Nangla's Delhi

Everyone carried sheets carefully stapled at the top left corner. These were ration cards, election IDs, old ration cards eaten at the edges, copies of medical certificates and certificates of physical disability. Documents that had been carefully preserved for years.

A woman took her documents out of the bag, went through them and put them back in. A young man with a thin moustache held the stapled bundle in one hand, flipping through it. A woman holding a faded blue umbrella, wearing a bright pink saree handed them to the person next in line, asking him to check them. Everyone seemed restless, unsure, skeptical of the the veracity of their carefully preserved documents. Did the documents contain sufficient proof?


"Is this ok? It's duplicate. See it says 'duplicate'."

"I don't have my wife's election I-card, will I have to come again?"

"This is my old ration card, will it count?"

"I went to the office at ITO yesterday and got my survey number, just to be sure."

"My husband's older brother got his parchee on his documents, maybe mine will be fine too."

"I don't have my old ration card. I lost it in the fire. Will the new one do?"

"I have all my documents but the surveyors still marked my house 'NDS'. Will these people look at them?"

"Farhaad Suri was here a while ago and said everyone who has documents from before 1998 and yet had 'NDS' or 'locked' marked on their doors should collect them and submit them to the Slum & JJ Department."

Parcheez were being given away. Instead of setting up a tent across the road, the school was the chosen venue. Perhaps because its gates and tall walls have stood the test of time for being able to keep people out. There was no RAF presence, just a few police officials. “You see him?” A young man in a green shirt and grey trousers said to the other young man with him. He was pointing to a senior police official behind the gate. “He was at the rally too. He is the worse of them all.”

"Sit down." One of the policemen guarding the gate yelled.

And everyone prepared to sit on their haunches.

"Keep some distance in between. Don't crowd."

Everyone shifted.

"The police get scared at times like this," someone whispered over her shoulder.

It was 12:15 PM. Clear shadows formed big puddles around each body.

The gates to the school opened, slightly. Everyone was up on their feet, pushing towards it. The line in front dissolved, rushing to enter. Seven to ten people were allowed inside. The rest quietened, waiting their turn, returning to the line.

"Have you seen Ghevra?"

"Is there a school there?"

"Yes there is a school there."

"Why won't there be schools in Ghevra?"

"But that must only be till the V standard. My son is in the X."

"There are all kinds of schools."

"And water?"

"There is a shared tap."

"It can't be like Nangla."

"We made Nangla."

"There was ash, and only ash here when we came."

"It would come in our mouths when we ate."

"There were deep pits in the ash deposits."

"Women fell in them, so many of them."

"I knew one of the old women who fell in one and died."

"It took us 20 years to make this a settlement."

"We made Nangla, we will be able to make Ghevra as well."

The gate creaked open. The line fell silent. All eyes fixed on the slit which led to the other side. The sky was bright blue, electricity cables shone sharply under the sun. A man wearing a pair of black shorts and a white vest, a taweez hanging in his neck walked out, holding a pink
parchee in his hand. Form B-8-A, Delhi Nagar Nigam, Slum & JJ Department. It bore a stamp in official blue ink, “Cash received towards security & L. fee for 10 years (Rs. Seven Thousand Only)” and a scribble of a signature on a revenue stamp at the bottom right corner.