[Reader-list] Leaving Nangla

[Iram Ghufran]

31^th March, 2006

Delhi

A line of trucks, private carriers, autos, rickshaws and cycles are 
parked on the ring road, through the length of what still is called 
Nangla Machi. I stand beneath a blue and red board that reads – 
“THANKYOU FOR THE VISIT. NEW DELHI DISTT. POLICE”.

A family of five climbs onto a truck and stand, amidst what looks like a 
hurriedly packed household. Possibly, there is still food and water in 
the blue Godrej refrigerator. The clothes in the red plastic tub look 
wet. Perhaps there was no time to let them dry in the sun. The red 
school bag is stuffed with books, pencil boxes and a ragged doll that 
stares blankly at the vista below. The women and children in the truck 
are waving a goodbye. The truck picks up speed and disappears with the 
traffic on the ring road. I think they knew that there will no 
returning. That the stay in Nangla Machi was over. The house broken down 
with hammers, pick axes and human hands.

Nangla Machi is a landscape of ruin. A few standing homes, surrounded by 
half walls, roofless structures, empty doorframes and thresholds. Broken 
wooden boards indicating a general store, a PCO, a photocopy shop lying 
amidst the rubble.

Its not an earthquake nor the tsunami that's hit Nangla Machi. Its not a 
communal nor an ethnic clash. Its not a bomb attack by terrorists, 
neither is it the after effects of a war on terror. Yet, this 30 year 
old settlement is devastated. A man standing next to me said, “ abhi ek 
mahine baad, jab sab chale jayenge, to, ye log mandir aur masjid bhi tor 
den ge.” (After one month, when everyone has gone, they will break the 
temples and mosques too)

On the first look, after the demolitions began, it seems as if the 
population of this locality was preparing for a mass exodus. But where 
do roads from Nangla Machi lead?

Nangla Machi. A railway platform. Luggage strewn about. Passengers 
waiting for a train to carry them to the right destination this time. 
Perhaps the journey will be over some day. As their houses are being 
pulled down, one after another, the destruction more systematic than the 
making, the question on most minds is 'to where?'

Many have left, with no hope to return. Their homes destoyed. They will 
tell their children that we once lived in a place called Nangla Machi. 
It is no more. The map of the city doesn't mention it, but yes, it 
exhisted. Between the river and the ringroad, near the Pragiti Maidan, 
the Indraprastha Park, near Mahatma Gandhi's samadhi.

There are those who wait. In hope perhaps or simply stalling the day of 
departure, trying to carry on some semblence of a routine.

A woman asks me, “aap kahan se hain?” (where are you from?)

I know what the 'kahan ' (where) imlplies.

“Kahin se nahin.” (Nowhere, I said)

My words drowned in the noise of the traffic. The city whizzes past 
Nangla Machi at the speed of 40km/ hr, 80 km/hr/, 100 km/hr...

I remebered someone mentioning that 20 flyovers will be built on the 
ring road by 2010. It will be a no stop road by 2010. Ashram to ISBT in 
10 min...

She pulls out a carefully preserved voter ID card. “See even this did 
not help.”

Najma

Married to Pappu

Aged 22 years on 01/01/1994

Resident of 303 T-huts, Nangla Machi, Minto Road, New Delhi

Electricity bills, ration cards, voter Id cards, phone bills and birth 
certificates. What will ensure that the carrier was a legitimate citizen 
of this city? That the place of residence was home and cannot be pulled 
down to make way for anything or that a home has to be replaced with a 
home, somewhere in the city.

“What will they make here? On our houses?” Pappu, her husband asked, to 
no one in particular.

“It will be a restaurant, hotel”, someone answered.

“No, no. They will make a big staduim here. Perhaps for football”, A 
young woman with a baby in her arms said.

“No. It is going to be a park, till the Yamuna”, spoke a young man in a 
Che Guevara T- shirt.

“I heard it say that they will make a power station here”, an old man in 
a white kurta pajama said.

“ Arre, I am telling you, it is all because of that Metro”, said a man 
passing by, with a huge black bundle of black polyethene – remains of a 
roof – to be sold to the 'kabari'.

How many will the city expell in order to recreate, refashion itself?

How many walls will be broken to make Delhi a World City?

What will happen to the families till land is allocated to the lucky ones?

Will the population of Nangla Machi disappear into thin air?

Will they bunk at relatives and friends homes? At the place of work?

Will they go back? and Where does a Delhiite go back to?

A man, working at Mandi House said, “ We'll come from Bawana now. They 
made the Metro for us!”

A telephone rings interuppting our conversation. Its shrill sound out of 
place. I look around.

There are the remains of a dwelling. The walls are now about a foot high 
and the roof is missing. I see a white panasonic instrument lying on a 
air cooler leaning against an electricity pole. A young boy answered on 
the fifth ring.

“ Yes Bhaiya. We are packed. What is the truck number? A blue one. A 
private carrier? Wont it be small?”

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