[Reader-list] Welcome to Nowhere, You are Here. Aman Sethi Post 3.0

[Aman Sethi]

Dear All,
This is the first in a two part post for my third posting.  Apologies
for the delay.  For all those interested in reading Ashraf ki Kahani
in Hindi, Shveta has come up with a brilliant translation, that in
many ways is way more poetic than the original, andshall soon be up on
my blog http://abjective.blogspot.com.

This is  short story basedon further interviews. It is an attempt to
understand the lure of Delhi.  The second post shall deal with things
in far more details.For now, enjoy.

Best,
A.

Welcome to Nowhere.  You are Here.

Part I

You are Here: Railway Station.  The perfect platform for the great
escape.  You could not stage it better even if you tried.  Hop on the
train from Ithaka, Muzzafarpur, Secunderabad, Patna; put your head
down and push your way in.  Deep in.  You are now a suitcase, a bundle
of cloth, a historical baggage from the country side. A three tier,
third class sleeper cell, on an unreserved ticket; camouflaged among a
million self-respecting, hardworking, god-fearing, undeniably boring,
do-gooding legitimate sons of married mothers; watching every move of
yours – lest you decamp with their VIP strolley well before the train
reaches Delhi.

Dilli, Jehan goli maarke log aate hai; Goli kha ke log aate hain.  The
resting place for failed bullet biters.  The old age home for obsolete
superheroes.  The revolving restaurant for retired hunters, and tiring
quarry.  Every kid knows Delhi – Jama Masjid, Qutub Minar, Lal Quila. 
Delhi is huge, sprawling, remote.  Delhi is small, cozy, crowded. 
There are no towns in Delhi, there are no cities in Delhi.  There is
only Delhi in Delhi.  So when you're running away from home, there is
only once place you're going. "Dilli ko log dil mein yaad rakhte hain.
 U.P. ko kaun yaad karta hai?"

Jump off.  Don't look back.  Abusive fathers, obsessive mothers,
restless policemen, devious moneylenders: They can't find you. The
trail has gone cold.  A thousand bodies have rubbed against you:
wearing you down, shaping you up, shaking you, breaking you, making
you.  Congratulations. You are now a mazdoor.  By the Grace of God and
the Northern Railways, you have large, hard hands, tightly coiled
ropes for muscles, strong legs, and a body that just won't quit. You
are the ultimate building machine; waxed, oiled, and ready to go.

You are Here: Bara Tuti Mazdoor Mandi.  The city is waking up and so
are you.  You are  a beldaar.  You pay attention to the head maistry
when he gives you instructions.  You watch as he mixes the masala. 
You watch his hands as he measures cement, you watch his shoulders are
he mixes in water, you watch the his fingers as he sifts sand.  You
watch and you watch and you watch, because this is Delhi – where even
kabadiwallahs become crorepatis.

In two years, you are  a maistry.  You have your own special spot on
the road. No one can dislodge you; not even the sweeper who takes five
rupees from every worker to ensure his broom doesn't sweep their tools
into the MCD garbage bin. You have a contractor who gives you
exclusive business. You have beldaars who pay you ten bucks a day in
the hope that you will give them work.  But, you are not rich. 
Something is going wrong.

And so you listen to the babble of the mandi. You listen because there
is so much that you still don't know. You listen and you listen and
you listen, because this is Delhi-where even kabariwallahs become
crorepatis. "To make it big, you need three things," says the big man
with the moustache.  "Bharosa or belief,  Sahara or Support, Abhilasha
or Ambition."

Bharosa is the belief that things will work out.  In the pictorial
directory of obsolete superheroes, he is the big, blue, bulky guy.  He
isn't very smart, but he gives you the courage to make it work in
spite of contractors, policemen, MCD officials, Public Interest
Litigants and Supreme Court Judges.  Sahara, the support  from afore
mentioned policemen, contractors and officials, helps you out when the
PILs and Judges want to shut you down. She is blonde, earnest and
motherly, quiet and political.  Abhilasha is the two edged sword of
ambition.  If sharpened to a knife-edge, she is dark, fast, lithe and
sexy.  She gives you the very drive needed to think big.  She is both,
the spark and the fire.  She is merciless, ruthless, and topless. 
Bharosa, Sahara and Abhilasha.  With their powers combined, you are
Captain Bignuts, and no one, but no one, can stop you.

But as everyone knows, no-one is also someone.

Meet Sub-Commandant Samjhauta (alias Colonel Compromise).  He is your
best friend, and your arch nemesis. He is the ultimate double agent,
on no one's side but his own.  He is essential as an infiltrator of
networks, as the anvil on which deals are struck.  He has a paternal
relationship with Sahara – without Samjhauta there can be no Sahara. 
He also gels well with Bharosa – using Bharosa's impressive bulk to
ensure that deals once struck remain thus.  It is with Abhilasha  -
the temptress of tempered steel, the Kaya Skincare Kali, that the
Sub-Commandant crosses swords.  Like White Fang fighting the bulldog
Cherokee, Abhilasha's quickness and fury are no match for the
stubbornness and strength of Samjhauta.  Samjhauta is the silent
assassin; sweet talking you right up to the moment of the final
thrust.  Samjhauta is the dream-killer, and like everyone else, he is
at his deadliest in Delhi.  "Dilli mein humne zindagi se samjhauta kar
liya: na kuch bunna hai, na kuch baneinge. Joh sapne insaan dekhta hia
voh chuot gaye, sub kuch mil gaya, aab kuch nahin chahiye."

And then there is always the option of opting out. Forget Bignuts and
forget Samjhauta, they are only occasional visitors in the dreams that
you dream everyday.  Forget Kabadi, it is a "do number ka business" –
fit only for cut-throats and thieves.  Kabaris buy stolen goods at
throw-away prices, and sell them for huge margins.  They are the
launderers of stolen goods.  They are the sifters of the city's
refuse.  They are excluded from even the labour mandi.  They are the
bhangees.

More constant is the stoic path of mazdoori, mehnat, izzat and
majboori.  The path of the hardworking, respected and responsible man
that you hope you tread everyday. You are older, wiser and a long,
long way from home.

Sometimes you are  a drunk, sometimes you aren't.  Sometimes you are
hungry, sometimes you aren't. Sometimes you are poor, sometimes you
feel rich.  And then one day you trip over the broken pieces of a
dream you once had, and out of the corner of your eye you see black
leather.

Abhilasha!

After all, this is Delhi – where even a kabadiwallah can become a crorepati.