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The walk to work
Nov. 13th, 2007 09:24 pmI work on the edge of town in a neighbourhood poetically named "BTM IInd Stage"*, which used to be farming land. The area's being developed now, but there are still barns tucked away in odd places and buffaloes** walking around, grazing on the rubbish that's left in piles on the blocks that are still bare. (Other blocks are used as toilets, probably a better option than the stretch of pavement I see children from the slums squatting on.) There are also chickens, and a lot of dogs around, many with nicked ears that show they've been sterilised. The dogs sleep in the shade outside the office, and the other day one was crouched outside, whimpering and licking its paw, which was bleeding and hung limply.
All around the office they're putting up apartment blocks with names like 'Dollars Enclave' and 'Green is the Colour', which are being built by men and woman who use sticks lashed together as scaffolding and carry loads of sand in shallow metal bowls on their heads. Some days I see their children 'helping' them, determinedly filling up the bowls and steadying them on each other's heads, dropping them and getting in the way and laughing as the adults work.
Walking out to the main road to catch an auto home, Gayathri and I pass through the little market at the edge of the slum area. Some of the vegetable sellers have carts piled high, but many of them sit at the edge of a blanket with just a few eggplants, or sticks of sugarcane, in neat, sparse lines. Among the "Gents Hair Salon", the blankets covered in hair ties and plastic combs, the streetside food vendors, there's a low building painted in a faded blue. Outside it a few women sit combing their hair, hijiras among them. They sell themselves to the traders that pass through the area.
Behind the market, along stretches of road beween the ashram and work, and in patches of land near the office that remain undeveloped, there are shacks built out of fragments of building material, roofed with tarpaulin and plastic sheeting. Every morning there are small fires outside them, the smoke joining to the exhaust from traffic that jams the roads. I see people washing at the taps, hanging out clothes to dry, combing their hair, talking, getting ready for school or work. Politicians use these areas as vote banks, letting people stay there and having water delivered until one day a new development springs up and everyone is cleared out. The area around each shack is swept clean each day and looks oddly tidy. Even the dirt roads in the back streets near the office are always swept.
And amidst all this there are small, well-kept temples, dieties garlanded with strings of marigolds, who watch over the chaos and accept offerings of green coconuts and incense.
----
* A pretty typical name for Bangalore - Indians seem to love acronyms.
** Or possibly some other kind of cattle that just look like my rather hazy mental image of a buffalo.
All around the office they're putting up apartment blocks with names like 'Dollars Enclave' and 'Green is the Colour', which are being built by men and woman who use sticks lashed together as scaffolding and carry loads of sand in shallow metal bowls on their heads. Some days I see their children 'helping' them, determinedly filling up the bowls and steadying them on each other's heads, dropping them and getting in the way and laughing as the adults work.
Walking out to the main road to catch an auto home, Gayathri and I pass through the little market at the edge of the slum area. Some of the vegetable sellers have carts piled high, but many of them sit at the edge of a blanket with just a few eggplants, or sticks of sugarcane, in neat, sparse lines. Among the "Gents Hair Salon", the blankets covered in hair ties and plastic combs, the streetside food vendors, there's a low building painted in a faded blue. Outside it a few women sit combing their hair, hijiras among them. They sell themselves to the traders that pass through the area.
Behind the market, along stretches of road beween the ashram and work, and in patches of land near the office that remain undeveloped, there are shacks built out of fragments of building material, roofed with tarpaulin and plastic sheeting. Every morning there are small fires outside them, the smoke joining to the exhaust from traffic that jams the roads. I see people washing at the taps, hanging out clothes to dry, combing their hair, talking, getting ready for school or work. Politicians use these areas as vote banks, letting people stay there and having water delivered until one day a new development springs up and everyone is cleared out. The area around each shack is swept clean each day and looks oddly tidy. Even the dirt roads in the back streets near the office are always swept.
And amidst all this there are small, well-kept temples, dieties garlanded with strings of marigolds, who watch over the chaos and accept offerings of green coconuts and incense.
----
* A pretty typical name for Bangalore - Indians seem to love acronyms.
** Or possibly some other kind of cattle that just look like my rather hazy mental image of a buffalo.