Nangla's Delhi

It was one morning that I first saw that seventeen year old boy in this dwelling. He was a little dark complexioned, and was weak in one arm and one leg. He wore a white shirt and a pair of black pants that day. He had a pen in one pocket of his trousers and a glass in the other pocket. He was walking down the lane, saying “hello, good morning” to everyone who he passed by. Some children followed him around, calling out, “mad man, mad man”. At that time, seeing him, I couldn't think about him further than what I saw.

The sun hasn't risen yet. There is a fog of smoke in Nangla. People who live along the Pushta have lit up their stoves. They sit by the stoves, sipping tea. These stoves are not inside the rooms, but outside, along the lanes. And the kitchen is where the stove is. When people pass by they don't touch anything, just look and go their way.

A woman is sitting by her stove. She places the vessel with the kneaded dough in the lane and starts to cook. The door behind her does not have a curtain. When the kitchen is on the road, then where is the need to conceal anything else. It is winter. She has filled a canister with water and placed it on the stove. The water heats on a low flame. A young boy, about five to seven years old, comes and sits by the canister and, from time to time, he stokes the fire by moving the firewood about. He dips his hand in the water repeatedly to see how warm it is. Then he calls out, “Mother, the water is warm now.” The woman appears from inside the house, empties the water from the canister into a vessel, refills the canister with more water, and carries the warm water into the house.

People pass by from the lane in front. But the lanes are not only for passing! Some people are sleeping in the lane, their bodies covered with a sheet which they have tightened by tucking under their head and pulling it from the other end with their toes. For some, morning is when they go to sleep. People skirt them, and go on their way.

This young man, probably fifteen to sixteen years old, sees the first rays of the morning sun only after having earned two to four hundred rupees. He keeps the length of his hair long. A sack always hangs on his shoulder. His face is dark, and he always chews tobacco.

He can be seen in places where probably everyone hesitates to go. He collects money from the ground, but money which probably no one else would agree to pick up. He bends his body forward to pick up anything he finds, and puts it in his sack.

Dogs and pigs follow him around. But he roams fearlessly in places around Nangla where garbage is thrown. He picks up whatever he finds – plastic bottles, scraps of paper – with his hands or a wire that he carries with him. He pokes the object with the hard, long wire, picks up the object, and it goes straight into his sack. He also carries a stick, at one end of which he has attached a magnet. Whatever the magnet catches, he deposits in the broad iron vessel with steep sides, which he also carries with himself.

He finishes his work before the sun rises; and then drinks tea with everyone else in a tea stall in Nangla. He disappears with the appearance of the sun.