[Reader-list] From London to Bangalore

[zainab]

>From London to Bangalore

Aldgate. It is literally a gate. It separates Central London from East London.

East London. The infamously famous part of London City. There is Brick Lane which is the ‘culture hub’ of the city and many novels and stories have been written about Brick Lane. I have not read any of these, but I certainly know that these would be unable to capture the territorial, inward, closed and ghetto nature of Brick Lane. Don’t get me wrong, I am not condemning Brick Lane. I am stating what I have sensed. Given the political atmosphere in London, the targeting of Muslims, the experience of living in a city that is not really home for the Bangladeshis who inhabit Brick Lane, there is something inward about Brick Lane. Yes, there are restaurants, shops, eats, the everything that a tourist would look for, but that is a very superficial image of Brick Lane. There is more to Brick Lane, the people who reside in it. It is the people who make the space. And it is through the lives and stories of the people that Brick Lane can be understood. 
(Now I understand what ‘apparent’ actually means …)

For a moment, just for a moment, I stand amused. It’s called the Brady Arts Center Street and beneath it is written in English and Bengali ‘Kobi Nazrul Islam Street’. I wonder whether this is a form of making a claim on the space of the city. Kobi Nazrul is the national poet of Bangladesh. Maybe one would say that this is a sort of ‘establishing Bangladesh in London, a form of assertion.’ I disagree. I believe it is a form of making a claim on a city, asserting that yes, we indeed do not belong here, but we are here. We have made this space from its past into what it is now, we have a hand in perpetuating this city, we are here and you have some obligations towards us to fulfill. Undoubtedly, the space and nature of claims will change with the coming generations.
(‘Claim-making’, now I understand what a tedious process it can be to make claims on the city …)

It is a Sunday, thankfully sunny. I have dragged Alt to come with me to Tower Hamlets because I am given to understand that there is some kind of an ‘illegal’ market here which takes place only on Sundays. ‘Illegal in London’ – this fascinates me. The last two days, I have walked the Portobello street market, Spitalfields and some other street markets, but these are all licensed markets. There are licensed stalls to let. Yes, there is ‘culture’, if you may please, in here, but I can’t seem to enjoy it. There is a certain feeling in me which says that this is marketed culture, propped up culture. It does not give a flavour of the contests in this global city. So here I am, curious, excited and eager to find this ‘illegal market.’

We accidentally tumble on Petticoat Lane market as we walk from Aldgate tube station. Nah, I said to Alt, this is not it. We were told to walk towards Brick Lane. Inside Brick Lane, we stumbled upon licensed markets until we finally hit the backyard market. The backyard market consisted of displays of students from the nearby fine arts school. We walked out of backyard, and there we were, that ‘illegal market’ which had been so elusive. We stood there for a while, Alt and me. Alt was busy making pictures but I was feeling too hesitant. Am I marking these people by aiming my camera at them? There they were … they were probably East European and some seemed Chinese-Taiwanese. They were squatting on the pavements on both sides. Some had opened up their suitcases and were beginning to lay their wares. Some others were watching, waiting, looking here and there, before they could open up the boxes and suitcases to lay out their wares.

Alt and I began walking. I still cannot forget those scenes. I passed by a Bangladeshi family – father, son and some uncles. The Holy Spirit, in this case, the London policeman, was not around, yet. They were selling secondhand goods. Perhaps they found some of these in trashcans. My eyes fell upon what I thought was a beautiful painting of a girl carrying concrete over her head and I could not take my eyes off it. ‘5 pounds, I make it 3 for you’, the young man of the family said to me. I took it. I was too tempted to engage in a conversation with him and yet, I agonizingly could not. At every moment, I was nervous, what if I broach something inappropriate. I decided to walk ahead, to see if I could muster any courage. But perhaps there was no need for me to muster any courage. There was enough to see, and I decided to carry out the conversation with myself. 

Alt continued making pictures. I made a few pictures and happened, by chance, to point the lens at an African man. ‘No, no, you can’t make pictures, you dare don’t take that picture’. I moved my camera away. Yes, I was right. In this space, I could not afford to be a leisurely tourist. I was in a contested space, a highly contested one at that – marked illegal. He continued to shout and became abusive. I walked ahead until he came behind and tapped on my shoulder, ‘if you made that picture of mine, you take it off.’ ‘No, I did not,’ I said. ‘Okay,’ he said and moved back to his place.

Place – yes, that is what that market was about. It was about place, what is known as jaaga in Bangalore – solpa jaaga. Place, jaaga, and a new term that I have recently encountered ‘location’. This market was about place, jaaga and maybe location. 

There she stood, besides a clothes hanger. She was haggling with a customer over a price bargain for shoes. ‘No, no. what do you think? This is used? No, no, this is brand new. What you think, it is old? I don’t sell old.’ She was very beautiful, perhaps Eastern European. We started admiring a dress hung on the hanger. ‘Yes, very beautiful,’ she said, turning to me, ‘and look, it got that belt in here. You can tie it to your waist and you will look pretty. And it’s also got that nice jacket over it.’ ‘Can I try it on?’ I asked. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I sell for 7 but make it 5 for you. Take it.’ Alt asked her where she gets her goods from. ‘This one, this dress, the boutique made sample piece for client and then gave it to me for sale because sample pieces just lie in boutiques and they try to discard these. So we go and pick ‘em up.’ ‘But aren’t there stolen goods in here, in this market?’ he asked. ‘No, no, I don’t sell stolen goods.!
  I get from boutiques, they give it to me. I have a license to stand here and sell. I can show you.’ I did not want to take this conversation further. Already I was beginning to sense the tension. Next to her was a much younger girl, again East European. She was being questioned by the policeman about change of place/location. She seemed intimidated by him, though his questioning and body language did not appear as if he was threatening her. She said, ‘I was there, but today I came here. Otherwise I stand there.’ He nodded. We moved from there, just to encounter another scene, but this time certainly one of intimidation. These were two Bangladeshi boys who had a clothes hanger with clothes hung on for sale. One of them stood with a cardboard box containing electronics, perhaps pirated. A hefty policeman rounded up the boys, telling them that you don’t sell these things in here. Some Bangladeshis and Pakistanis collected around the scene. ‘Can you give us some plac!
 e here please,’ one of the officers shouted. The boys were certainly
 being intimidated. We could not understand what happened afterwards. 
(Authority – now I understand what it means …)

We continued to walk, fascinated and awed. The sale of goods was picking up. 

‘This for 50 pounds, I sell for 50p, only today. What do you say?’

‘Anyway you like it mate, anyway you like it. Only 5 pounds, Marks and Spencers! Anyway you like it, mate, anyway’

A little further away, a man appeared from nowhere and started out a game. Spot which one of the 3 round rubber plates has a white sticker beneath. He began juggling. A woman gave 20 pounds and on spotting the right one, got 40 in return. She played another 20 and won another 40. Encouraged, a Bangladeshi man gave 20. He lost it and his face fell. The game was just beginning. 

Back here in Bangalore today, I spent twenty minutes in the City Market. 
‘Social Justice, Economic Justice’
‘Opposition to the UPA government which is anti-poor’
‘Dalit Sangha’
Yes, the jaaga was marked, unlike that in London, but marked for sure. Those who are marginalized mobilize themselves through their identities and attempt to make claims on the city. I saw this in a little glimpse in City Market today. The hawkers were hawking on dug up land. Beneath the Avenue Road flyover, the road dug up were hawkers selling kothmire. ‘Naati maa, naati.’ 

Contested space, perhaps. I still don’t have a grasp of the space in this city, of the numerous contests. I struggle to understand. My words struggle with me as do my consciousness and sight.
(Awake, this is Bengalooru …)