The Human Canvas

It is 7.30 in the morning and I amble my way across this Muslim ghetto noticing the myriad happenings around me. It is a kind of open air theatre. The little girls and boys getting ready to go to school dressed in their little pink uniforms. Most of them have not been washed for a few days to weeks. The auto driver finally arrives. The eldest kid sits next to him in the front. The little ones get into the auto and sit opposite one another, like they do in an 8 seater Maruti Omni. The make shift wooden plank will soon be removed and the auto-man will continue to provide custom made trips for the richer crowd across the city.

Welcome to the other side of Bangalore, far away from the elitist colonies, the big IT hubs, the huge shopping malls , grand apartment blocks which stand high ,and where luxury cars sally heedlessly past, may be with lot of arrogance and a little bit of conceit. Here is a colony that is unaffected by all this and you still experience that old world charm. There is that ‘PURE VHEJ’ hotel next to the ‘MUGHLAI KITCHEN’. People here do not discuss the politics of Ayodhya or the Sachar committee report . For them it is the question of survival, day to day living and earning to provide the next meal. Secularism either by force or by choice exists here and it is wonderfully heartening to see this.

And yes, there is the stink arising from the appalling filth scattered around, the open gutters with a hundred million things floating in its vortex. Come Friday and you are greeted by men in spotless white kurtas, and embroidered white skull caps going for their prayers. The attar also does the talking, its overwhelming aroma wanting to bog down the all pervading stink. After prayers everyone gathers around Karim’s tea-shop. It isn’t your Café Coffee Day or the lounge area of Starbucks. It is a humble tiny shop with some verses of Koran written on one of the walls. Every morning I see around forty people flocking this shop to have tea and bun for Rs 5/- There is still that old analog telephone, an instrument in which you have to dip your index finger and turn it in a clockwise direction to make a call. I vividly remember the day when the boy who runs this place offered me free tea as it was his birthday. I was a little reluctant at first, repelled by the lack of hygiene of this place but the magnanimity of the offer made me shed my inhibitions and I accepted the tea. It was delicious. I don’t know if Karim’s Tea shop has a fan following on the global phenomenon called Facebook, nor do I know if it contained 4 herbs or half a dozen masalas in minute measured quantities and the care that went into the brewing of the ‘custom made tea’ the ultimate in luxury for Vir sanghvi ‘of NDTV goodtimes fame, nevertheless it broke all mental blocks and physical barriers that divide us. Sandwiched in between these tea shops, and the veg and no so veg hotels are those teeny weeny shops which you wouldn’t notice if you were driving at little more than 20 kms/hr. You get all sorts of knick knacks- safety pins, mouse traps, rubber bands to name a few. There are other shops that sell ‘Nippat’ and ‘Mysorepak’ at 1 Re a piece. You see everyone has to make a living!

One day the road is closed due to laying of pipes. I am forced to take a detour through the by lanes. I become a little adventurous and try to explore this place even more. One lane leads to another into a maze of sorts and finally you feel like you have ended up in a labyrinth. The narrow lanes resemble a blasted moonscape with large craters. The dingy alleys open up a Pandora’s Box of snapshots, where you get to know how human beings survive. On one road there are men who exercise their brawn power to cut the rods of steel and carry huge iron boxes. There is loud Sufi music being played in a garage from a stereo that belongs to the era bygone, ten year old kids, to the owner who is probably in his mid 30s pump up the adrenaline within their bodies as they disappear underneath the monster of an SUV to unscrew various parts and figure out the source of the trouble. Cardboard box like houses are stacked one on top of the other with utter disregard for the laws of Physics. Houses are built on sites of various dimensions, some big, some small the some others 3 stories tall all shapes and sizes,all of which would put Euclidian Geometry to shame. A photograph of the top view of these buildings would probably look like the arrangement of Lego Blocks by an adventurous kid who is handling it for the first time. A peep inside these houses makes you realize that there are 6 to 7 people inside a 10ft*10ft house. They may lack the basic amenities like water or sanitation but the ubiquitous colour television is present.

I finally trace my way back to the main road. I notice that the old man who used to beg on the streets all these days has now become an astrologer. He has a few cards, a parrot and a cage. Though this may not be a perfect definition of career progression, it is definitely a more dignified career option .I don’t believe in astrology but I go and sit in front of him and press a Rs 5/- note into his hands and don’t bother to know what the card picked up by the parrot has in store for me.
The morning will become noon and noon will progress into twilight, the neon bulbs will be switched on, the men who worked hard all day will go home to rest, the idiot box will continue to broadcast yummy crap. I too sleep hoping that tomorrow will present a more optimistic picture, more stories of survival and hope, more grit and determination from the people of this place, who will one day carve out a niche for themselves.