In the Morning, by Suraj
Nangla looks different in the morning. There is no electricity, and sounds echo softer than they do otherwise. The echoes of demolition and eviction are also softer. It looks like Nangla is finding its way into a new life, in the morning.
Nangla is not in ruins. Lives still breathe in it. It is not memories, but the sounds of the present which make this life palpable, present. Maybe that is why even the traffic passing from in front of it, on the Ring Road, slows down as it moves on the stretch along Nangla.
It's the second Saturday of the month. Children, some of them dressed in their school uniforms, are playing games in the lanes. The elders all look like they are preparing to go to work. The lanes do not look restless with a wait of a next date, of a next round of breaking of houses. The NDMC vehicle stands quietly, as household garbage is collected out of Nangla.
There is a tap at the mouth of the lane into Nangla. Men and young boys are standing bare bodied, in queue to take a bath. They are talking among themselves, no one is rushing the other to hurry up with his bathing.
Some women, with plastic bags in their hands, look like they are ready to go somewhere.
When I walked into Nangla, I saw people were sleeping, on cots and on sheets spread on the lane. Bodies are covered with sheets, but the sheets are not adequate to cover the entire body. Arms and legs peep out, and old scars and new wounds on them are visible.
Passers-by are not hassled by the still asleep people, and the ones sleeping are not bothered by those who are passing by. The sheets on which they are sleeping lie crumpled beneath their bodies, from all the tossing and turning at night. Bodies touch the ground beneath. Some people have gathered bricks from the broken houses and made their beds from these.
Fruit and vegetable sellers are doing their rounds in the lanes. Women have set up their stoves and are making tea. A baba, with shani dev in his hands, goes from house to house, asking for oil and pulses. Seeing him, it feels like things are as they were before – there are those who depend on Nangla for their sustenance.
Huge utensils are being expertly washed in front of an eating joint. Next to this, a young woman sits, peeling around half a kilogram of potatoes, to prepare the afternoon meal.
Even though one doesn't hear the sound of the azaan in the lanes any more, people still offer their prayers.
There is something the night does, which changes things in the morning. Do you think that's because morning is the time to start sorting and collecting all the dreams dreamed during the night?
Written on 08-04-2006
It's the second Saturday of the month. Children, some of them dressed in their school uniforms, are playing games in the lanes. The elders all look like they are preparing to go to work. The lanes do not look restless with a wait of a next date, of a next round of breaking of houses. The NDMC vehicle stands quietly, as household garbage is collected out of Nangla.
There is a tap at the mouth of the lane into Nangla. Men and young boys are standing bare bodied, in queue to take a bath. They are talking among themselves, no one is rushing the other to hurry up with his bathing.
Some women, with plastic bags in their hands, look like they are ready to go somewhere.
When I walked into Nangla, I saw people were sleeping, on cots and on sheets spread on the lane. Bodies are covered with sheets, but the sheets are not adequate to cover the entire body. Arms and legs peep out, and old scars and new wounds on them are visible.
Passers-by are not hassled by the still asleep people, and the ones sleeping are not bothered by those who are passing by. The sheets on which they are sleeping lie crumpled beneath their bodies, from all the tossing and turning at night. Bodies touch the ground beneath. Some people have gathered bricks from the broken houses and made their beds from these.
Fruit and vegetable sellers are doing their rounds in the lanes. Women have set up their stoves and are making tea. A baba, with shani dev in his hands, goes from house to house, asking for oil and pulses. Seeing him, it feels like things are as they were before – there are those who depend on Nangla for their sustenance.
Huge utensils are being expertly washed in front of an eating joint. Next to this, a young woman sits, peeling around half a kilogram of potatoes, to prepare the afternoon meal.
Even though one doesn't hear the sound of the azaan in the lanes any more, people still offer their prayers.
There is something the night does, which changes things in the morning. Do you think that's because morning is the time to start sorting and collecting all the dreams dreamed during the night?
Written on 08-04-2006
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