Nangla's Delhi

People pass from in front of Nangla, saying something softly to themselves. Everyone knows what police presence means. Everyone knows what an unsettled, partly smashed, exposed settlement means. As I enter Nangla, a thought played out in my head over and over again, “This could be how it is going to be with us soon...”

The lanes can be called lanes only for the sake of naming them something. Now each broken house is a passage of sorts. A broken mirror hangs on an exposed wall. When someone would look at his or her face in it, at some point, midway through some action, some movement, some thought, what would the reflection say back to him/her? A thousand stories play back in ones mind when this question arises. But today we are in search of one person, to hear her tell us of her life, her time in Nangla.

We have reached our destination for the time being. You could call it a house. It does not have four walls and a roof, but four poles on which hang some tarpauline sheets. A bench is placed in front, in the middle of a broad lane. It seems the bench once served as a shop, which once served customers, played a host of sorts.

Sunshine filters in through the holes in the tarpauline sheet, warming those inside – three women, two men, and one elderly man. There is a cot, and household things are kept carefully on it, packed. Space is quickly made for us to sit on the cot. Our loud refusals are not paid attention to, and the group of people sheltering themselves under the tarpauline sheets play out the role of hosts who will not inconvenience their visitors in their own time of stress.

We had come to talk with them. But in a situation like this, what is a good first question? We spend considerable moments making up our minds, sitting in the shaded spot they have provided us, away from all the dancing rays of sun. We knew we should say something, start the conversation ourselves.

“Look for yourself, we have nothing left. We are eating what is in front of you. We cannot offer you any food... Can you do something?” This was a 65 year old man, talking to us. Only half his head was covered with hair, and his eyes were red – as if they had lain awake many nights.

I hurried to clarify. “Uncle, we have come from LNJP, which is on government land. Who knows when it will be demolished... it could happen any time. We could well be homeless soon.” We looked at each other for what seemed like a long time. We knew he understood.

Everyone remained silent for a long time. People gathered around us, trying to figure out the purpose of our visit. Then we began our conversation. “My name is Kamlesh, and this is my son Ram Khiladi. Both of us live here.” The son spoke now. “My father has two more sons. But both have left. Now who is to look after him? Where will he go at this age, tell me?” There were so many questions, still unuttered, to which there were no answers, and none could be sought from others. “They are both busy in their own married lives,” Kamlesh uncle said. “They have nothing to do with me any more.”

Then he paused for a while.

"I came to Delhi 10-12 years ago. I came in search of work, and then I became one of this city. I had nothing then. I made everything here on my own. And now look... If I had somewhere else to go, wouldn't I just leave. Bur I have nowhere else to go.” Ram Khiladi spoke up again. “We have no other means. No means other than Nangla Maanchi. No means, no money. We will not go anywhere else. We will remain here, and leave everything to god.”

There was an anger in his voice, like a taunt to someone. A taunt which hid the question, “How are we to face this moment?”

"We make the government, and it sends us a notice. How can anyone break a house through a power of a notice?”
Kamlesh uncle: “Will the government help those who have nothing other than Nangla? Those who cannot earn any more? I would earn something or the other here, eat something. But now?”

A girl walked upto us and said, “Look didi, my school results are to be announced today. Should I take care of my house, or go get my result? So what if all this belongs to the government? Couldn't it wait just a while longer...” Then she turned to us and asked, “Which channel are you from?”

I asked her her name. “Pramila”, she said.
"Which class are you in?”
"Eighth. But now what's the point?”
Then another face joined in. “I used to earn Rs 5000 a day here. But now...”
“What is it that you did?”
"Nothing special. I had many people working for me with plastic. Now everything has had to stop.”
Another face came up. “We will eat and earn somewhere or the other. After all, both our hands are still in working condition. But we have no faith in the government any more.”
A woman who had been listening to the conversation all this time, said, “They have broken the houses on either side of our house. No number has been painted on the door of my house. God knows what will happen with us. No one is telling us... I have a ration card, though...”
The man replied, “Who knows what these number mean. We keep asking, and they tell us, 'You will get to know soon'.”
Another man (Baliram) said, “The houses with P-98 on them, and those with no inscription on them will not be broken yet. They have been given some time. But they will be broken eventually in any case. God knows if we will get any compensation... and space in return for that which is being taken away.”
The first man (Mangli Ram) said: “We lived here like a family. We would fight in the morning and have tea at the same shop in the evening. Now we all have to part ways. Everyone is leaving, without saying a word...”
Rajesh: “They have wiped away twenty years of our life by placing some numbers on them. When I heard the news, my brain stopped working. Who knows if they have paid any attention before imprinting those numbers? First thing I did was to send my family back to the village. I have stayed behind to look over what remains. And the politicians who used to keep coming here to seek votes have not showed their faces even once now.”

We heard someone say, “Look they have come from Aaj Tak channel. Lets go see what they are saying.”

Ram Khiladi said, “What deception, what trickery... taking away our land from us...”

We all talked a while longer, then we left.