G and Gang.

          In an illegal construction near my house, born on once-fertile fields, lives G, a Jharkhandi who comes at dawn to help remove the leaf-litter outside my door. She told me her son aspires to join the sarkar through the IAS. Though she cooks on twigs collected from the roadside and wears mostly torn clothes, has watched television about a dozen times in her life, she’s aware of her rights. G’s husband’s drunken behaviour and his income are unreliable. G, therefore bashes on largely on her own with the help of her children. One daughter has done her General Nursing and Midwifery course from Osmania University. Presently she works in a nursing home in Jharkhand and hopes to get a government job. Another daughter is midway through a B.Sc. (Chem) course. A third gives tuitions to support the others. The fourth just cleared her twelfth: this girl wept and refused to eat because her marks put her in a lower second class.

          The labourers who live around G’s kholi/kood, from Rajasthan, Orissa, Karnataka, Maharashtra, comforted the girl by telling her that ‘tears wouldn’t help’, that she could and should do better in college. When I spoke to the girl, she told me how it didn’t matter that her percentage had been affected by the Economics marks, for, “mera don’t worry hai, main toh accounts lene vali hoon”.

All the occupants of this small ‘slum’ (for want of a better word) are up before the sun rises so they can do their ablutions in darkness. The bathroom and toilet are kept locked for reasons known to nobody. The well they have access to has been treated with some chemical so the water smells, G told me, but what to do, there is no other water source. Like migrants everywhere, they adjust.

          Political correctness is unknown in their world. People are known by physical traits: lumboo, motoo, kaanaa and one woman is called kalimaa.

          “Why,” I asked one of them, “do you call her that? It’s not her name.”

          Surprised at my asking so, he pointed out an obvious reason: “Because she’s black. Look at her face, her skin. She’s black.” The woman, her husband and their children giggled. Encouraged by the attention they were getting, others pitched in to tell me that some months ago, she bought a tube of a fairness cream and they saw the difference, she actually became somewhat gori. But she stopped, and now she’s a kalimaa again. I was told it’s more shameful to be alsee (lazy) than to be black. Even their unchanging daily-wages routine, appearances matter. They are neatly dressed, with women’s hair oiled and combed tightly into a knot/bun. Both men and women wear cheap but sturdy footwear. That’s in the morning, when they arrive on a ‘site’. There they change into drab and dirty work clothes, looking sloppy and covered with dust. Shift over, washed and changed, they return in their ‘best’ attire.

          Their tiffin is packed in steel dabbas. At mealtimes, they sit gender-wise on newspapers, either in a line or a circle. A nap in shade follows a meal. Goa’s susegaadness exists all over India, there just isn’t a word for in other languages.

          In old, established slums like Dharavi in Mumbai, some people earn well, whatever their occupation, some have regular, respectable jobs, school-going children rub shoulders (literally) with raggedy-pariah kids, and some make a living exhorting haftas from lesser mortals. In my neighbourhood slum everyone works. Window-pane fixers, plumbers, carpenters, masons, electricians’ helpers, away from families, have come to Goa to earn a living and strike root. The Goan collecting the rent, who a few years ago bent over rice saplings, knows that no taxman, Town and Country Planner or other government official will mind. A 3-phase electrical supply indicates that the Panchayat has issued an NOC, a stamp of approval. Life is good for many, no matter how much ‘my kind’ complains about our culture getting diluted.  

          Every inhabitant of this young slum is religious. One day, I warned G not to go near the burning leaves in her synthetic sari. She assured me that no harm would come to her, at least not from fire, she said, for she worshipped Hanuman. I didn’t see the connection, but questioning creature that I am, I’m detached from her thought-process. Each tenant-resident has a favourite god/dess. The day begins with devotional songs on different cellular phones, thank you FM radio. Later, as it (the day, not the radio-wave) progresses, the multi-purpose mobiles spew filmy songs simultaneously in at least five languages. No one minds the cacophony or noise pollution except me. Festivals mean more noise, litter and cheap goodies to eat. The Christian contractor and his Muslim supervisor pay for part of the celebrations of Devi/Ganesh poojas, so I’m told. If the Hindu lot in any reciprocates with the Id/Christmas festivities, I’m not aware. For G and gang, days of no-work and good food are fun, irrespective of which religion the holiday belongs to.

          I don’t know whether G’s son will fulfil her aspirations. She has ensured that her girls have been schooled so they will live a better life than hers. If the son clears any UPSC exam and gets through the rigorous training thereafter, he would know and understand the lives of such slum-dwellers more than anyone in my world. But if he doesn’t, I have no idea what he can/will fall back upon.

          G and gang comprise dhobhis, barbers, gardeners, who have seen certain skills in their growing years that their children will lose or have already lost. Tailoring institutes will flourish. So will cosmetology schools, horticulture courses, cooking and baking classes, etc.

          In another generation, the occupations of G and gang may still not be as coveted as those of astronomers/ neurosurgeons, but they will be a shortage-induced value attached to them.

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