Malvika’s Ramblings

Yesterday I went to Cannought Place after a long time at night. It was morbid. Everywhere there were beggars. When we parked, an emaciated young woman walked up to our window, looking too tired to even hold her hand up to beg. She was supporting an old, naked bent man with a back that was sticky and sore with some kind of infection.

As we walked towards KFC, beggars ran from around the pillars, appeared from nowhere asking for money. Positively unsafe and chilling.

A boy of 14 or so was following us as we carried burgers and snacks to the car. It’s horrible when you have food and beggars around you. Ronny, a friend, dropped a glass of soft drink (KFC fix soft-drinks in really lousy trays for take-away) that began spilling contents on the road. In an instant, the beggars swooped and grabbed the glasses and desperately sipped the last few drops in the glass. How terrible could their situation be, living right in the centre of India’s capital? It was all out of ‘I am legend’. Highly disturbing – the disparity. Economic inequality makes such unequal human beings in every respect.

Foreigners come from countries where the Government pays you if you are unemployed. At first they are shocked, and then they begin to share the Indian view of fate and destiny. Some ugly things have to be overlooked. Either you spend all evenings in CP mulling over the sad state of affairs or get on with life and have the fun you are entitled to. But still it doesn’t feel OK. A friend explained “They are all smack addicts; dead stoned; give them money and they’ll puff it away.” Another friend countered “But that doesn’t mean they don’t need the money…”

And then we hit home and guess what was on TV –

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cdrCalO5BDs

My mom and I approached the Noida auto stand. I needed an auto to go to Delhi. A number of guys, some lounging in the backseat of the auto. A harsh sun. Quick customary bargaining. As we talk to an auto driver with his shirt open, hair puffed with natural grease, he scratches his groin. As we talk.

I’m running late. I hop into the auto. We are on our way.

Soon, he rips a tobacco sachet expertly, empties the contents into his mouth and lets the aluminium coloured plastic sachet flutter away from his fingers out of the auto on the road. The rest of the way, he spits on the road. A red-light is like a watering hole. At any moment you can see a few heads going down as men spit on roads.

As we go along, I see the auto driver has a long fingernail on his pinkie, a nail grown to half an inch. Scratcher. As I put on my dark sunglasses, I try to block out more than just the sun.

Amit: Hey .. Don’t drop that plastic wrapper on the floor (of my living-room)

Tonk: Abbe, tere ghar mein chooha ghum raha hai..
(A mouse is scurrying in your house and you’re worried about this..)

Amit: Yeah, but the mouse is biodegradable and this wrapper is not!

A conversational, a debate, vociferous explanation of close beliefs. Two people talking and one says “Here, I’ll prove it to you. Look at this coin (takes out a coin and places it on the bench). It was minted the same year I was born in.” We look at the coin placed on the bench, awaiting a theory to be proved, the coin to shine or jump and plainly speak out a truth that can only be seen in physical action.

A discussion —-> A promise …

Boris Neislony performed at the Palette art gallery, Delhi last night. And so did Inder Salim and Monali Meher. Boris’ performance was a puzzling one. What was this man trying to do? What was he showing? He played an audio cassette on a regular portable music system and then moved to the sounds. He didn’t move much, just a shoulder wiggle or the slow motion of hands or rubbing off something from behind his ear or drawing something from within him. The sounds seemed like a hurried conversation, the steel sound of someone drawing a sword out of a scabbard, (more…)

Morning. 9:00 a.m. The sun is out. Groggy. Walk out of my bed, out of the door, beyond dusty verandas to the corner tea shop. Next to the tea-shop is a large iron gate, locked and barred. Office goers stand on the other side of the gate holding forward their thermos flasks like children at a school canteen. If somebody approaches the gate, all of them yell out helpfully “It’s closed, it’s closed!”, trying to save the person a few extra steps even though he invariably comes up to the gate before turning back.

Ajit, a Bengali guy, mans his tea-shop in Shahpur Jat, a hardcore villainous Delhi neighbourhood. He empties his kettle filling thermos flasks from his side of the gate. He strains tea from his aluminum saucepan. He bends over the pan stirring tea with a knife, reusing tea-leaves. He stands on a block of stone to look over the saucepan, into the steam. He steps down nimbly to scurry about without seeming like a scurrying teashop boy. His aunt comes and yells some domestic duties to him from the other side of the gate. He says he is ‘busy’ and asks her whether he should listen to her or do his work.

A white dog with a black eye patch saunters by. A brown mutt folds one forepaw over the other and stretches down. No begging for tidbits. He is a well fed street dog and has his pride. I get my tea, especially strong with less milk and lots of ginger, and I sit back on threadbare mats over stone blocks to blow it cool and sip it slow.