Half in Shade and Mostly In the Sun, by Priya
“Entertainment will never be the same again”, said the billboard showing a mass of junk electronics being swept away, over the parchee tent opposite Nanglamachi. I kept looking at it, wondering whether to take in this piece of irony staring at me, or to ignore it, or to see it in relation with all other ironies present in the situation. I decided to be indifferent.
The line for the parchees started to form around 4am. Two lines – one ladies, one gents, from two sides, meeting where the policemen stood, at the gate leading to the parchee tent. This tent had its own little field, surrounded by iron bars and a couple of gates. It looked resplendent in its fluttery, shamiana style get-up, occupying the very centre of its shabby little field. The policemen who manned the gates were hot. They were annoyed. Ring Road traffic was heavy on this side of Ring Road. The people from Nanglamachi were everywhere. Not just standing in line. They formed little groups, they stood around, they sat opposite the people in line, they stared, compared notes, conjectured, spoke in code, asked too many questions. Once in a while they were swooped upon and asked to move. Move move. Go. Get out from underneath the shade. Go watch TV because you won’t get a parchee anyway. Not today at least. Not until the verification list comes in and even then some crucial paperwork will be missing. 'Burnt in a fire, lost, replaced by a new photocopy that has an incorrect word. The survey people have made a mistake, but so have we'.
Sometimes it’s difficult to not be consumed emotionally by what’s happening here. The questions I have are obvious. Sentimental. Today I want to be sentimental. What happens when a person is denied the slip of paper that carries with it the weight and promise of an immediate future? The basti will be demolished in a couple of days. How is it possible to not strike out in anger and frustration at not being given the opportunity to be prepared? And since the parchees don’t mention a plot number, what happens when people get to Ghevra? (They have to get a plot number from the MCD office there. It will not happen overnight.) And for the time it takes to build? Obvious answers. Not to deny anyone their share of courage, patience and overwhelming resolve, but what kind of place is this anyway?
(This place is gaining forces.)
Meanwhile on the other side of the road, Nanglamachi has been waiting since the first set of bulldozers came in and tried to break its back. (No one along the Yamuna is gaining forces unless they are driving past it.) It watched while people tried to petition the courts and tried to provide evidence of 30 years of an intricately sculpted existence. It watched stay orders come and go and its children go from one school to another. The levels of the Yamuna have risen since. It is full of big fish now that come up to soak in the afternoon sun. Nangla disappeared into the night when the lights from Ring Road dimmed the light from its candles. It emerged with each new day. Now it is watching again as its people are crossing the street in the hope that they will finally be able to leave it for somewhere else. Somewhere with a name and plot size. It knows more than they do.
My solar plexus feels funny. Maybe it’s the Brahms Cello Sonata (in E minor). Maybe it’s because I’m thinking of the conversation I had with Bina didi a few weeks ago when she said “Your face looks like you have no inner tensions.” (!!) She had just come back after getting her son and daughter admitted into the Pandara Road school. The latest stay order had said that the basti might be there for another year. People had started moving back. The Ankur office below her house had the fan running again. We sat on the large wooden bench on which she had her shop and that was half in shade and mostly in the sun. She had looked relieved and was laughing when she said that about me.
Sometimes it’s difficult to not be consumed emotionally by what’s happening here. The questions I have are obvious. Sentimental. Today I want to be sentimental. What happens when a person is denied the slip of paper that carries with it the weight and promise of an immediate future? The basti will be demolished in a couple of days. How is it possible to not strike out in anger and frustration at not being given the opportunity to be prepared? And since the parchees don’t mention a plot number, what happens when people get to Ghevra? (They have to get a plot number from the MCD office there. It will not happen overnight.) And for the time it takes to build? Obvious answers. Not to deny anyone their share of courage, patience and overwhelming resolve, but what kind of place is this anyway?
(This place is gaining forces.)
Meanwhile on the other side of the road, Nanglamachi has been waiting since the first set of bulldozers came in and tried to break its back. (No one along the Yamuna is gaining forces unless they are driving past it.) It watched while people tried to petition the courts and tried to provide evidence of 30 years of an intricately sculpted existence. It watched stay orders come and go and its children go from one school to another. The levels of the Yamuna have risen since. It is full of big fish now that come up to soak in the afternoon sun. Nangla disappeared into the night when the lights from Ring Road dimmed the light from its candles. It emerged with each new day. Now it is watching again as its people are crossing the street in the hope that they will finally be able to leave it for somewhere else. Somewhere with a name and plot size. It knows more than they do.
My solar plexus feels funny. Maybe it’s the Brahms Cello Sonata (in E minor). Maybe it’s because I’m thinking of the conversation I had with Bina didi a few weeks ago when she said “Your face looks like you have no inner tensions.” (!!) She had just come back after getting her son and daughter admitted into the Pandara Road school. The latest stay order had said that the basti might be there for another year. People had started moving back. The Ankur office below her house had the fan running again. We sat on the large wooden bench on which she had her shop and that was half in shade and mostly in the sun. She had looked relieved and was laughing when she said that about me.
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