alley past the sweet shop, up the incline, right past the police thana.” At which point I realized that while I had described “how it was”, I hadn’t described exactly “what it was”. And so I wrote the following paragraph –

“The mandi is a collection of tea shops, indistinguishable from other tea shops in other parts of the city, except for the large numbers of men sitting in easily identifiable groups. The largest groups consist of an old man who sits slightly apart from a gaggle of smiling youngsters and scowling 40-somethings. This is the head mason, or maistry, with his team of lesser maistries, beldaars and mazdoors. Close to these large groups sit several smaller satellite groups of painters in paint-smattered pyjamas, carpenters with large toolboxes and the odd electrician or plumber. Workers gather by eight o' clock in the morning, and builders and contractors arrive by 9 a.m. Brief but frantic negotiations ensue, and the labour workers pile into trucks and are carted off to construction sites across the city. Contractors usually negotiate with the maistries to outline their needs for the day, and the maistries organise the necessary labour. The work could be for a day or a week, and in rare cases for even a month, and the wages are fixed accordingly.”

This was perhaps the distance that I had originally hoped to traverse – a topographic description: Workplace- scattered – yet organized – informal network. Workers –organized on the basis of hierarchy – Maistry, beldaar, mazdoor. Work timings- 8 AM onwards. The only thing missing was how much they made; which, as a thorough and professional journalist, I obligingly provided

“"The going rate for an ordinary labourer, or mazdoor, is Rs.100 a day and Rs.150-200 for a maistry," says Mukhraj, a head maistry, "Carpenters and painters demand higher wages of up to Rs.300 a day, depending on the amount of work." However, workers are rarely in a position to enforce wages, as the plentiful supply of cheap labour drives down their market value. "Invariably most of us end up working for about Rs.80 a day," explains Kallu, a labourer, "and the maistries get about Rs.150." Apart from his daily wage, which he gets from the contractor, the maistry also charges his own workers Rs.5 a day as commission for getting them work with the contractor. Thus, the job of the maistry is much sought after. "The going rate for an ordinary labourer, or mazdoor, is Rs.100 a day and Rs.150-200 for a maistry," says Mukhraj, a head maistry, "Carpenters and painters demand higher wages of up to Rs.300 a day, depending on the amount of work." However, workers are rarely in a position to enforce wages, as the plentiful supply of cheap labour drives down their market value. "Invariably most of us end up working for about Rs.80 a day," explains Kallu, a labourer, "and the maistries get about Rs.150." Apart from his daily wage, which he gets from the contractor, the maistry also charges his own workers Rs.5 a day as commission for getting them work with the contractor. Thus, the job of the maistry is much sought after.”

This would be a reasonably well researched, topographic account of an informal market place. It constitutes what I would like to call the “topological trap”. The topological trap is grounded in the notion that once provided reasonably detailed physical map; readers should be left to negotiate their own way through the straight forward terrain of the journalist’s argument. Occasionally, an obliging scribe shall throw in the odd signpost – a quote here, a vox pop there, and well rounded conclusion that brings the reader back to the “you are here” spot.

Personally, I am rather fond of this particular style of writing; however the map is not always reliable. As the author of the text, it is for the journalist to indicate which way is North, and the reader is often asked to use the topological landscape as a portal through which to access a more fluid mindscape of the subject of the article. A mediated physical description also gives the illusion of a “see, and decide for yourself” argument, while overlooking the role of describer.

Read for example, the following extract from the article “We are always in God’s Hands” by Tom Paulson from the Seattle Post-Intelligencer –“In the shadow of prosperity, slum children die every day from diarrhea, measles, pneumonia and other easily preventable and treatable diseases. Like the three being raised by Mariam and Dharmesh a few blocks from Deer Park.

The couple is illiterate. They have only single names. Home is a smoke-filled, 8-foot-by-8-foot hut. A dim light bulb the hue of a harvest moon hangs over a burlap-covered bed fashioned from a steamer trunk. There is no toilet, no sink. For this, the couple pays 850 rupees a month in rent -- about $17, half their income.

A rat scurries by, but Mariam isn't disturbed. Rats are signs of good luck, she explained. They only come around if a family has food.”

It is hard to dispute the Intelligencer’s topography – the detailing is meticulous, right down to the dimensions of the room; the couple has no toilet, no sink, and apparently no second name – a fact that seems to cause the correspondent some consternation. So, does the correspondent explain how, in spite of not having a sink or surname, thousands like Mariam and Dharmesh still manage to survive, occasionally make money, sleep, live or think? No. What he does do is provide us with a compass to navigate his map, “Their plight illustrates the cycle of disease and poverty. Illness undermines opportunity -- income. Poverty begets more illness, which begets more poverty. It's a process of erosion”; and signs off with the perfect survival strategy, “I have hope that one day we will get out of here," Mariam said. She forced a smile and looked away, bringing an arm across her face to hide the tears. “We are always in God's hands.”

To sum up, the problem with the topographic trap is the objectivity accorded to a physical description. The room is 8 foot by 8 foot. That is a “fact”, and since his conclusions are based on undisputable “facts”, they too take on the armor of factuality. I now have the opportunity to ask an earnest, post-modernist question – “Is factuality the same as actuality?” but I won’t. That shall be left for a subsequent post.

In the meantime, one way of avoiding a factuality/actuality issue is to try and understand the prism through which people see themselves and their surroundings. Maybe an 8 foot by 8 foot room looks a whole lot bigger if everyone else around you has one that is 6 feet by 6 feet.

Gareeb Admi ka kaun Dekhta hai?


Have you ever read something in the papers, watched it on television, or simply seen it happen around you, and asked out loud, (in a manner reminiscent of Arjun questioning Krishna on the eve of battle), "Why is no-one doing something about this? Why isn't there a law to prevent this?" or, more crucially, "Why doesn't the government do something about this?"

As a journalist for Frontline, I often found myself in situations where such questions seemed thoroughly appropriate; in fact they seemed absolutely essential. As I looked around, and read the work of others who had come before, I realized that I was in very good company. Practically even other newspaper, or magazine, had been there, done that, and in some cases, launched a campaign with a grainy photograph and a catchy kicker.(The Indian Express is particularly good at campaigns; their latest being the graphically titled "Building House, Breaking Law" on demolitions in Delhi). The other thing that struck me was that they all said the same things, often about rather different people, and came to conclusions that could be best described as "foregone". To quote my I-fellow proposal, " they could well be an extract … … describing the plight of the Indian farmer, factory worker, construction worker, woman laborer, child or dalit. The narrative usually begins with a laundry list of loss, deprivation, anguish and oppression, followed by the shrewd, rapier-like, query – "After fifty years of Independence, why is Kallu/ Mohandas/ Mohammed Ashraf / Bannodevi still hungry?", and is finally closed out with a plea to politicians, bureaucrats and civil society to put aside their petty differences, and work towards the emancipation and empowerment of India's "poor and oppressed."

What made things worse was that my observations in one particular case were markedly different from what I had expected to find. Quoting again, "for my most recent story on construction workers in Delhi, I found it difficult to reconcile the reality I saw with the journalistic mode I had subconsciously chosen. There was no doubt that the workers I met were financially impoverished migrants, but they were a far cry from the helpless, anguished "beings" that I expected them to be. Instead, I met a group of skeptical, often humorous, workers; completely alien to the "official" world with its formal institutions of schools, banks, and hospitals, yet deeply enmeshed in vibrant, dynamic, trust-based networks of their own."

While it is nobody's case that poverty and oppression do not exist, two basic questions need to be asked of the existing discourse – Who are such texts written for? And, what purpose are they supposed to serve?

While I agree that the two questions listed above are rather "eve-of-battle"-ish themselves, I shall attempt to play with them through the course of my fellowship, titled "Alternative ways/ means of representation of the "poor and oppressed" by studying informal networks at labour mandis in Delhi." While that is the official title, I hope to come up with a less boring title at some point in the future, preferably in a foreign language.

At the risk of making a rather obvious point, one of the most basic problems of the existing journalistic narrative is the fixity of language. Words/ Phrases like 'poor', "oppressed", "under privileged' and (my personal favourite) "the economically weaker sections of our societies' conjure up images that are often counter-productive. Years of media coverage have fixed the pictures in our heads, ensuring that all we know about India's "poor and oppressed" is that they are "poor and oppressed." Often, there isn't even an acknowledgment of the fact that some of the "economically weaker sections of our societies" might be less or more "poor and oppressed" than others. And so my fellowship shall not just look at different ways of writing about people, but also look at different ways of writing people.

The difference between writing about people and writing people is a rather subtle one. When you write about people, you describe them as a zoologist would describe a fruit bat – their appearance, diet, ecological threat to their habitat (forest clearance or slum clearance as the case may be), future as a species etc. Thus, narratives like "She lay helplessly in her tiny , smoke filled hut, oblivious of the misery and poverty that surrounded her" would fall into this category. Such narratives sometimes slip into "stream of consciousness" mode where the sensitive journalist divines the inner-most hopes, desires and feelings of his subject.

Writing people themselves is a far trickier exercise. It is usually a sub-conscious exercise where by repeatedly using the same metaphors to describe someone you create an icon, that can clicked to get a spontaneous, yet utterly predicable, response. Over the years, the media and the state have successfully written people so vividly, that as a journalist, one no longer feels the need to talk to anyone at all. You already know what they are going to say, and the real thing is invariably a poor step-cousin in comparison to the idealised creation, unable to describe their "condition" as you would like them to. One perfectly written person is the "old man from the village". No description is required. One can already imagine the wrinkles on his face, the salt and pepper subtle, and the shawl (usually greenish-brown) draped over his shoulders. If intelligently deployed, he is devastating as old farmer remembering the partition, the Naxal movement, the time Indira Gandhi came to their village, the drought of 1965 or the flood of 1976. The chances are that he will say something like, "Mahaul badal gaye hai, ab gareeb aadmi ka kaun dekhta hai?"

I would like to call this process "abjectification". The process by which a person is reduced to an "abject" – devoid of individuality or expression beyond an articulation of the condition of "abjectness". I find that, apart from opening up interesting avenues for wordplay, the word/term "abject/abjective" conveys a sense of what I am trying to express without the accompanying pictures and sounds that are associated with so many of the other words that we encounter. To use it in a sentence, "An examination of existing media trends suggests that to be successful as a journalist today, abjectivity is a must."

While the point that such discourses essentialise their subjects is an obvious one, what is interesting is the fact that the subjects often take on the role that the media assigns them. While photographing people for a story on slums in Delhi, I noticed that slum residents had a certain trademark expressions, that could only be described as "abjective." Thus, skeptical, animated faces would transform into masks of sorrow at the earliest sighting of a camera of any shape, size or description. Many would attain heightened states of "abjectment" at the first indication that I was, in fact, a journalist. However, to conclude that this is a sign of how the media has beaten an entire population into thinking, and seeing themselves, in a particular way would be to draw the wrong lesson. In fact, it would be just the kind of lesson that the "meediyaa" would draw.

(The meediyaa, as I see it, represents the throng of television, and print, journalists who routinely descend on slums, and night-shelters in search of deprivation, and introduce themselves by saying, "namaste, hum meediyaa se aaye hai". They are then taken to meet the pradhan, who says "Kaun se meediyaa se hai? Humari photo ekbar meediyaa mein aaie thi.")

The point that I am trying to make is that, well aware of the meediyaa's proclivities, the residents simply use it as a bargaining tool. While quiet, hidden processes continue in the background, the media is used as a platform to issue ultimatums, raise the ante, or signal intention by government departments and slum residents alike.

To bring things back on track, through my fellowship (quoting once again) "I would like to focus on the concept of the labour mandi in Delhi, study its informal networks and institutions in detail and arrive at a possible template for representation of its inhabitants as other than abject, helpless and desperate.

Through detailed research, it should be possible to obtain a deeper understanding of the functioning of the labor mandi. This should facilitate a multi-layered narrative that does not rob the subjects of their agency or humanity. While the present narrative urges the state to intervene, it also creates a distance between the subject of the story and the reader; placing the subject in a different universe, far removed from the reader. I would like to explore a narrative form that reduces this distance between the subject of my story and the reader."

Over the next six months I shall try and generate text that shall break free from the existing discourse that I so irreverently described. I shall also try and understand why it exists. In the meantime, I shall also put up a blog with interesting articles that I come across.

In conclusion I would like to highlight the fact that, irrespective of how misguided they may be (or seem), meediyaa discourses prepare the foundation for state intervention and policy. Thus, alternative discourses that highlight the tactility and efficacy of informal networks should prove useful in enhancing the bargaining power of Kallu, Mohandas, Mohammed Ashraf, and Banno Devi, should they require it.

Aman