Sunday, 2 July 2017

There's something missing!

Its an empty space in my heart that screams out when I lay my head on the pillow.
From the calmness of the South to the chaos of the new city, things have changed quite fast.

Is it the distance from home? Is it the difference of the cultures?

Or is it just the unfamiliarity of the new spaces?

Wednesday, 7 June 2017

Another episode.

With the end of all the excitement of coming to a new city, reality hit hard. I guess this is what they call absolute unfamiliarity.
Parents are proud.  Friends, happy. A few, envious. They think its amazing to have the "freedom" that they crave.Well, this is what I wanted. This is all I wanted. To leave Chennai and live alone.
Things are very different from this side though.
I didnt realise that things would change so much when I waved goodbye to my huge family. Eleven of them had come to bid farewell. It just took a few days for the excitement to turn into confusion as I found myself absolutely lost in this city, whose language I didnt get.
The confusion turned into a whole range of emotions. Overwhelmed, I burst into tears. Unable to communicate what I wanted to, I was repeatedly charged extra by rickshaw drivers and vendors. The sense of powerlessness made me seem weak. Being thrown into the deep end, I am still grappling to get a hold of things.
To make things worse, the paranoia of being mugged, groped, molested or raped hovers like a ghost.
Would things have been easier if I were a guy in a city like Noida? Would the number of "be careful" calls be lesser then? Would I feel safer then?
For, nothing really happened (touchwood) but, the fear that something might made me choose to stay at home.
Finding a place to stay without any help was another battle.
"Is it safe for women?", "Would the landlord have issues with odd shifts?"
Rejected and not given accommodation as people are still wary of women working in media.
Have they forgotten that we are journalists who are trying our best to make this terrible place somewhat better?
Seems like they dont care.
"Media? Sorry madam. We are a traditional family.   Search for an accommodation somewhere else."
Wait until your daughter grows up and wants to become a photographer or journalist. Wait until your granddaughter or neice wants to make documentaries in conflict regions.
I have found a place. Temporarily.
A home for the next few months probably.
Well, if one thinks this could send a girl home. To her calm city. NO. She isn't leaving until she understands this place. Noida it is. Until she gets bored of it.

Sunday, 2 April 2017

Random musings on a Sunday Evening.

What is that we have lost over the years?
What is that, that is missing?

The void.

Is it something material? Is it something spiritual?

The emptiness.

Is it something physical? Is it something psychological?

The search.

The search for the lost something. The something I have never had.

The resonance of the deep oceans.

Simplicity.
In everything.
LOST.

Trust and Loyalty.
LOST.

Love and being loved.
LOST.


Tuesday, 17 January 2017

Endless wait..


Waiting at the doorstep for you to reach

Waiting for the books

Waiting for the wages

The electricity

The water       

The food

Everything that you said you would give!

The promise seemed so real then

The future seemed so bright then

Still waiting.

Still waiting at the doorstep, for you to reach.


TALES ALONG THE RAILWAY LINE


The people of Bhojaraja Nagar have lost count of the number of lives lost on the railway track that runs along their slum. Being hit by trains is common for these people who have no other choice but to carry plastic pots to the other side of the track to collect water.

 With over 1000 houses sandwiched between the railway track next to Basin Bridge and the Cooum, Bhojaraja nagar is comfortably ignored even by the residents of neighbouring localities. The community has been living without their own supply of water for over sixty years.

The expected stink of the Cooum is not what welcomed me into the slum as I crossed the tracks. Surprisingly I was drawn in by an aroma of freshly fried fish and hot sambar made by Rajeshwari, a 15 year old who cooks and sells her food for a living. Rajeshwari’s father is unemployed as he lost his leg after being hit by a train. There were a few women laughing loudly and chatting as they had just finished their lunch at Rajeshwari’s eatery. Their wide smiles were a warm welcome into the slum.

Asking if I could sit down and talk with them, I was served some sambar rice with fish fry twenty minutes into the hilarious conversation. The light hearted nature of the conversation about really serious and sensitive issues was startling. They seem to laugh about it, not cynical even in the least of its sense.

“This baby lost her mother last week while she tried to cross the track,” Anita, one of the women at the eatery pointed at the baby next to her. A couple next door are now raising the child who was found wailing on the track, covered in blood. She says, “It has become somewhat common for us. So many people die but the lucky ones like me escape”.  She slowly lifted up her Sari to show her swollen and hurt left knee and continued to describe her encounter with a speeding train.

The main reason for these slum dwellers to cross the track is to fetch water from the other side. If water is made available the number of times they cross would rapidly decline making the situation much better.

An obvious question one might raise would be about help from the state or NGOs for water availability in a slum where most of them own a ration and aadhar card. Though there have been multiple attempts to set up water pumps here, it is either locked up by the local politicians or is broken by the slum dwellers themselves. “A few months ago a private NGO set up eight pumps here. Three of them are always locked by the local politicians who open it only when they need it. The other five were broken by our people due to fights over water,” says Mallika, a slum dweller. “It is just that we don’t have direct control over the pumps and even if we do, it ends up being extremely insufficient for all the families here,” she added.

The slum does not have any constructed toilets because of the lack of availability of water. They find it easier to carry just a mug of water than building toilets which will need a lot of water to be used and maintained.  “Why do we need toilets when we have the entire railway track that could be used?” laughs Poongavanam as she goes on to talk about the space allotted for men and women for defecation. “The first floor where the track runs is for women and the space here, the ground floor is for the men. This is our toilet,” she adds. A lot of pregnant women, children and older people find it really hard to use these spaces along the tracks. The risk of being hit by a train is increased with events like these.

If the slum’s issue of water unavailability is dealt with, the intensity of their problems would surely reduce but, not until an alternative safer route is created. The only way to reach Bhojaraja Nagar slum is by crossing the railway tracks through a broken compound wall that’s currently designed with tattered posters of Chinamma.

 “We do know the timings of the trains that pass by but, that doesn’t seem to make it any different,” said Anitha. The children in the slum cross alone everyday to go to school. “Waiting for our kids to return home crossing the track is something we are always tensed about,” she added.

With the New Year round the corner the people of Bhojaraja nagar slum had just begun setting up lights and sounds required for the celebration on the 1st of January. The gathering at Rajeshwari’s eatery was to discuss about the programmes and games that were to be conducted.

“We have a few dance and singing performances. Then there will be a music system that would play the latest tamil songs thoughout the day,” Mallika smiles. “Last New Year my husband was alive; he died this year being hit by a train as he fell down drunk next to the track. The close knit community that we are today helps us stay positive amidst our problems,” she added.

The festivity at the slum truly brought out the resilience of these slum dwellers that have been facing their own problems, which now includes rebuilding after Cyclone Vardah as well.

 Their last words to me, before I crossed the track to merge with the chaos of North Madras were, “Be careful while you cross the track” (Pathu track cross pannu ma. Jaakratha).