On the Streets: Trust and Compassion

As my first month in Bangalore draws to a close, I've begun to really sink my teeth into the city. In the past few weeks, I've begun to piece together my little space here-  figuring out the best side streets to walk to work, appreciating the strong-willed woman on my wall painted by an IT worker by day/artist by night, watering my fledgling garden, drinking cheekily-named pints ("Basmati Blonde") in one of the city's numerous micro-breweries, watching my mother painstakingly spring-cleaning my house on her weekend visit. The city is shaping up to be the perfect canvas.

The streets themselves are the most interesting microcosm, and my twenty minute walk to work really allows me to take it all in. A few weeks ago, after arranging to meet a colleague for a drink near work, I decided to walk down the busy main road instead of taking an auto. I usually avoid walking on this road because of the traffic and the noise, but this time, I figured since it was dark, it would be safer than taking the quiet side streets. About half way to my destination, I was stopped by a visibly distressed looking man, with a woman and a small baby.

'Aap Hindi bolte hain?'

Do you speak Hindi?, he asked. Once I replied in the affirmative, he began to explain to me that he had just arrived from Maharashtra in the morning, and had been robbed of fifteen thousand rupees that he had been carrying in his suitcase. He wanted me to give him a little money (anything I wanted), to buy some food for his child, before he left back on the train that night. Now at this point you may think, red lights going off in your head, that this man was totally bluffing. Something made me keep listening- maybe it was the fact that he was with a wife and child, and they looked so harrowed. I continued to ask him many questions to establish his story- What train had he arrived on? How many of them had come? Why was he carrying such a large amount in his suitcase? He answered all without flinching. I began to feel bad for doubting his story in the first place. Had we all become so distrustful of everything?

Meanwhile, a man approached us when he saw what was going on. He spoke to me in English, saying that he was pretty sure that this was a hoax, as he had been approached by a similar set of people that morning- they had even given the same name! I began to think, maybe he was right. But though I am not the kind of person that hands out money to people on the streets, I took out my wallet and handed over one hundred rupees. And as I did, and they smiled with gratitude, through the corner of my eye I noticed another girl walking by shaking her head. I knew then that I had been had. Apparently this is an organised group that works on this road, with the same story.

As I walked away, with the man who had approached me and another bystander, both of whom berated me for my action - they had warned me, they said - I felt utterly stupid. It was not at all about the money- I mean, the fact of the matter is that they probably needed that money more than I did. In fact, I laughed it off saying that I had paid for a good performance. But inside, I felt horrible. Horrible that this could happen and that I believed it. It made me think how we live in a world where trusting our actions, our thoughts, our feelings is such a challenge. In a world (and a country specifically) where opening our hearts and our pockets is always preceded by questions and doubts, and rightly so, apparently. Having said that, I would do the same thing over again, without a doubt- I need to believe in kindness, trust and compassion.

Inquilab, Zindabad!

I've seen so many sides of this city already, and this weekend was no different. It kicked off with a brilliant stage performance of 'Dear Liar'- a dramatisation of letters exchanged between George Bernard Shaw and a stage actress- brought to life by veteran Indian actor Naseerudin Shah, and his wife Rathna Pathak Shah. I watched in total awe, from the cheap seats in Bangalore's historic Chowdiah Memorial Hall, which incidentally was built in memory of a musician and is in the shape of a massive violin (a slightly bizarre sight).

But the real treat was in store for me the following day, when my colleague took me along unsuspectingly to a student-organised performance in an amphitheatre in the heart of the city. Some law students of a premier Law Institute were 'Reclaiming Dissent', in their words, through a new collective they had formed, this being their first event. Ah, those heady student days, I thought to myself, as I glanced over at the audience- an eclectic mix of students, kurta-clad intellectuals and people who had just wandered over out of sheer curiosity.

'Kabir Kala Manch', she said.

Yes, I'd heard of them of course- 'a radical Dalit cultural group' is what they have been referred to in the past. I wasn't sure what to expect, but I feel nothing could have prepared me for the next few hours.

They were a group of seven, armed with nothing more than powerful words- words that pounded away at the State, mocking its dirty tricks and promises, and highlighting the depressing irony of our starving farmers. These performers, these activists, these revolutionaries wore Ambedkar and all his sociological analysis on their sleeves.

"Mazdoor ka shaasan laane ko, 
Sangarsh karna ho re bhai"

After an hour and half of poignant poetry and music, it was announced that the two women performers' husbands were still in jail. One of the lead performers- Deepak Dhengle was performing only for the second time after he had been released, for his radical critique of the State, and his alleged promotion of Naxalism. Their struggles are real and ongoing. They are fighting hard. Against the apparatus that is clearly choking them.

Laal Salaam! (Red Salute!)

Jai Bhim Comrade!

Inquilab, Zindabad! (Long Live the Revolution!)

On next, were Makkal Mandram, a Dalit group from Tamil Nadu, comprising of 15 men and women, reclaiming a percussion instrument, that was traditionally only used during funerals, and played only by lower caste untouchables. The drums pounded away at my soul for the next hour and a half, as they swayed gracefully to the beats, and brought half the audience to their feet in a fit of spontaneous dancing.

As the drums closed the evening, I found myself being pulled by someone into the mass of people all in a trance. My feet began to move, and then my body whirled around uncontrollably, as I let go. I danced in a circle with people I didn't know, and when the music stopped, we all walked away as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

It was one of those days when I was so proud to be Indian. So proud, yet so ashamed. Of our divisions, of our inability as a country to support each other across movements. So overwhelmed and confused- there are so many stories and experiences of struggle. And here I had grown up in a world so far away and so incomprehensibly different. Feelings of disconnectedness abounded, as I grabbed an auto in the midst of a traffic pile up, and navigated my way home.  

Of Brokers and Boyfriends

Another move, another house-hunt.

I arrived in Bangalore three days ago, after a painfully sleepless train journey next to a man resembling Obelix, growling away in his sleep. Lugging my overstuffed suitcase off the train, my arrival this time was different. Instead of haggling with public transport, getting lost and then crossing my fingers while walking into a new apartment which I had never seen before; for the first time I was actually being picked up by a 'Family Friend' from the railway station. She cruised in with her driver ('chauffeur' for the enlightened), and before I knew it, I was whisked away to her huge five bedroom house in an affluent suburb of the city. With an electric gate.

Now the concept of a 'Family Friend' (said like so- not, mind you, 'Friend of the Family') is uniquely Indian. Almost always, it will be someone who your parents know, who you've heard about but never met. And most of all, they will be amazingly loving towards you: kind, hospitable- as if they've known you your entire life. This experience has been exactly like so- I've spent the past two days being fed, and pampered and driven around.

Anyway, to the point of this story: the house-hunt. Till date, I've always shared a house- first with friends, then with unknowns- which as expected is always a hit and miss. This time, I was determined to find a place I could call my own, that I can put a stamp on and have control over. So I embarked on a search for my space in this city.

I've had a unique deep-dive into the culture of brokers in the city. Being Bangalore, the first dilemma was what language to converse in-they speak every possible South Indian language, and Hindi and English to boot. They are all men, some on bikes, some in cars. They also know everything about their tenants ('Oh these two girls work at PriceWaterHouse Coopers/Goldman Sachs/some IT company'). One even knew at what time a client's boyfriend picks her up to go out for a meal.  All of us 'independent women' were being watched. Sigh.

Over the past few days, I saw a ground floor, damp flat with a rickety metal bed; a musty pink-walled flat where cigarette smoke had seeped into the walls; a tiny room on the top floor of a posh house with a slab of granite touted as the kitchen; and then a lovely little space at the top of an old house, in a quiet, leafy street.

So, a summary of what transpired:

'Yes, I'm interested in the flat.'

*Broker proceeds to check my fingers and neck for signs of marital status*

'Ok, just FYI, family is allowed to visit. No boyfriends, no parties.'

This in front of three men (two brokers, and Family Friend Head of Household, who was observably uncomfortable at this exchange). Overall, I'm not sure how to react. But then I remind myself I'm in India, and there are spaces and places for airing disagreement and frustrations, and this was not one of them. I shook my head, laughed and proclaimed that I will be 'well behaved', but was clear that I would have friends and family visiting , and if this was a problem I wanted out. There was uncomfortable nodding between all the concerned parties, and the deal was made. I had a house.

I move in tomorrow, after said Family Friend helps me organise a small puja to bless the place (much to the relief of my mother, who is convinced that this will mitigate all the potential horrors that might occur, since my stars aren't aligned apparently).

I'm more anxious and nervous than excited, but I can't wait for that milk to boil over in two days, signifying the beginning of my sojourn in Bangalore.