When I called her up on Saturday, Maya Sharma wouldn't let me come see her. She didn't any other media person at her house asking uncomfortable questions and putting her in a spot. But then she agreed after I pleaded and assured it would only be for 10 minutes and that's all. Meeting and talking to grieving families has never been easy. In Utica, I wrote many obits and it was difficult each time I approached someone or picked up the phone and dialed a number. And it is terrible encroaching, invading their space and their dissecting the grief.
When we went to her place, Maya greeted us with a smile, then offered tea and showed us around the apartment. But then as they talked, they cried too, and it was painful going on scribbling in the notebook.
An edited version of this appeared in the Indian Express on March 1, 2009.
Mohan Chand Sharma's widow will teach in a school, says no politics for her
Chinki Sinha
Feb. 28, 2009
In the six months after Inspector Mohan Chand Sharma was killed in an encounter, life has gone on, inched forward perhaps for the family.
Maya Sharma, his widow, has taken up a job at a government school in Sector 3 in Dwarka near the family residence, and though the mother still cries at the mention of the son’s name, the family of five is coping with life and loss as best as it could.
Maya, who tries to smile often still can’t help the tears that begin to form in her eyes every now and then, choking her voice. She quickly recovers though. Yes, she was offered too many opportunities, including contesting elections in the upcoming Lok Sabha polls, but she wanted to be left alone, and be able to lead a normal life.
“No politics for me. I don’t even have any experience in politics. It is just not my thing,” she says, while she steals a glace at her husband’s picture.
As life begins to fall into routine, in some ways the residues of the past life when Mohan Chand Sharma was there are still dominant. It is impossible to break free, the family says.
The clothes – a neatly folded black shirt, a worn leather belt, and a pair of beige trousers – that Inspector Mohan Chand Sharma once used to wear still hang in his cupboard. The family hasn’t packed and tucked away the reminders. For them, those are important for them to go on. It’s never easy coming to terms with grief, particularly you’re your life centered around the man. Every morning, Maya asked him what he would like for breakfast, every once in while the mother cooked his
favorite halwa, and every night the father paced up and down in the balcony waiting for his son’s car.
“Yes, life has somewhat got back to routine. The job of a teacher is the best. That way I can take care of my ageing in-laws and children,” Maya says. “But it is not the same. When I look at the faces at the dining table, it strikes me.”
Maya had applied for the government school teacher’s job in January. Things were facilitated by Chief Minister Sheila Dikshit, who the family says has kept her promises. Maya joined the school Feb. 25.
The first day was overwhelming. Children, little ones, from the nearby slums, had brought flowers for her. They knew her and it was a consolation, and it helped her cope with the loss.
“That love was unconditional. Families are forgotten after officers die. But no, they have kept us in their hearts and we are grateful,” she says. “Even though I have lost him, his legacy is mine and it gives me the strength to go on.”
When it was called a fake encounter, Maya Sharma felt wronged. After all, a sacrifice is a sacrifice, she says.
Under the media spotlight, and the mounting pressure from politicians, many of who visited frequently and asked her to join politics, she had made a statement at the time that she might consider contesting elections when the time came.
“But that was under the pressure,” she says. “I love children. I want to do this. Opportunities are there but I don’t want to encash his sacrifice.”
Maya will have to undergo training and has been given a three-year window to clear her bachelor’s in education. She would teach Hindi, she says.
For now, she is meeting with children and getting to know the school. In her three days at the school, children have come up to her and requested her to teach them. And it is sweet of them to do that, she says. The family is still trying to get the government to grant Mohan Chand Sharma his due promotion. The files are somewhere, lost in the huge bureaucratic machinery, and that’s apathy.
“We are not greedy. But what is his, should be given to him without us asking for it,” father Narottam Sharma says.
A petrol pump too was on the list. But the family still hasn’t heard anything about it, he adds.
In his father’s room, Devyanshu is working on his laptop. He wants to become a police officer, just like his father, he says.
And the mother nor the grandmother interferes.
“It’s his choice,” they say.
Devendri Sharma, the mother, didn’t approve of it when Sharma wanted to join the police. She had been afraid. Even as a child he played with sticks and guns impersonating a police officer on duty.
“We didn’t know, we didn’t expect this,” Devendri says, and she cries openly.
At the time of his death, she had kept a brave front. She didn’t cry. But then you can’t hold the tears for too long. She has stopped cooking the halwa he loved because it brings back the memories, she says.
But memories are everywhere in the family’s flat. Sharma’s medals, and photos of him getting a gallantry award from President APJ Abdul Kalam, of him smiling in a silk kurta at a wedding ceremony, and of him hugging his daughter dot the walls of the family’s home.
And moving on hasn’t been quite easy. The family was dependent on him. As they prepare for the long road ahead, Maya Sharma is happy she got the job. It will keep her busy, she says. For parents, it is the grandchildren who are their hope.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Tibetan refugees in India boycott Losar (New Year's) celebrations
They caution me against getting emotionally attached to my stories. But I keep hitting the wall.
The Tibetan refugees had gathered at the famous protest street at Jantar Mantar to show solidarity with their people in Tibet who had boycotted the new year's festivities to protest against the Chinese crackdown against the monks, nuns and villagers in Lhasa last year in March.
The New York Times had carried a big report on the same today. For Tibetan refugees here, Losar means a time of celebrations and a way to forget their sad plight. In boycotting it, they were expressing their anguish.
In Delhi, they live a second-class life and most of them long to go back. Their lives are in a limbo and organizing such protests is their only way to keep the struggle alive.
An edited version of the story appeared in the Indian Express on Feb. 27.
Tibetan refugees in India forgo Loser, show solidarity with those in their country
Chinki Sinha
New Delhi, Feb. 26, 2009
A young man wrapped in the Tibetan flag shouted “Free Tibet", while an old woman holding the beads in her hands chanted with closed eyes at Jantar Mantar on Thursday. Not an unusual scene at the protest street but on Thursday it carried a special significance.
On the fringes of the protest at Jantar Mantar to express solidarity with the monks and Tibetans that are forgoing the New Year's celebrations that started Wednesday in their country, a monk, in his maroon robes, walked in circles, with folded hands, seemingly praying for those who died in the Lhasa uprising last year.
The Regional Tibetan Youth Congress had called for a boycott of Losar celebrations close on the heels of a similar unofficial protest in Tibet against the killings of the Tibetans in an uprising last year in March. A few weeks from now, it will be the 50th anniversary of a failed uprising in 1959 against the Chinese rule that also led to the Dalai Lama, the spiritual leader of the Tibetans, to flee to
neighboring India.
Dalai Lama has said celebrations would be “inappropriate.” On Tuesday, the eve of ar, Tibetans burnt the effigies of the Chinese officials including Hu Jintao instead of the demons as they would have normally done, a traditional practice to ward off the evil. Nothing short of that would have sufficed, they said.
Shutters of shops were downed in the markets in Tibetan communities and people flocked to Jantar Mantar to be part of the protest, climbing on to buses and in some cases even walking the distance. Not a single firecracker burst.
Nyima Woeser, 21, who wore the flag Tuesday, stood shouting slogans in the middle of the street.
“China has captured our country. We will not celebrate. We will fight,” he said, as he dropped his hands to show respect for the Tibetan national anthem.
And he was not the only one.
Gelak Sangpo, a young Tibetan, who has born in Bangalore and has never been to Tibet, has for long been involved with protests and rallies calling to end the Chinese occupation of Tibet. To him, nothing means more than returning to his country.
For years Losar meant a fun-filled time, an escape from the harsh realities of living a refugee life in Delhi. They would visit friends, family members, cook Indian dishes, add some Tibetan delicacies to the table and dress up in traditional clothes for three days, transported to a country that exists only in their imagination, conjured up through stories and folk tales handed down to them by mothers, grandmothers and community elders.
So, the dream has lived on.
But this year, Sangpo joined many from the community to forgo the celebrations. No firecrackers burnt, there were delicacies, and there were no new clothes. The mourning pervaded everything.
“It is a natural thing … the longing. And we stand by our brothers and sisters in Tibet who live a life of hardship and denial,” he said. “We want to show we are not celebrating, that we have not forgotten. This is to continue our struggle.”
Organizing the protest was also a means to keep the fire burning.
Often Sangpo has felt that Tibetans are losing their connection, caught up in the daily struggles as they are, and discouraged by the hardships.
It makes him sad, he said.
“This is a reminder to them that we will not let go,” he said.
Inside the tent, incense burned in front of a large photo of the Dalai Lama. Outside, young and old Tibetans from Majnu Ka Tila locality in North Delhi where most of the 5,000 Tibetan refugees in Delhi live, held flags and chanted mantras for the victims of the 2008 uprising.
Kalsang Sungrab, 39, came to India in 1993. As the vice president of RTYC, it was important to call for a similar boycott.
“A lot of people were killed,” he said. “How can we celebrate now?”
According to the Chinese government only 22 people had died in the Lhasa protests, but Tibetan rights advocates put the toll at a much higher number. As per the state media, 76 people have been sentenced for taking part in the demonstrations. More than 950 including villagers, monks and nuns were detained.
In Dharmsala, which is home to the Dalai Lama, new year’s was ushered in with morning prayers. But firecrackers and other festivities were absent.
The Tibetan refugees had gathered at the famous protest street at Jantar Mantar to show solidarity with their people in Tibet who had boycotted the new year's festivities to protest against the Chinese crackdown against the monks, nuns and villagers in Lhasa last year in March.
The New York Times had carried a big report on the same today. For Tibetan refugees here, Losar means a time of celebrations and a way to forget their sad plight. In boycotting it, they were expressing their anguish.
In Delhi, they live a second-class life and most of them long to go back. Their lives are in a limbo and organizing such protests is their only way to keep the struggle alive.
An edited version of the story appeared in the Indian Express on Feb. 27.
Tibetan refugees in India forgo Loser, show solidarity with those in their country
Chinki Sinha
New Delhi, Feb. 26, 2009
A young man wrapped in the Tibetan flag shouted “Free Tibet", while an old woman holding the beads in her hands chanted with closed eyes at Jantar Mantar on Thursday. Not an unusual scene at the protest street but on Thursday it carried a special significance.
On the fringes of the protest at Jantar Mantar to express solidarity with the monks and Tibetans that are forgoing the New Year's celebrations that started Wednesday in their country, a monk, in his maroon robes, walked in circles, with folded hands, seemingly praying for those who died in the Lhasa uprising last year.
The Regional Tibetan Youth Congress had called for a boycott of Losar celebrations close on the heels of a similar unofficial protest in Tibet against the killings of the Tibetans in an uprising last year in March. A few weeks from now, it will be the 50th anniversary of a failed uprising in 1959 against the Chinese rule that also led to the Dalai Lama, the spiritual leader of the Tibetans, to flee to
neighboring India.
Dalai Lama has said celebrations would be “inappropriate.” On Tuesday, the eve of ar, Tibetans burnt the effigies of the Chinese officials including Hu Jintao instead of the demons as they would have normally done, a traditional practice to ward off the evil. Nothing short of that would have sufficed, they said.
Shutters of shops were downed in the markets in Tibetan communities and people flocked to Jantar Mantar to be part of the protest, climbing on to buses and in some cases even walking the distance. Not a single firecracker burst.
Nyima Woeser, 21, who wore the flag Tuesday, stood shouting slogans in the middle of the street.
“China has captured our country. We will not celebrate. We will fight,” he said, as he dropped his hands to show respect for the Tibetan national anthem.
And he was not the only one.
Gelak Sangpo, a young Tibetan, who has born in Bangalore and has never been to Tibet, has for long been involved with protests and rallies calling to end the Chinese occupation of Tibet. To him, nothing means more than returning to his country.
For years Losar meant a fun-filled time, an escape from the harsh realities of living a refugee life in Delhi. They would visit friends, family members, cook Indian dishes, add some Tibetan delicacies to the table and dress up in traditional clothes for three days, transported to a country that exists only in their imagination, conjured up through stories and folk tales handed down to them by mothers, grandmothers and community elders.
So, the dream has lived on.
But this year, Sangpo joined many from the community to forgo the celebrations. No firecrackers burnt, there were delicacies, and there were no new clothes. The mourning pervaded everything.
“It is a natural thing … the longing. And we stand by our brothers and sisters in Tibet who live a life of hardship and denial,” he said. “We want to show we are not celebrating, that we have not forgotten. This is to continue our struggle.”
Organizing the protest was also a means to keep the fire burning.
Often Sangpo has felt that Tibetans are losing their connection, caught up in the daily struggles as they are, and discouraged by the hardships.
It makes him sad, he said.
“This is a reminder to them that we will not let go,” he said.
Inside the tent, incense burned in front of a large photo of the Dalai Lama. Outside, young and old Tibetans from Majnu Ka Tila locality in North Delhi where most of the 5,000 Tibetan refugees in Delhi live, held flags and chanted mantras for the victims of the 2008 uprising.
Kalsang Sungrab, 39, came to India in 1993. As the vice president of RTYC, it was important to call for a similar boycott.
“A lot of people were killed,” he said. “How can we celebrate now?”
According to the Chinese government only 22 people had died in the Lhasa protests, but Tibetan rights advocates put the toll at a much higher number. As per the state media, 76 people have been sentenced for taking part in the demonstrations. More than 950 including villagers, monks and nuns were detained.
In Dharmsala, which is home to the Dalai Lama, new year’s was ushered in with morning prayers. But firecrackers and other festivities were absent.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
India Islamic Cultural Center
An edited version appeared in the Indian Express on Feb. 25. But I feel it missed some of the emotions in the way it was written originally.
Chinki Sinha
New Delhi, Feb. 19, 2009
With its bright turquoise dome built with uneven tiles donated by the
Iranian government and Koranic verses inscribed on them, and a stone
exterior, the India Islamic Culture Center has turned more than a few
heads.
On Lodhi Road, the dome perched on a square building certainly stands
out among the other buildings, restaurants and government centers, and
rightfully so, the members say.
"It is exquisite. It is one of its kind," Atif Wajhi, one of the
managers at the center, said.
When he moves his hands over the green and golden leaves on the inlay
work, you could tell Wajhi is too proud of the intricate carving done
by Persian craftsmen that came from Iran.
"You see, there is no other building like this here. It is unique and
it's not just a structure, it means much more for the community," he
said.
From the foyer, the blue, yellow and red of the dome lend it an
ethereal look. The history of the building, which was inaugurated in
2006, goes way back to 1980 when the then Prime Minister Indira
Gandhi donated the land to a group of Muslim elites who wanted to
build an Islamic center to dispel myths about the religion. That year
even marked the 1400th year of Prophet Muhammad's life on earth and
the group wanted to construct a structure to commemorate him.
And even though it would be an Islamic center, the group wanted it to
be open to other religions and have a secular tone. But the plans got
mired in red tapism and bureaucratic labyrinth and for the longest
time. The land, about 2.5 acres, housed two old government buildings
that sometimes served as a temporary housing arrangement for Muslim
students who had come to the city either for taking examinations or to
study.
It was only much later, in 2003 that Sirajudin Querishi, the president
of the Islamic center, offered to help build the building that would
be a landmark in the area. The association had 600 members at the
time.
In January, 2004, Querishi was elected the president and things began
to move forward. After paying off the liability of Rs. 84 lakhs,
Querishi started raising funds for construction of the building.
Several eminent persons donated money. Some states too contributed.
And within 15 months, the building was ready.
And it wasn't without its own set of struggles. The group hit a
roadblock when it came to procuring bank loans and finally got a
co-operative bank, the Bombay Mercantile Co-operative Bank, to advance
a loan. And two years of being functional, around Rs. 2.63 crores of
the Rs. 4 crore loan has been paid off, Wadood Sajid, the media
advisor at the center said.
So after almost two-and-a-half decades, the building finally came into being.
But talk to the members and they'd tell you that Rome was not built in a day.
Now the center has more than 2009 members. The lifetime membership
charge of Rs. 30,000 is reasonable and doesn't act as a barrier for
the middle classes to be part of the center, Sajid said.
About 20 percent of the members are Hindus.
Dinesh Madan joined it a couple of years ago when his friends
recommended the center. A businessman, Madan said he never felt
discriminated against at the center.
"I have not felt anything against me," he said. "It is a good meeting
point for all cultures and will lead us to accept each other. The
people on the forefront are highly educated and have foresight."
But a few members said the committee should have representation from
different religions as well. The 12-member committee is an all Muslim
body.
But Sajid said no Hindus came forward to contest elections that were
held earlier this year.
However, in the long run, members anticipate that the center would be
able to promote understanding between communities in an age where acts
of terrorism have pitched them in a battle against each other.
"We always wanted the building to have a non-political and secular
character. We have done many programs here. We talk about Indian Islam
here because as Indians, we have a common culture," Sajid said.
And not just being a confluence of cultures that celebrates Diwali and
Eid and Christmas, the center has assumed an active role in dispelling
stereotypes about Islam, particularly in the wake of recent terror
attacks and the negative branding of the community.
"We are against terrorism," Sajid said. "And we have asked the
government to find out why suicide bombers kill themselves. We haven't
delved deep into that."
Even after the Mumbai attacks, the center asked the government to form
an independent panel to investigate the attacks, Sajid said.
Perhaps in the future, it will play a much bigger role. Already,
expansion plans are underway. With a restaurant, a coffee shop, an
auditorium, and conference rooms, the center has become a known venue
for conferences and symposiums.
It also has several programs for the low-income groups including free
coaching for aspirants appearing for civil services exams.
"This is the first institution in free India to get Muslims out of the
ghetto image," Sajid said. "And it needs to be there."
Chinki Sinha
New Delhi, Feb. 19, 2009
With its bright turquoise dome built with uneven tiles donated by the
Iranian government and Koranic verses inscribed on them, and a stone
exterior, the India Islamic Culture Center has turned more than a few
heads.
On Lodhi Road, the dome perched on a square building certainly stands
out among the other buildings, restaurants and government centers, and
rightfully so, the members say.
"It is exquisite. It is one of its kind," Atif Wajhi, one of the
managers at the center, said.
When he moves his hands over the green and golden leaves on the inlay
work, you could tell Wajhi is too proud of the intricate carving done
by Persian craftsmen that came from Iran.
"You see, there is no other building like this here. It is unique and
it's not just a structure, it means much more for the community," he
said.
From the foyer, the blue, yellow and red of the dome lend it an
ethereal look. The history of the building, which was inaugurated in
2006, goes way back to 1980 when the then Prime Minister Indira
Gandhi donated the land to a group of Muslim elites who wanted to
build an Islamic center to dispel myths about the religion. That year
even marked the 1400th year of Prophet Muhammad's life on earth and
the group wanted to construct a structure to commemorate him.
And even though it would be an Islamic center, the group wanted it to
be open to other religions and have a secular tone. But the plans got
mired in red tapism and bureaucratic labyrinth and for the longest
time. The land, about 2.5 acres, housed two old government buildings
that sometimes served as a temporary housing arrangement for Muslim
students who had come to the city either for taking examinations or to
study.
It was only much later, in 2003 that Sirajudin Querishi, the president
of the Islamic center, offered to help build the building that would
be a landmark in the area. The association had 600 members at the
time.
In January, 2004, Querishi was elected the president and things began
to move forward. After paying off the liability of Rs. 84 lakhs,
Querishi started raising funds for construction of the building.
Several eminent persons donated money. Some states too contributed.
And within 15 months, the building was ready.
And it wasn't without its own set of struggles. The group hit a
roadblock when it came to procuring bank loans and finally got a
co-operative bank, the Bombay Mercantile Co-operative Bank, to advance
a loan. And two years of being functional, around Rs. 2.63 crores of
the Rs. 4 crore loan has been paid off, Wadood Sajid, the media
advisor at the center said.
So after almost two-and-a-half decades, the building finally came into being.
But talk to the members and they'd tell you that Rome was not built in a day.
Now the center has more than 2009 members. The lifetime membership
charge of Rs. 30,000 is reasonable and doesn't act as a barrier for
the middle classes to be part of the center, Sajid said.
About 20 percent of the members are Hindus.
Dinesh Madan joined it a couple of years ago when his friends
recommended the center. A businessman, Madan said he never felt
discriminated against at the center.
"I have not felt anything against me," he said. "It is a good meeting
point for all cultures and will lead us to accept each other. The
people on the forefront are highly educated and have foresight."
But a few members said the committee should have representation from
different religions as well. The 12-member committee is an all Muslim
body.
But Sajid said no Hindus came forward to contest elections that were
held earlier this year.
However, in the long run, members anticipate that the center would be
able to promote understanding between communities in an age where acts
of terrorism have pitched them in a battle against each other.
"We always wanted the building to have a non-political and secular
character. We have done many programs here. We talk about Indian Islam
here because as Indians, we have a common culture," Sajid said.
And not just being a confluence of cultures that celebrates Diwali and
Eid and Christmas, the center has assumed an active role in dispelling
stereotypes about Islam, particularly in the wake of recent terror
attacks and the negative branding of the community.
"We are against terrorism," Sajid said. "And we have asked the
government to find out why suicide bombers kill themselves. We haven't
delved deep into that."
Even after the Mumbai attacks, the center asked the government to form
an independent panel to investigate the attacks, Sajid said.
Perhaps in the future, it will play a much bigger role. Already,
expansion plans are underway. With a restaurant, a coffee shop, an
auditorium, and conference rooms, the center has become a known venue
for conferences and symposiums.
It also has several programs for the low-income groups including free
coaching for aspirants appearing for civil services exams.
"This is the first institution in free India to get Muslims out of the
ghetto image," Sajid said. "And it needs to be there."
Gandhi's second coming
I bumped into Ram Ballam by mistake. I had gone to the protest street for another story when someone joked about Gandhi ji sitting across the road. I spent an hour with Ballam, had chai with him and then left promising to come back to know more. But I didn't go back. This was culled out from the conversations we had that afternoon. An edited version of this appeared in the Indian Express on Feb. 25.
Chinki Sinha
Feb. 24, 2009
Call it Gandhi’s second coming or dismiss it as a delusional man’s
ramblings but you have to give Raj Ballam a patient hearing. He demands it.
Sitting against a wall from the across the Jantar Mantar observatory,
Ballam, who hails from Chapra in Bihar, is a far cry from what Gandhi
ever looked like. He has thick, cropped hair, he is healthy and
dresses in trousers and a shirt, albeit soiled and stained. But
Ballam, 41, will tell you that he is Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi’s
reincarnation and the Mahatama didn’t shave his head when he was a
young lawyer in South Africa or take to wearing the loin cloth in his
early days. So, give him time, and give him his right to sit on
Gandhi’s Samadhi on Rajghat and everything else will fall in place,
Ballam says.
For now, the man who ran away from home at a young age because he
thought his parents wouldn’t believe his claims of being the Mahatma’s
second birth, is sitting on a dharna at the protest street asking for
an enquiry into his alleged reincarnation. He also wants the
government to investigate the cases of torture when he was in jail for
several years, allegedly after he tried to sit on Gadhi’s Samadhi. He
says he was injected with morphine and then pronounced “delusional.”
A high court order from 2003 says he is “under delusion.”
But after he was out on the streets again, he lingered around the
Samadhi because it was there that he felt inspired, it was there that
he could see his previous life in flashes, and it was there that he
found peace.
“It is mine. And remember Gandhi said that ‘I will come again’,”
Ballam says. “I want to show them what he said was true.”
But he was kicked out. And then, he came to the protest street, armed
with papers, petitions and a resolve. And he won’t budge until they
declare him the owner of the samadhi.
“I am the king. I will think about everyone,” he says.
Ask him what he wants eventually and he would tell you “peace” for all.
For a laborer who dropped out of school at a young age, he argues that
his knowledge about Gandhi is not from textbooks. It’s through the
visions, the recurrent dreams, and the voices in his head that told
him he was the chosen one and he is here to finish what the Mahtama
couldn’t because Nathuram Godse killed him. But then, Ballam has
forgiven Godse too, he says.
“He was just misguided,” he says, with a smile. “I know I was killed
in my last birth. But I am here now.”
A poster with red type proclaiming Ballam as the king of the Indian
subcontinent hangs on the wall. He made it himself.
On the protest street, he is known as “Gandhi ji”. Fellow protestors
joke around, tease him and take chai breaks with
him. Ballam doesn’t mind. Only when they ask about Kasturba Gandhi,
does he turn red.
“I will find her in due time,” he says.
He was married once and had a child too. But he separated from his
wife because he had a mission and she wouldn’t have understood
anyways, he says.
For now, he is among the fraternity of the protesters. At least here
on this street, they call him Gandhi. And even though they might not
mean it, Ballam is happy.
“They see it,” he says. “And everyone else will see it too.”
Chinki Sinha
Feb. 24, 2009
Call it Gandhi’s second coming or dismiss it as a delusional man’s
ramblings but you have to give Raj Ballam a patient hearing. He demands it.
Sitting against a wall from the across the Jantar Mantar observatory,
Ballam, who hails from Chapra in Bihar, is a far cry from what Gandhi
ever looked like. He has thick, cropped hair, he is healthy and
dresses in trousers and a shirt, albeit soiled and stained. But
Ballam, 41, will tell you that he is Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi’s
reincarnation and the Mahatama didn’t shave his head when he was a
young lawyer in South Africa or take to wearing the loin cloth in his
early days. So, give him time, and give him his right to sit on
Gandhi’s Samadhi on Rajghat and everything else will fall in place,
Ballam says.
For now, the man who ran away from home at a young age because he
thought his parents wouldn’t believe his claims of being the Mahatma’s
second birth, is sitting on a dharna at the protest street asking for
an enquiry into his alleged reincarnation. He also wants the
government to investigate the cases of torture when he was in jail for
several years, allegedly after he tried to sit on Gadhi’s Samadhi. He
says he was injected with morphine and then pronounced “delusional.”
A high court order from 2003 says he is “under delusion.”
But after he was out on the streets again, he lingered around the
Samadhi because it was there that he felt inspired, it was there that
he could see his previous life in flashes, and it was there that he
found peace.
“It is mine. And remember Gandhi said that ‘I will come again’,”
Ballam says. “I want to show them what he said was true.”
But he was kicked out. And then, he came to the protest street, armed
with papers, petitions and a resolve. And he won’t budge until they
declare him the owner of the samadhi.
“I am the king. I will think about everyone,” he says.
Ask him what he wants eventually and he would tell you “peace” for all.
For a laborer who dropped out of school at a young age, he argues that
his knowledge about Gandhi is not from textbooks. It’s through the
visions, the recurrent dreams, and the voices in his head that told
him he was the chosen one and he is here to finish what the Mahtama
couldn’t because Nathuram Godse killed him. But then, Ballam has
forgiven Godse too, he says.
“He was just misguided,” he says, with a smile. “I know I was killed
in my last birth. But I am here now.”
A poster with red type proclaiming Ballam as the king of the Indian
subcontinent hangs on the wall. He made it himself.
On the protest street, he is known as “Gandhi ji”. Fellow protestors
joke around, tease him and take chai breaks with
him. Ballam doesn’t mind. Only when they ask about Kasturba Gandhi,
does he turn red.
“I will find her in due time,” he says.
He was married once and had a child too. But he separated from his
wife because he had a mission and she wouldn’t have understood
anyways, he says.
For now, he is among the fraternity of the protesters. At least here
on this street, they call him Gandhi. And even though they might not
mean it, Ballam is happy.
“They see it,” he says. “And everyone else will see it too.”
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Ordination of the new bishop - Rev. Franco Mulakkal assumes auxiliary bishop's role
I did this as an assignment for the Indian Express but the story never made it into the paper.
Chinki Sinha
New Delhi, Feb. 21, 2009
In the sprawling lawns of St. Columba's School on Saturday, 24
bishops and archbishops laid their hands on Rev. Franco Mulakkal's
head in an ancient ritual steeped in symbolism and complete with
prayers, sacred oil and dancing as well.
Franco, 44, who hails from Kerela, was ordained as an auxiliary bishop
for the Delhi Archdiocese. His new role will entail assisting
Archbishop Vincent M. Concessao in his task.
As the Adivasi dancers, resplendent in their purple saris, led a group
of men and women carrying the symbols of faith – the brick, the chaff,
the pigeon and so on – Rev. Franco smiled as he accepted his new role.
About 6,000 people, including numerous priests and nuns from all over
northern India, attended the biligual ceremoney, with lively Adivasi
folk music. For the chuch members, the event itself was reflective of
the diversity of the city.
"We have a heterogencous community. Many of the church members are
Adivasis from tribal areas in Bihar and Jharkhand," Fr. Stanley, a
church official, said.
For Sr. Leona, who stood at the gate in the scorching sun, it was big
day for the parishioners.
"This day we accept him as an officer. He is our shepherd and he will
lead us, guide us," she said, her eyes fixed on the stage, taking in
every moment of the ceremoney.
After all, the ceremony was happening after almost a decade. Franco
was stationed in Jalandhar before he was appointed by Pope Benedict
XVI as the auxiliary bishop in January.
Rev. Franco was born on March 25, 1964, and was ordained priest for
the Diocese of Jalandhar in 1990. He had been serving as the treasurer
of the Apostolic Union of the Clergy, Rome, at the time of his
appointment as bishop.
The Delhi Archdiocese has more than 60 churches under it and includes
seven districts of Haryana. It has more than one lakh members.
Many dignitaries attended the ceremony including Chief Minister Sheila Dikshit.
In the ceremony, which ran for more than three hours, the high point
was when Rev. Franco prostrated himslef on the floor and then rose
symbolzing the death of his former life and his new birth into a
priestly service.
He then put on his sacred vestments and took over the chalice and paten.
"He is becoming the head of the church," Fr. Stanley said. "This is a
big thing."
Rev. Franco is also the first Kerelaite to become a bishop in Delhi.
For mother and daughter duo, Jessy Joy and Josely Yeshudas, this was
the moment of pride. Both hail from Kerela and Rev. Franco's
appointment meant a lot to them.
Joy bought a nw sari to wear on the occasion too.
"We did special preparation to come and attend the event. This is the
day for us. We have known him and he is a very kind man," Joy said.
The ceremony concluded with an inter-religious prayer service – a
longstanding tradition at the church - where Swami Shantatamananda of
Sri RamaKrishna Mission, Giani Shivteg Singh from the Sikh community,
and Maulana Abdul Hameed Nomani of Jamiat Ulema E Hind asked for
blessings for the new bishop.
"They are part of us too. We live in one world," Fr. Dominick Emmanuel said.
Rev. Franco, who has been a consultor on the Pontifical Commission for
Inter-religious dialogue in rome, hopes to work more extensively in
reaching out to other communities and building a relationship.
Sr. Leona couldn't be happier. In times such as ours, she said, that's
a paramount task.
"There's so much violence. Look at Orissa, look at Kerela. That's the
need of the hour and he has taken up to do it," she said.
The symbols
Placing of the Book of Gospels on Rev. Franco's head symbolizes his
call and mission to preach the Gospel.
Rev. Franco also received a ring, mitre and crosier.
The ring that resembles a wedding ring symbolizes his fidelity to the
church. It is worn on his right ring finger and must be worn at all
times.
The mitre, or the hat, is the symbol of authority.
The crosier or the staff is a symbol of the bishop's responsibility as
a shepherd of the diocese.
Rev. Franco chose his motto as "So that in everything God may be glorified."
Chinki Sinha
New Delhi, Feb. 21, 2009
In the sprawling lawns of St. Columba's School on Saturday, 24
bishops and archbishops laid their hands on Rev. Franco Mulakkal's
head in an ancient ritual steeped in symbolism and complete with
prayers, sacred oil and dancing as well.
Franco, 44, who hails from Kerela, was ordained as an auxiliary bishop
for the Delhi Archdiocese. His new role will entail assisting
Archbishop Vincent M. Concessao in his task.
As the Adivasi dancers, resplendent in their purple saris, led a group
of men and women carrying the symbols of faith – the brick, the chaff,
the pigeon and so on – Rev. Franco smiled as he accepted his new role.
About 6,000 people, including numerous priests and nuns from all over
northern India, attended the biligual ceremoney, with lively Adivasi
folk music. For the chuch members, the event itself was reflective of
the diversity of the city.
"We have a heterogencous community. Many of the church members are
Adivasis from tribal areas in Bihar and Jharkhand," Fr. Stanley, a
church official, said.
For Sr. Leona, who stood at the gate in the scorching sun, it was big
day for the parishioners.
"This day we accept him as an officer. He is our shepherd and he will
lead us, guide us," she said, her eyes fixed on the stage, taking in
every moment of the ceremoney.
After all, the ceremony was happening after almost a decade. Franco
was stationed in Jalandhar before he was appointed by Pope Benedict
XVI as the auxiliary bishop in January.
Rev. Franco was born on March 25, 1964, and was ordained priest for
the Diocese of Jalandhar in 1990. He had been serving as the treasurer
of the Apostolic Union of the Clergy, Rome, at the time of his
appointment as bishop.
The Delhi Archdiocese has more than 60 churches under it and includes
seven districts of Haryana. It has more than one lakh members.
Many dignitaries attended the ceremony including Chief Minister Sheila Dikshit.
In the ceremony, which ran for more than three hours, the high point
was when Rev. Franco prostrated himslef on the floor and then rose
symbolzing the death of his former life and his new birth into a
priestly service.
He then put on his sacred vestments and took over the chalice and paten.
"He is becoming the head of the church," Fr. Stanley said. "This is a
big thing."
Rev. Franco is also the first Kerelaite to become a bishop in Delhi.
For mother and daughter duo, Jessy Joy and Josely Yeshudas, this was
the moment of pride. Both hail from Kerela and Rev. Franco's
appointment meant a lot to them.
Joy bought a nw sari to wear on the occasion too.
"We did special preparation to come and attend the event. This is the
day for us. We have known him and he is a very kind man," Joy said.
The ceremony concluded with an inter-religious prayer service – a
longstanding tradition at the church - where Swami Shantatamananda of
Sri RamaKrishna Mission, Giani Shivteg Singh from the Sikh community,
and Maulana Abdul Hameed Nomani of Jamiat Ulema E Hind asked for
blessings for the new bishop.
"They are part of us too. We live in one world," Fr. Dominick Emmanuel said.
Rev. Franco, who has been a consultor on the Pontifical Commission for
Inter-religious dialogue in rome, hopes to work more extensively in
reaching out to other communities and building a relationship.
Sr. Leona couldn't be happier. In times such as ours, she said, that's
a paramount task.
"There's so much violence. Look at Orissa, look at Kerela. That's the
need of the hour and he has taken up to do it," she said.
The symbols
Placing of the Book of Gospels on Rev. Franco's head symbolizes his
call and mission to preach the Gospel.
Rev. Franco also received a ring, mitre and crosier.
The ring that resembles a wedding ring symbolizes his fidelity to the
church. It is worn on his right ring finger and must be worn at all
times.
The mitre, or the hat, is the symbol of authority.
The crosier or the staff is a symbol of the bishop's responsibility as
a shepherd of the diocese.
Rev. Franco chose his motto as "So that in everything God may be glorified."
Thursday, February 05, 2009
My broken-tooth dream
Yes, I lost it in some old mansion and I was looking for it on the steps, in the grass, asking the women who had assembled there, going all frantic in my search for the broken tooth. The ugly, brownish tooth fell out while I was scrambling up the stairs to see the qawalli. I wanted to get it fixed. I didn’t want to lose it, lose the hope. I was crippled, and yes, nervous too.
I had felt it loosen up when I was brushing that morning and I panicked when I felt it with my tongue. Yes, I could taste the blood too. No, the doctors could not fix it. I could pull it out myself and end the agony, the hopelessness and look for alternatives. I asked my mother and she said my father had artificial ones. Yes, I could get those. But then, what if all my other teeth fell out too. What would I do. Will there be more deaths, more regrets? Was I dying, was I suffering from some unspeakable disease and was it cancer. I had shrunk too. My skin too was shrivelled.
And then suddenly, the broken tooth fell out and hid somewhere. Only if could find it. The blood hardened in my mouth, it tasted sour and I could feel the raw flesh where the tooth once had been.
Yes, it was all in the dream where I woke up many times in the night, the twilight moments enhancing the taste of blood, the sweat mixed with fear and I lay half-awake trying to dismiss the dream and forcing myself to revisit good, happy times. But no, it won’t let me.
As I wait for the news of death in the family, I can still feel the raw flesh in my mouth. I sit, suspended in time and place, indecisive as always. I keep the phone in my pocket as I gulp down cups of strong tea. It makes me jittery, nervous and I feel guilty, ashamed. If I don’t meet her, don’t see her, how will I ever be at peace with myself. No, she can’t, shouldn’t die without me by her side, whispering how maybe I was wrong. It is the unfinished business of life that disturbs me.
The phone rang in the morning. It was my aunt, crying, sobbing. She was leaving for Patna to be with her. So was the broken-tooth dream a signal, a symbol, a flash of what is to come.
And i ransack my mind for clues, for reassurances. But none. Long ago, I had dreamt of my grandmother rising from her deathbed, my aunt unfolding the mattress for her, and she drinking water. She looked tired and I was just sitting, the battered cane chair squeaking. The silence was murderous. It always is. And then came the news of death the next morning.
And now this another dream. And I google the meaning of it. And yes, it is coming.
And I wait, nervous as hell. No, I won’t call.
I had felt it loosen up when I was brushing that morning and I panicked when I felt it with my tongue. Yes, I could taste the blood too. No, the doctors could not fix it. I could pull it out myself and end the agony, the hopelessness and look for alternatives. I asked my mother and she said my father had artificial ones. Yes, I could get those. But then, what if all my other teeth fell out too. What would I do. Will there be more deaths, more regrets? Was I dying, was I suffering from some unspeakable disease and was it cancer. I had shrunk too. My skin too was shrivelled.
And then suddenly, the broken tooth fell out and hid somewhere. Only if could find it. The blood hardened in my mouth, it tasted sour and I could feel the raw flesh where the tooth once had been.
Yes, it was all in the dream where I woke up many times in the night, the twilight moments enhancing the taste of blood, the sweat mixed with fear and I lay half-awake trying to dismiss the dream and forcing myself to revisit good, happy times. But no, it won’t let me.
As I wait for the news of death in the family, I can still feel the raw flesh in my mouth. I sit, suspended in time and place, indecisive as always. I keep the phone in my pocket as I gulp down cups of strong tea. It makes me jittery, nervous and I feel guilty, ashamed. If I don’t meet her, don’t see her, how will I ever be at peace with myself. No, she can’t, shouldn’t die without me by her side, whispering how maybe I was wrong. It is the unfinished business of life that disturbs me.
The phone rang in the morning. It was my aunt, crying, sobbing. She was leaving for Patna to be with her. So was the broken-tooth dream a signal, a symbol, a flash of what is to come.
And i ransack my mind for clues, for reassurances. But none. Long ago, I had dreamt of my grandmother rising from her deathbed, my aunt unfolding the mattress for her, and she drinking water. She looked tired and I was just sitting, the battered cane chair squeaking. The silence was murderous. It always is. And then came the news of death the next morning.
And now this another dream. And I google the meaning of it. And yes, it is coming.
And I wait, nervous as hell. No, I won’t call.
Sunday, February 01, 2009
Return Ticket - a tale of reverse migration for poor
I was asked to profile workers who were returning home from Delhi. When I reached the station, the Jan Sadharan Express from New Delhi to Patna was about to leave, packed with many who had lost minimum wages jobs in the city and were leaving for their villages. Those were the faces, creased and wrinkled, that had been through the bad times but this was the worst. Not many were sure what they would do back home, whether they could survive even. In the villages, of course there are no jobs. Recession, as in this case also, has hit the poor the most.
Indian Express
Return ticket
http://www.indianexpress.com/news/return-ticket/417541/
Posted online: Feb 01, 2009 at 2327 hrs
Ludhiana
‘I’m not sure if I’ll come back this time’
As the crowd on Platform Number 1 of the Ludhiana railway station turns into a crush, Ravinder Pandey, his wife and their two children get into a tighter huddle. It is a cold morning so they don’t mind snuggling up but Pandey nervously watches over his possessions—a table fan, a small sun-mica table, an iron trunk and a bundle of clothes. They have a long journey ahead and Pandey knows it will be a difficult one. After 13 years at a hosiery factory in Ludhiana, he just lost his job and is going home to his village in Azamgarh, Uttar Pradesh, with all that he ever owned—or earned.
“We’ve had tough times earlier too, but this time I’m not sure if I’ll ever come back,” he says. Pandey had to pull his children out of school and with that, all the dreams he had for them were cut short. Despite the gloom, Pandey is counting his luck—he has a patch of land back home and plans to take up farming. “Most people I know (who have lost jobs) don’t even have that. But I don’t know if my family can survive off that land,” he says.
Ludhiana’s steam-press factories, hosiery mills, automobile centres, embroidery workshops and woolen apparel companies employ around three lakh migrant labourers from Bihar, Uttar Pradesh and other states. The economic slump, falling export orders, a weak winter and frequent power cuts have driven many of these migrants out of their jobs. Trains to Uttar Pradesh, Bihar and Madhya Pradesh are packed with people who are headed home.
As the public announcement system at the station declares the schedules for Howrah Mail, Jansewa Express and Kisan Express, hundreds of people pile in—men, women and children, with their unrealised ambitions stuffed into ragtag bundles.
“Madamji, jab kaam hi nahi hai, to logon ka kya karenge company wale,” says Ram Salat. Salat worked with a steel rolling mill for 10 years but was laid off along with three of his friends—all of them from a village in Ghazipur, UP—and now they are all on their way back. “These are tough times. I am not even sure if we will find work back home,” he says.
Before the tough times set in, many of these men had hoped to make the city their home. Vinod Tewari says he had to report for work at his factory, Gupta Automobiles, at 8 a.m. every day but had no work to do. He is now going back to Patna with 12 of his colleagues—all unsure about their jobs. “No orders, no power, everything is packed up. We were even willing to take pay cuts, but there is no work,” he says.
But Tewari prays the bad times won’t last too long and has locked up his room here in the hope that he will come back. “But I will have to pay the rent, I don’t know how...,” Tewari says, his voice drowned by the shrill whistle of the train as it announces its departure.
– Parul Khanna
Patna
‘I hope someone in my village employs me to work on their farm’
The 30-hour journey from Mumbai to Patna has left Mohammed Asgar tired. He now has another train to catch—to Katihar district, and then, he will be on a bus to his Ajamnagar village. In a few hours, he will be with his wife and children. But as Asgar sits clutching his rexin bag, he doesn’t look like a man who is waiting to get home. He has lost his job in Mumbai and has to break the news to his family.
“The last six months have been tough. I used to get Rs 110 a day for cutting iron rods. Now that the construction business is down, I don’t get work every day,” says the 28-year-old.
Asgar had planned to take his wife, son and daughter to Mumbai but now his dream lay shattered. “I hope someone in my village employs me to work on their farm or that I get some job in Patna,” he says.
Asgar says several of his friends have come home from Delhi, Mumbai, Ludhiana and Surat and have started looking for jobs here. “A friend of mine has started a small provision store in his village. He was earning Rs 100 a day in Surat but lost his job,” says Asgar.
About half a dozen trains from Mumbai, Delhi and other cities pull into Patna station every day, all packed with people coming home. But strangely, they all seem hopeful. At its worst hour, the economic slump seems to have played the role of a leveller—suddenly, Bihar, it seems, is holding out hope.
Rajesh Kumar, who got off the Jansadharan Express from New Delhi, is a mason who now hopes to work in his hometown Nawada or in Patna. “I used to get Rs 200 for a day’s work in Delhi. Even if I get Rs 170 here, I will be happy. With all the construction work in Patna, I hear this city is good for masons,” says Kumar.
As per a rough estimate, Patna’s realty sector employs over one lakh people. Over 5,000 apartments have come up in Patna in the last three years.
Bihar Deputy Chief Minister Sushil Kumar Modi says, “Growing employment opportunities in the state through road projects and welfare schemes have either helped young people to stay back in Bihar or have caused reverse migration.”
According to a study by the Overseas Development Institute, a UK-based organisation, over 30 lakh people from Bihar live outside the state. However, there has been no study on reverse migration.
– Santosh Singh
New Delhi
‘Don’t ask me about the future. I have none’
Dhirendra Kumar is going home, but he knows it isn’t going to be easy. In 24 hours, he would meet his wife and children in his native town of Darbhanga in Bihar, and he would have to tell them he had no job and that difficult times were here. So far, he has kept the news from his family. “I am ashamed and I don’t know what to tell them,” Kumar says as he waits for the train at the New Delhi Railway Station.
Six months ago, when Kumar came to Delhi, like thousands of other migrant workers, he hoped for a better life for himself and his family. In a mega city that is undergoing an infrastructural makeover, there would be no dearth of jobs, he thought. He came with modest skills but with a motivation that the hard life of the city couldn’t suppress. But then came the slowdown, and everything changed. Thousands of migrant workers in the manufacturing sector have been affected by the economic slump and factory closures across industries have forced them to return home. On January 6, when Kumar’s employers told him they didn’t need him anymore as their little factory unit at Mongolpuri—where he worked as an electrician—was closing down, he was shattered. For a couple of weeks, Kumar roamed about the city, tools in hand, trying to find another contractual job. But there was none. So on January 21, Kumar, unshaven and tired, bought a general class ticket to Patna, from where he would take a bus to Darbhanga. He wanted to buy some toys for his children and something for his wife but he had no money left. “I wasn’t able to save much. My wages were a little higher than the minimum and now I have lost my job,” he says. “I don’t know what I will do. Maybe I’ll take up farming or something.”
For Kumar and his family, joblessness will possibly mean living below the poverty line. As the jobs dry up, the trains swell. Trains to Bihar, West Bengal and Uttar Pradesh are leaving packed as workers like Kumar are heading back home. For two years, Dharamnath Gupta worked 14-hour shifts at a bottling unit in Gurgaon. And out of the meagre wages he earned working overtime, he managed to send money to his family in Ara, Bihar. At Rs 80 a day, the job didn’t leave him with much savings—or hope. But he knew that back home in Ara, life was worse.
Gupta was laid off on January 15 without notice. Sitting in the Jan Sadharan Express, where a ticket to Patna cost only Rs 188, Gupta looks dejected. With an ailing father and three children to provide for, the job loss was a big blow. He had not wanted to leave for home. But a near-starvation situation had left him with no option. “And now I am going back with empty pockets,” Gupta says. “Don’t even ask me about the future now. I have none.” For a couple of days after he lost his job, Gupta tried in vain to find another. Four days later, with little money in hand, he took a bus to the New Delhi Railway Station and reconciled himself to returning home. He will come back, he says, when the situation is better.
– Chinki Sinha
Pune
‘The city has broken my heart. I will never come back now’
Mannu Yadav wants to be sure. He has looked up the train schedules several times and has already asked the coolies thrice about the train to Bilaspur. The Pune-Bilaspur Express is a weekly train and Yadav can’t afford to miss this. If he does, he will have to stay back in Pune for another week—another week without a job.
“For the last two years, my family and I had been working at a construction site in Akurdi in the city. When the project got over last month, we found work at another site. But the builder abruptly halted work and we were left with no work,” says Yadav. For the next one month, Yadav turned up at various construction sites in the city, hoping to find work but there was none. He finally decided to go back to his village, Chauranga, in Raipur, Chhattisgarh.
Every Friday, the Pune-Bilaspur and Pune-Lucknow trains, the two main trains to the northern states, depart, their general compartments crammed with people leaving the city. The economic downturn has hit every sector in the city, but realty, it seems, has taken the hardest knock. Around 40,000 residential units were sold in Pune in the last fiscal but now, these half-finished buildings wait behind tattered veils.
Eight months ago, there were close to 50,000 migrant construction workers in the city. These workers come from Bihar, Uttar Pradesh, Chhattisgarh, Gujarat, Rajasthan and Orissa.
“There is no way to put a figure to the number of migrant labourers who are leaving Pune, but the general feeling in the industry is that the number is already down 20 per cent,” says Nitin Pawar, general secretary of Bandhkam Mazdoor Sabha.
At the station, children wail, parents yell across to them and people curse as they stumble on iron trunks and stoves. But through all this, Shyamsundar—another construction worker who has lost his job—sits lost.
“Bahut asha se aye the. Is shahar ne dil tod diya. Ab nahi ayenge vapas… (I had come to the city with a lot of hope but it has broken my heart. I will never come back now),” he says.
– Siddharth Kelkar
Bangalore
‘Our employers have told us to take a break. I will come back in a month’
In the 1960s, when public sector units were first established in Bangalore, labour contractors flocked to the city railway station to find people with some semblance of a school education to herd to the new factories. These days, at the city’s two major railway stations, masons, carpenters, plumbers and sundry workers are boarding trains to return home to states like UP, Bihar, West Bengal, Orissa, Assam and Rajasthan. As the economic downturn kicks in, migrant workers who were the backbone of the construction, real estate and infrastructure sectors in the last five years are feeling the pinch.
The outflow of migrant labour from Bangalore is still a trickle—every week, over the past two months, an average of 200 people have headed back home on the dozen-plus trains reaching northern and eastern states. The local railway staff point out that unreserved compartments on weekly trains like the Gorakhpur Express are filled with migrant workers returning home these days. “I have been waiting for two-and-a-half months without a job. I have not been able to pay my rent. There is no point in waiting anymore, I might as well go back home, be with my family and do some work there,” says Rajat Sharma, a 36-year-old carpenter from Begusarai in Bihar as he waits on an unreserved seat on the Howrah Express, at the Yeshwanthpur Railway Station in Bangalore.
Sharma is heading back home with five other residents of Bihar—all carpenters who made anything between Rs 8,000 and Rs 10,000 every month until two months ago. “The job market is bad for us. I don’t really know whether there will be any work back home. We just have to wait. It was good in Bangalore till now,” says Sharma.
According to his contractor Rajesh Sharma, also a native of Begusarai, who has been living in Bangalore for the past eight years, the total number of carpenters deployed by him in the city has tanked from a high of 70 two years ago to a mere 12 now.
“We were doing a lot of work for big builders but these days payments are getting stuck everywhere and I can’t pay my men. There is no new work coming,” says the labour contractor who brought many friends from his home district to work in Bangalore.
The following day, the story on the Howrah Express is similar. Ali Mohsin, a 28-year-old mason from Murshidabad in West Bengal, is returning home with three friends, all of whom have been laid off. “We have been in Bangalore only for six months. But now our employers are telling us that they have too many workers and have told us to take a break for a few days,” says Mohsin, who used to earn Rs 160 a day. He is now going home to his wife, children and parents. “I will come back after a month and look for work again,” he says, before clambering onto the train to join his friends who are holding a seat for him in the unreserved compartment.
– Johnson T.A.
Indian Express
Return ticket
http://www.indianexpress.com/news/return-ticket/417541/
Posted online: Feb 01, 2009 at 2327 hrs
Ludhiana
‘I’m not sure if I’ll come back this time’
As the crowd on Platform Number 1 of the Ludhiana railway station turns into a crush, Ravinder Pandey, his wife and their two children get into a tighter huddle. It is a cold morning so they don’t mind snuggling up but Pandey nervously watches over his possessions—a table fan, a small sun-mica table, an iron trunk and a bundle of clothes. They have a long journey ahead and Pandey knows it will be a difficult one. After 13 years at a hosiery factory in Ludhiana, he just lost his job and is going home to his village in Azamgarh, Uttar Pradesh, with all that he ever owned—or earned.
“We’ve had tough times earlier too, but this time I’m not sure if I’ll ever come back,” he says. Pandey had to pull his children out of school and with that, all the dreams he had for them were cut short. Despite the gloom, Pandey is counting his luck—he has a patch of land back home and plans to take up farming. “Most people I know (who have lost jobs) don’t even have that. But I don’t know if my family can survive off that land,” he says.
Ludhiana’s steam-press factories, hosiery mills, automobile centres, embroidery workshops and woolen apparel companies employ around three lakh migrant labourers from Bihar, Uttar Pradesh and other states. The economic slump, falling export orders, a weak winter and frequent power cuts have driven many of these migrants out of their jobs. Trains to Uttar Pradesh, Bihar and Madhya Pradesh are packed with people who are headed home.
As the public announcement system at the station declares the schedules for Howrah Mail, Jansewa Express and Kisan Express, hundreds of people pile in—men, women and children, with their unrealised ambitions stuffed into ragtag bundles.
“Madamji, jab kaam hi nahi hai, to logon ka kya karenge company wale,” says Ram Salat. Salat worked with a steel rolling mill for 10 years but was laid off along with three of his friends—all of them from a village in Ghazipur, UP—and now they are all on their way back. “These are tough times. I am not even sure if we will find work back home,” he says.
Before the tough times set in, many of these men had hoped to make the city their home. Vinod Tewari says he had to report for work at his factory, Gupta Automobiles, at 8 a.m. every day but had no work to do. He is now going back to Patna with 12 of his colleagues—all unsure about their jobs. “No orders, no power, everything is packed up. We were even willing to take pay cuts, but there is no work,” he says.
But Tewari prays the bad times won’t last too long and has locked up his room here in the hope that he will come back. “But I will have to pay the rent, I don’t know how...,” Tewari says, his voice drowned by the shrill whistle of the train as it announces its departure.
– Parul Khanna
Patna
‘I hope someone in my village employs me to work on their farm’
The 30-hour journey from Mumbai to Patna has left Mohammed Asgar tired. He now has another train to catch—to Katihar district, and then, he will be on a bus to his Ajamnagar village. In a few hours, he will be with his wife and children. But as Asgar sits clutching his rexin bag, he doesn’t look like a man who is waiting to get home. He has lost his job in Mumbai and has to break the news to his family.
“The last six months have been tough. I used to get Rs 110 a day for cutting iron rods. Now that the construction business is down, I don’t get work every day,” says the 28-year-old.
Asgar had planned to take his wife, son and daughter to Mumbai but now his dream lay shattered. “I hope someone in my village employs me to work on their farm or that I get some job in Patna,” he says.
Asgar says several of his friends have come home from Delhi, Mumbai, Ludhiana and Surat and have started looking for jobs here. “A friend of mine has started a small provision store in his village. He was earning Rs 100 a day in Surat but lost his job,” says Asgar.
About half a dozen trains from Mumbai, Delhi and other cities pull into Patna station every day, all packed with people coming home. But strangely, they all seem hopeful. At its worst hour, the economic slump seems to have played the role of a leveller—suddenly, Bihar, it seems, is holding out hope.
Rajesh Kumar, who got off the Jansadharan Express from New Delhi, is a mason who now hopes to work in his hometown Nawada or in Patna. “I used to get Rs 200 for a day’s work in Delhi. Even if I get Rs 170 here, I will be happy. With all the construction work in Patna, I hear this city is good for masons,” says Kumar.
As per a rough estimate, Patna’s realty sector employs over one lakh people. Over 5,000 apartments have come up in Patna in the last three years.
Bihar Deputy Chief Minister Sushil Kumar Modi says, “Growing employment opportunities in the state through road projects and welfare schemes have either helped young people to stay back in Bihar or have caused reverse migration.”
According to a study by the Overseas Development Institute, a UK-based organisation, over 30 lakh people from Bihar live outside the state. However, there has been no study on reverse migration.
– Santosh Singh
New Delhi
‘Don’t ask me about the future. I have none’
Dhirendra Kumar is going home, but he knows it isn’t going to be easy. In 24 hours, he would meet his wife and children in his native town of Darbhanga in Bihar, and he would have to tell them he had no job and that difficult times were here. So far, he has kept the news from his family. “I am ashamed and I don’t know what to tell them,” Kumar says as he waits for the train at the New Delhi Railway Station.
Six months ago, when Kumar came to Delhi, like thousands of other migrant workers, he hoped for a better life for himself and his family. In a mega city that is undergoing an infrastructural makeover, there would be no dearth of jobs, he thought. He came with modest skills but with a motivation that the hard life of the city couldn’t suppress. But then came the slowdown, and everything changed. Thousands of migrant workers in the manufacturing sector have been affected by the economic slump and factory closures across industries have forced them to return home. On January 6, when Kumar’s employers told him they didn’t need him anymore as their little factory unit at Mongolpuri—where he worked as an electrician—was closing down, he was shattered. For a couple of weeks, Kumar roamed about the city, tools in hand, trying to find another contractual job. But there was none. So on January 21, Kumar, unshaven and tired, bought a general class ticket to Patna, from where he would take a bus to Darbhanga. He wanted to buy some toys for his children and something for his wife but he had no money left. “I wasn’t able to save much. My wages were a little higher than the minimum and now I have lost my job,” he says. “I don’t know what I will do. Maybe I’ll take up farming or something.”
For Kumar and his family, joblessness will possibly mean living below the poverty line. As the jobs dry up, the trains swell. Trains to Bihar, West Bengal and Uttar Pradesh are leaving packed as workers like Kumar are heading back home. For two years, Dharamnath Gupta worked 14-hour shifts at a bottling unit in Gurgaon. And out of the meagre wages he earned working overtime, he managed to send money to his family in Ara, Bihar. At Rs 80 a day, the job didn’t leave him with much savings—or hope. But he knew that back home in Ara, life was worse.
Gupta was laid off on January 15 without notice. Sitting in the Jan Sadharan Express, where a ticket to Patna cost only Rs 188, Gupta looks dejected. With an ailing father and three children to provide for, the job loss was a big blow. He had not wanted to leave for home. But a near-starvation situation had left him with no option. “And now I am going back with empty pockets,” Gupta says. “Don’t even ask me about the future now. I have none.” For a couple of days after he lost his job, Gupta tried in vain to find another. Four days later, with little money in hand, he took a bus to the New Delhi Railway Station and reconciled himself to returning home. He will come back, he says, when the situation is better.
– Chinki Sinha
Pune
‘The city has broken my heart. I will never come back now’
Mannu Yadav wants to be sure. He has looked up the train schedules several times and has already asked the coolies thrice about the train to Bilaspur. The Pune-Bilaspur Express is a weekly train and Yadav can’t afford to miss this. If he does, he will have to stay back in Pune for another week—another week without a job.
“For the last two years, my family and I had been working at a construction site in Akurdi in the city. When the project got over last month, we found work at another site. But the builder abruptly halted work and we were left with no work,” says Yadav. For the next one month, Yadav turned up at various construction sites in the city, hoping to find work but there was none. He finally decided to go back to his village, Chauranga, in Raipur, Chhattisgarh.
Every Friday, the Pune-Bilaspur and Pune-Lucknow trains, the two main trains to the northern states, depart, their general compartments crammed with people leaving the city. The economic downturn has hit every sector in the city, but realty, it seems, has taken the hardest knock. Around 40,000 residential units were sold in Pune in the last fiscal but now, these half-finished buildings wait behind tattered veils.
Eight months ago, there were close to 50,000 migrant construction workers in the city. These workers come from Bihar, Uttar Pradesh, Chhattisgarh, Gujarat, Rajasthan and Orissa.
“There is no way to put a figure to the number of migrant labourers who are leaving Pune, but the general feeling in the industry is that the number is already down 20 per cent,” says Nitin Pawar, general secretary of Bandhkam Mazdoor Sabha.
At the station, children wail, parents yell across to them and people curse as they stumble on iron trunks and stoves. But through all this, Shyamsundar—another construction worker who has lost his job—sits lost.
“Bahut asha se aye the. Is shahar ne dil tod diya. Ab nahi ayenge vapas… (I had come to the city with a lot of hope but it has broken my heart. I will never come back now),” he says.
– Siddharth Kelkar
Bangalore
‘Our employers have told us to take a break. I will come back in a month’
In the 1960s, when public sector units were first established in Bangalore, labour contractors flocked to the city railway station to find people with some semblance of a school education to herd to the new factories. These days, at the city’s two major railway stations, masons, carpenters, plumbers and sundry workers are boarding trains to return home to states like UP, Bihar, West Bengal, Orissa, Assam and Rajasthan. As the economic downturn kicks in, migrant workers who were the backbone of the construction, real estate and infrastructure sectors in the last five years are feeling the pinch.
The outflow of migrant labour from Bangalore is still a trickle—every week, over the past two months, an average of 200 people have headed back home on the dozen-plus trains reaching northern and eastern states. The local railway staff point out that unreserved compartments on weekly trains like the Gorakhpur Express are filled with migrant workers returning home these days. “I have been waiting for two-and-a-half months without a job. I have not been able to pay my rent. There is no point in waiting anymore, I might as well go back home, be with my family and do some work there,” says Rajat Sharma, a 36-year-old carpenter from Begusarai in Bihar as he waits on an unreserved seat on the Howrah Express, at the Yeshwanthpur Railway Station in Bangalore.
Sharma is heading back home with five other residents of Bihar—all carpenters who made anything between Rs 8,000 and Rs 10,000 every month until two months ago. “The job market is bad for us. I don’t really know whether there will be any work back home. We just have to wait. It was good in Bangalore till now,” says Sharma.
According to his contractor Rajesh Sharma, also a native of Begusarai, who has been living in Bangalore for the past eight years, the total number of carpenters deployed by him in the city has tanked from a high of 70 two years ago to a mere 12 now.
“We were doing a lot of work for big builders but these days payments are getting stuck everywhere and I can’t pay my men. There is no new work coming,” says the labour contractor who brought many friends from his home district to work in Bangalore.
The following day, the story on the Howrah Express is similar. Ali Mohsin, a 28-year-old mason from Murshidabad in West Bengal, is returning home with three friends, all of whom have been laid off. “We have been in Bangalore only for six months. But now our employers are telling us that they have too many workers and have told us to take a break for a few days,” says Mohsin, who used to earn Rs 160 a day. He is now going home to his wife, children and parents. “I will come back after a month and look for work again,” he says, before clambering onto the train to join his friends who are holding a seat for him in the unreserved compartment.
– Johnson T.A.
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