From Far and From Close, by Yashoda
When you look from far, Ghewda [Ghevra] looks like an endearingly small new settlement made of beautiful new woven mats. It looks open, airy, pretty.
But from close, the place tells a different story. The roofs so fragile, that if a wind blows, they would fly off and fall in the fields of the jaats. The floor so kuccha, that if water were to fall on it, the clay-like mud would erupt out. And when you cook, you have to be very careful – a spark can set the woven mats with which the house has been made on fire, reducing it to ashes.
Men and women toil with bricks and stones on the long, narrow roads leading into Ghevra. The government wants the road to be readied before anything. Someone retorts, “Will we live on dust here?”
A woman beats her breast, “Didn't Sheila Dikshit bear any children? How has she made so many children homeless?”
Someone speaks after her, “When the heart hurts, such things escape ones mouth. Well, we can't do anything but we can at least speak our hearts out. How else to let out steam building inside us?”
The woman continues, “The government says it won't allow jhuggies. So has the blind government made palaces for us here?”
Scorched human beings under the scorching sun. All around, there is vacant land and fields.
A beautiful map is pinned up on a wall in the MCD office. In it Ghevra looks clean, organised, studded with houses, roads, a school, toilets, a playground. Eyes find peace.
But Ghevra tells a different story.
“We don't want brick-paved lanes. We don't want their roads. Just don't snatch from us our right to live.”
“We have been dropped in this desert under a scorching sun. Who will care for us if we fall ill? There isn't a damn centre with medicines till far. Where should we go? The police won't let us live where we were living. We don't have money to take a house on rent. If we live here, we will earn nothing and then what will we eat? At least we could eat twice a day where we were living till now. Now tell us, what should we do?”
Men and women toil with bricks and stones on the long, narrow roads leading into Ghevra. The government wants the road to be readied before anything. Someone retorts, “Will we live on dust here?”
A woman beats her breast, “Didn't Sheila Dikshit bear any children? How has she made so many children homeless?”
Someone speaks after her, “When the heart hurts, such things escape ones mouth. Well, we can't do anything but we can at least speak our hearts out. How else to let out steam building inside us?”
The woman continues, “The government says it won't allow jhuggies. So has the blind government made palaces for us here?”
Scorched human beings under the scorching sun. All around, there is vacant land and fields.
A beautiful map is pinned up on a wall in the MCD office. In it Ghevra looks clean, organised, studded with houses, roads, a school, toilets, a playground. Eyes find peace.
But Ghevra tells a different story.
“We don't want brick-paved lanes. We don't want their roads. Just don't snatch from us our right to live.”
“We have been dropped in this desert under a scorching sun. Who will care for us if we fall ill? There isn't a damn centre with medicines till far. Where should we go? The police won't let us live where we were living. We don't have money to take a house on rent. If we live here, we will earn nothing and then what will we eat? At least we could eat twice a day where we were living till now. Now tell us, what should we do?”
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