[Reader-list] The News of the World and Other Stories: Post 4.0 by Aman Sethi

[Aman Sethi]

Dear All,
This latest post is in four parts, and is an attempt to understand a
great vareity of things - principally "time pass", information
dissemination, and intersections between the mandi and the state. As
usual, its highly abstracted from my conversations with construction
labour in paharganj.
Best
Aman

Part I, The News of the World.

Welcome to The News of the World: Time pass with Mamu the drunk, Lambu
the philosopher and JP the lunatic.  Don't miss our

pet special with man's best friend "Kutiya the wonder-dog".  Also, in
"Ask Ashraf", the answer to our weekly poll question – Sarkar Humari
Gaand Kyu Marti Hai?"

The lunatic came early that day, and with him came the news of the
world.  Five in the evening, and the working day was winding down, the
sun was setting, and the world was slowly healing itself in
preparation for a long, bruising tomorrow.  Slowly the patchwork of
open wounds were closing into scabs, only to be grazed open the next
day – shops downed their shutters, mazdoors downed their tools, MCD
bulldozers burrowed their way deep into the remains of the settlement
they had just destroyed, and the Judge adjourned his Court – granting
the courtiers another night of uneasy sleep.

"Deviyo, t-tha Sajjanno, bhen ke lowdo, Gundi nalli ke keedon, Jago,
Jago, Jago"  "Mein hu JP Singh Pagal, aur mein laya huan - Aaj ki taaz
khabar".  Enter the lunatic – an effervescent bubble in a sea of
surliness. Weaving through the crowd of exhausted labourers, the
lunatic pulled hard on his chillum, exhaling plumes of bitter sweet
marijuana smoke: interrupting conversations, pushing, shoving, joking,
bitching, shouting, and wailing out "The News of the World"-complete
with analysis from our experts.

Undeterred by the lack of welcome, the lunatic plowed on, rattling off
events and occurrences in no particular order – taking credit for most
stories, placing himself, and his viewer, directly in the line of
fire.

"Soft drink ke bottle me milla condom – Pepsi ki lagi gaand- ek lakh
rupai jurmana.
Meerut mein lagi aag – voh toh kher, humne hi lagayi thi, Lakhme India
Fashion Week mein kapade gayab - sunna tha badi taliya bajji thi, hum
bhi the vahain, kyu? Sheher mein macchi khalbalee – bhai sahib, ek
bomb ka dhamaka kafi hai."

His audience, by contrast, was a study in stillness- pulling their
belongings closer, and then still closer, every time he passed by.
Inspired by KBC,  JP Singh Pagal was a firm believer in the "fastest
finger first" doctrine, picking up anything that caught his fancy. 
Rumour had it that he prowled the mandi after midnight, walking off
the effects of his chillum and stealing slippers, tools and clothes. 
But for now, he was tolerable as the fearless, intrepid reporter –
jumping through rings of fire to bring his uninterested audience their
daily bulletin.

The lunatic was not picky about his sources – far away, in the nether
regions of the hinterland, news was on the move.  Stories hitched
themselves to the hemlines of sarees, stuck themselves to the rubber
soles of countless Hawaii chappals and stealthily made their way
across the vast countryside to Bara Tuti – the heart of Delhi and the
centre of the universe.  Suppressed by Aaj Tak, cast away by the
Dainik Jagran, termed irrelevant by the English media, reports wormed
their way though the narrow gullies, seeking out the lunatic – the
half-mad oracle of half-truths, the Zen master of Chinese Whispers. 
In his ceaseless quest for the truth, the lunatic gave each story a
fair hearing - nothin was too sensational, or boring, to escape the
glory of the evening bulletin."Lallo Prasad Yadav has bought a new
house in Patna near Anurag Bhavan," "Manmohan Desai,  (sic) the new
prime minister, studied commerce in college."  "Kala Baba has
recovered from tuberculosis, he is now in
Nanital, cleaning up his act. Sources say he has never looked this
good."  His audience suffered him as best they could , "Aur kuch
nahin, toh sala time toh kat jata hai.  But saale se bach ke raho, voh
pagal nahin hai, bus lagta hai."

And then, as suddenly as he had arrived, he was gone.  A puff of ganja
laced smoke, a small hand flashed out towards the large plastic bag on
the floor, and with without as much as second glance, JP Singh Pagal,
"Sadak Chaap, awara, deewana," was off in search of the next breaking
story, humming tunelessly to himself, oblivious to hunt for a missing
ten rupee note.  "Dekh tere sansar ki halat kya ho gayi bhagwaan,
kitna badal gaya insaan."

Part II: The Philosopher's Stone.

The philosopher looked up at the sky, and then at the grinning,
clearly stoned, face of his departing co-anchor.  He cleared his
throat, and waited.  Ever courteous, the crowd settled down– allowing
him the opportunity to keep them waiting.  He lit a beedi, the crowd
waited, and waited, and waited, for the first cryptic utterance. His
large hyptonic eyes panned across the sweating crowd, his lips pouted
ever so slightly, and then he said, "Humme nazar aa raha hai – ek
talab phel ke thanda pada ho."  The crowd shifted, "ek kankar mar do –
ek kankar mar do , toh poora talab hil jayega."  Someone in the
audience cleared
his throat, the philosopher leaned back, watching the metaphor ripple
through his audience. "Sheeshe mein dekh lo, safa pani mein dekh lo –
chehra toh vahi hai." " Pur sheeshe ko pocket mein dal sakte ho." He
added as an afterthought.

While the lunatic was clearly not one to be trusted, the philosopher
was a mysterious chap: tall, dark and given to macabre allusions.  He
spoke rarely, but forcefully, and "jab voh mood mein aata tha," he
could silence even the most loquacious lunatic.  "Kya tume pata hai,
ki Dilli toot rahi hai?"  The crowd nodded in acquiescence.  Indeed,
Dilli was coming apart.  Not slowly and steadily like an old leather
chappal, but with the force and fury of an overloaded plastic bag.  A
jagging, ripping tear that threatened not just their homes, but struck
at the very heart of the mandi's business – construction.  A dark
force was gathering on the borders of Bara Tuti – heart of Dilli and
centre of the universe. An insidious ploy that sought to replace the
centuries old, "rule of thumb" by the brutal "rule of law".  A shrill,
elite-middle class scream, urging the Courts to "Judge Do It", and the
Courts had.  Almost all construction activity had ceased.  No one was
building extra rooms anymore, no one was extending boundaries, adding
floors, or converting balconies into bedrooms.  Many labourers had
already started moving homewards, carrying back stories of the great
silence, and many more were to follow them.  Yes, Dilli toot rahi thi.
 The great pond had been disturbed, the first stone had been cast, and
Bara Tuti was slowly crumbling in the waves. Where will we sleep?
Where will we work? How will we eat?  What will happen to Bara Tuti
chowk?  The philosopher's questions brought few answers.  His eyes
glowed like searchlights, prying deep into the fears of his audience. 
"They will make it like India Gate, clean... and empty." The crowd
grew restive and then repositioned itself.  Beedi's were lit, chai was
ordered.

A small conversation started on the side.  The remark about India Gate
had triggered off an intriguing chain of thoughts - Dilli mein kitne
Gate Hai - Dilli Gate, India Gate, Kashmeri Gate, Turkman Gate, Ajmeri
Gate,- pur ek bhi darwaza nahin hai.  Gates, but no doors -a
remarkable bit of construction. A gate with a door is a barrier with
restricted rights of admission, but a simple gateway with neither
door, nor barricade is unequivocally a sign of welcome.  Dilli - the
city of gates and sarais.  But, there were no sarais any more.  The
rich had taken them - just as they had taken India gate.  Now there
was only Bara Tuti- the resting place of the tired and hungry.  And
soon, Tuti too, would become like India Gate -Clean ... and empty.

The crowd looked worried, they were begining to miss the lunatic's
mindless banter. Sensing their waning interest, the philosopher
weighed his options and then threw out his trump card; the Bar Tuti
crowd was notoriously fickle. "Pur dilli jaise talab mein kankar kaun
pheke ga?"  Silence.  Pin-drop silence.  "Dilli jaise talab mein
kankar kaun pheke ga?"  All of a sudden, the metaphor was crystal
clear,and the implications enormous, - who would bell the cat?  Now
the crowd was furious, philosopher ne mood hi kharab kar diya.  They
looked about, and turned their backs in unison.  The philosopher
folded his
long limbs and went back to dreaming.

Part III. Of Kutiya the Wonder Dog and other animals.

Like most stars, Kutiya the Wonder Dog was conscious of her public
appearances. Performing before a residential audience that spent most
of its waking (and sleeping) hours at the chowk, over-exposure was a
very real risk for aspiring celebrities.  Before you knew
it, you were one of them – vulnerable to the same showers of abuse,
affection and insults as any other street mongrel.  But Kutiya had a
real gift that no-one could take from her, she was the best ratter in
the neighbourhood.  Sleek, fast, and always lethal, Kutiya could smell
out rats in most over-powering of olfactory atmospheres.

Muted by the philosopher's prophecies, the chowk came alive when a
large burly man walked up to the lithe, beige dog and dangled a
rat-trap in front of her nose.  Old mistries feigned disinterest –
continuing their conversations about the declining quality of work and
labour, while keeping one eye fixed firmly on the young men
surrounding Kutiya.  The man kept shaking the trap, sending the
already agitated mouse into paroxysms of terror, as Kutiya arched her
back and bared her teeth. A low growl, an open trap, chaos.  Men
jumped and screamed like school kids as the mouse sped off in the
direction of the
shops.  Labourers pointed frantically, and stepped out of the way as
Kutiya sped by.  Moment by moment she closed in on her prey, narrowing
the distance between life and death, till the mouse, in desperation,
took to jumping on labourers, burrowing through their laps, and
sliding down their trouser legs.  But Kutiya was not to be denied –
the last mazdoor shook himself  down – the rat broke cover and Kutiya
struck with the all the force and majesty of the Law. Shaking off the
other dogs with ease, Kutiya sashayed off the stage, the rat pinned
firmly in her upturned mouth.


Part IV. Sarkar Humari Gaand Kyu Marti Hai? Understanding the Lawaris.

This time on "Ask Ashraf", the concluding section of our show, we seek
answers to one of life's most vexing issues –"Sarkar humari Gaand kyu
marti hai?"

The answer is both stark and straight forward.  "Sarkar Humari Gaand
isliye marti hai, kyuki sarkar rundi hai.  Jis ke pass paisa hai, uske
paas bethti hai. Sarkar ka kaam hai gaand marna, aur kisi ki nahin,
toh humari hi kyu na?"

The more interesting question is "Sarkar humari gaand kaise marti
hai?" For the Sarkar is both brutally blunt, and insidiously creative.
 The only way to beat it is to prostrate your self before it, and
offer it your ass.  Admit to yourself "Hum kissi se kum nahi, khali
gaand mein dum nahin".  Rub off that war paint, and don the disguise
of the Lawaris.

The only entity to have successfully infiltrated the fortress of
governmentality, the Lawaris is the antidote to the Sarkar's most
potent weapon - fixed address.  Without a fixed address, you may as
well not exist - and the more often that not, the sarkar will make
sure you damn well don't.  Every free tablet in a government hospital,
every subsidised grain of rice,  every form you fill, is subject to
fulfilling that ultimate criteria - a legitimate,, fixed address in an
"authorised residential area." Without the address, the state can't
follow you back on the streets to make sure you swallow your tablets
in the right sequence,  and eat your grain and don't sell it.  But
when you fight your way from Buland Sheher to Bara Tuti, you learn a
cold hard truth on arrival:  "Footpath, Bara Tuti Chowk" is not an
address.

The genius of the Lawaris reveals itself in the recognition that not
belonging is also belonging - that every category has its
anti-category, and the lawaris is just that.  It is option d) - none
of the above.  As per government regulations, the category of lawaris
- synonymous with destitute - entitles you to free treatment, free
boarding and free meals at government hospitals.  Definitionally, it
implies that you have no fixed address, no fixed employment or trade,
and so are freed from the clutches of sarkar once you walk out the
door - formless, and shapeless, you are free to melt back into the
twilight zone.

But the lawaris is much, much more.  it is the frightening realisation
that you are on your own - rootless in a ruthless city.  A half-mad
teller of half true-tales.
"Sadak-Chaap, Awara Deewana"

Aman Sethi.
www.abjective.blogspot.com