The canopies in the wilderness
Hide the creatures of the forests
Peeking out from the curtains of the green
There is a nimble creature crunching the nut clean

Spring’s created a carpet of rustling brown
And on it, tramples a naughty badger clown
Carefully sniffing the ground for food
It reaches out to his mate in a triumphant mood

The tall trees getting ready for a new gown
And on it branches sway a band of monkey brown
Food is scarce so they must eat less
The heat has put them through a difficult test

It is the deer that looks on from the trees yonder
With a new fawn, that rolls up its eyes in wonder
At the noises and the cacophony around
Isn’t it the forest’s resounding sound?

Is it a gunshot or a sway of trees
The wise owl opens it eyes to see
The merriment is all but broken
The nervous animals look on unspoken

The band of men with noose arrive
They carry a saw, guns and knives
Oh, the loud noises they make
Scrapping the trees, the woodpeckers make their escape

Two men, big built stand on either side
Of the tree that is home to badger, owl and the mice
The fawn looks on forlorn
The aching wounds of the trees that moans

India Untold

The morning splintered with wisps of cloud and clear light, a break from the drudgery of the torrential rains that lashed Bihar, the last few days. An instigation and a sign for us to head to our destinations- the Muslim dominated Basti’s of Patna. Our mentor for the visit, Dr. Prakash Louis took us through the landmarks that make up this modern metropolis. The broken, potholed roads of Patna were full with the morning traffic- heaps of garbage and amidst them pigs, cows, buffalos, dogs and men, all working in unison. The seat of culture for an epoch, a city of the 21st century, helplessly looked on as the gingivitis of rot wound its tentacles around it.

View of the rain washed streets of Patna A diversion from the crowded main road, led us to a serpentine lane, choc- a-block with cycle trams, people, motorist and tiny dotting shops carrying on the business of life. We were heading to Ramna Road, today a Muslim dominated area in Patna city.



The rains and the mounds of garbage had hardly left anything of the road, which swiveled in knee deep waters. But this didn’t seem to make any difference to the lives of those who lived on this street- the elderly, children, women and men, clothed and naked, all clambered atop cycles and scooters, waded across the filth and negotiated unseeing potholes and man holes. We were looking for Sapna Apartments and in the labyrinth of the alleys, with the rain streaking down the sills of the car; we stopped at every nukar [1]to enquire. We were to meet Khalid here- a doctor by profession, who also heads an organization, Shirkat that imparts live skill and training to people in the basti’s.

A brief introduction later, we were on our way to the Basti’s near the Shah Arzan Masjid. Dargah Shah Arzan derives its name from a Sufi saint of medieval times who is believed to have laid a great deal of stress on education and thought. For a distance that was perhaps not more than 20 minutes, the journey seemed unending- the road on either side had hundreds of hoardings of tutorial centres- the broken road dedicated to education of many. We learnt from our companions that private tutorials are a major business in Bihar, that no matter what people do, they believe in educating their children in the best of mediums, so that the next generation can have a secure and better life. Poignant as it may sound it seemed that the country’s intellects were breeding in these little “dhabas[2]” of learning.

The Ramna Road opened into Kun Kun lane, where the billboards accompanied the broken roads, heaps of waste and feasting animals all around. To our amazement ever street corner had mounds up garbage of several days piled up, emitting a stench utterly indescribable; and as the day stretched, we learned recognizing street corners by noticing these mounds first. We passed Musalapur Haat[3] which we were told, used to be a marketing haat in earlier times and now functions as a subzi mandi, fruit mandi, fish mandi etc……Trade on the streets was at its peak, as was the filthy water - both relentlessly pursuing their goals.

After a precarious 5 minutes walk over loose bricks and miraculous balancing acts, we found ourselves staring at a colossal but damaged structure of earlier times- Palki Khana.

An ancient ruin that was previously used as a station for palanquins is now a home to 15 odd families. Some 30-40 of them congregated around us to tell us about their lives. Firdausa Bibi was the first to speak on the malfunctioning of the anganwadi.

She narrated how children go to the anganwadi close by and come back empty-handed. The situation was such that, even the smallest of children return home to use the toilet. Kausar Jahan, standing behind her, identified herself as the helper in the anganwadi, which she informs us, is “currently under water”. She told us that the money to run the anganwadi is appropriated by one Sultana who is the teacher, who visits sometimes.

Kausar Jahan hasn’t received any salary for the last several months. No one amongst them seemed to be aware of the role of the Anganwadi and what is available there. We were also informed that the anganwadi was started only recently on the 26th of Dec. 2007. Many parents send their children to the local Madrasa, preferring it to be a safer place, one that ensures there children are fed at least one meal. None of the women in the group were aware of the provision of money given under Janani Suraksha Yojana. There was almost a unanimous response of dejection on mention of deliveries in government hospitals. Shiraz Bibi recounted that her sister had gone to the sarkari hospital on her due date, only to be sent back by doctors after examination. The woman delivered on her way back in the rickshaw. Everyone in this basti goes to private doctors and clinics which charge exorbitant prices and sometimes even complicate cases. There is no ANM here and no vaccination for women or children. Saqib, a young boy told us that he goes to the sarkari school nearby. We felt a little reassured when he said he gets Dal Chawal to eat in school, but not for long, as the child added that there is hardly any studies that takes place and that many a times many classes are rounded up and made to sit together, with one or no teacher.

As the rain started to drop faster over the seepages of the old ruins, the broodiness of the skies above mirrored the people standing in front of us. We met Hajira Begum, an old cataract ridden woman who accosted us with folded hands. It’s been 15-20 years since her husband had passed away, but she has no pension, no provision and no help from the Government. Wasim a young man in the crowd told us that the ward councilor does not work and hardly visits the area.

The average salary of each household in the basti is only about 4000 rupees. Only the men work, the women have no work. Firdausa spoke out again, “we want to learn new skills, we want to work”, this time echoing the thoughts of the other women standing their ready to undertake training and learn new skills.

Our next destination was the Flute makers basti built atop a cemetery in a place called Baradari. Khatejah Khatoon in a tattered saree stepped forward to lay bare her situation. She has no home, no savings, no earnings and a family of 10 to feed. She explained that with time the demand for flutes have greatly depreciated, a measly 1 rupees for cutting, scraping and shaping the beautiful instruments. Akhila Khatoon, Hudeja and Nahid Khatoon all expressed their helplessness in running their households. None of these women were aware of Janani Suraksha Yojana and only go to private quacks and practioners for their medical treatment. Here again there is no government PHC, no dispensary. In this basti like the other, the inhabitants were aware of the only one Government Hospital, the Patna Medical College.




In the light of no dispensaries and PHC, what seems obvious is the pressure on the Medical College to treat even the smallest ailments. We were informed by Khalid and others that many a
times critical cases from towns and villages didn’t get attention because of the bulk of patients that the hospital caters to in the city. Like the previous basti the anganwadi in Bardari also does not work and children get nothing. Mohammad Nazim and Saifuddin both flutemakers then rose to give us a grim picture of making ends meet. Their professions finished, few among them have any ration card and those who do, do not get any provision from the PDS, no oil, no rice and no grains.

Asma a young girl in the crowd told us that she used to go to the Katra School, but had left school 2 years ago to work at home. We saw her bent over the stove in her tarpaulin stretched shack as we left the basti, in the pouring rain. The halo of the smoke created mirages of her face; at once childlike and womanlike.

A short drive later we found ourselves standing in front of another dilapidated building, this one concretized. This was the Abdul Bari Bhavan, built under the Indira Awas Yojana, to hold 45 out of the 330 households. Opposite the building, stood a hand pump on the road where 3-4 children filled water. Two women sitting under it attempted to take a bath -on the road. We met Nayeer Fatimi who runs the Al- Khair Cooperative Society here for the last 4 years. Again a few wobbly steps later, we found ourselves inside a tinned structure, part of which was a masjid and part a madrassa for children to study. Here amidst the darkened room and leaking roof we sat to hear the story of the Bakhkhos community who earn their livelihood selling steel utensils, buying kabari and riding rickshaws. Mohammad Tahir encapsulated the movement of the community from the village to the city and their changing vocation from singing in functions and asking for money to trying to earn a respectable earning. He informed us that the basti had been burned down thrice in the past because of communal tension. Ironically they have largely been victimized by members of the Dom community, also a singing community of yesteryears

Many people recounted how they were stripped of all their savings by one, Helius Company that robbed the basti people of more than 2-3 lakhs. Now they preferred to just spend what they have, rather than save it someplace. Nayeer Fatime told us that people in this basti and all the poor go to the moneylender only on two occasions – for marriages and for ill-health and never to take a loan to start their business. This basti like the others we visited had no health facilities for the inhabitants. We met Sadiqa Khatoon, Anwari Khatoon, Kalima Khatoon and Kabudan Khatoon here. None of these women knew about the provisions of Janani Suraksha Yojana and they all had deliveries at home. Merun Khatoon told us that she had to pay 600 rupees, as bribe to the Dai who took her daughter to the Girija hospital, but that later she did receive Rs. 1400/-.
The complaints here were similar, no anganwadi, malfunctioning school, no dispensaries and no toilets.
Children filling water from the handpump while a woman bathes on the street in the background Their biggest complaint- “everyone just comes, take down names and numbers and goes away”.



We then met Halima Khatoon, a young girl who has just completed her class 8 exams.
Azad, a young boy of the Basti who has just enrolled for his inter in Oriental College She is set to follow the steps of Azad, a young boy of the community who has passed his class 10 board exams and has gained admission to the Oriental college for his class 11.
A young child runs out from his tarpaulin house to see us leave the basti Nayeer Fatemi interjected by telling us that the schemes for the post and pre-matric scholarships never reach people, that forms are printed too late and almost never distributed in time. He shows us papers where he had written to authorities to ensure that a dedicated cell is formed and these forms dispensed in a timely manner. He complained of a lackadaisically working minority’s welfare department that adds to the people’s woes manifold.

As we negotiated our trapeze act back to the car, our heads heavy with the falling rain and the narrations of misery, our eyes swiveled back to the naked children standing in the tiny shanti’s we crossed. The rays of the sun seemed to have completely by-passed them.

We were led to our next destination, the PHC at Phulwari Sharif by Dr. Shakeel-ur-Rahman, who runs the social organization, CHARMS. The landscape offered us a multi-cultured hue of litter in a fern bedded green of water accumulated as if in a pool. And wallowing in this part swamp, part pool were pigs and piglets, carrying on the chores of life. A short drive over submerged non-existent roads later we found ourselves in front of the PHC.

Maha Sundari Devi, atop a cycle van to journey a 5 km distance over potholes and manholes just after her delivery. There sitting outside atop a cycle tram in a bedraggled saree splattered with blood we met Maha Sundari Devi. She looked seriously anemic. Her mother-in-law sat near her cradling the new born, informed us that this was her 5th child. Her husband who had arranged for the transport, the best he could with his means showed us the check of Rs. 1400/- paid to him under Janani Suraksha Yojana. Dr. Shakeel told us that a new circular from the Bihar Swasth Samiti states that patients are entitled to free ambulance from the hospital to their home, but we saw no such availability here. The Sarkari Ambulance we were informed charges Rs 5 per kms to ferry patients. Appalled at the condition of the woman, who looked seriously anemic, we then marched inside the PHC, wherein we came across a young pediatrician who it seemed had just stepped in, even though her shift started an hour ago. On enquiring about how Maha Sundari Devi could have been discharged without supervision, she was almost flippant in her reply remarking that she hadn’t seen her or the infant on account of them leaving without any information. The battle of words ensued and she informed us that she was in a contract at the PHC, thus shielding herself from taking any more of the blame.


Incidentally the PHC has four super specialty doctors who are all on contract. Our tour of the PHC revealed only empty rooms, the general wards, the OT, the special rooms all adorned big locks. Dr. Jha the PHC supervisor who accompanied us was barely audible, mumbling apologetic responses. We then headed to the gynecological ward where we saw a pregnant lady brought in by a woman and laid on a stained bed. Rehana Banu told us that she is an anganwadi worker at the Garib Nawaz Jhopar Patti at Eshopur and had brought in the woman to deliver her 3rd child.
Women lying in the room pre and post delivery Even though Rehana Banu had brought in the young woman she is not entitled to get any money as is the norm for the ASHA in rural area.

She hopes the family will give her something “khushi se”.
Sarfaraz, a young man from the Al-Khair Society then led us to the basti near Ishapur Nahar.
Tabassum with her daughter Saloni We met Tabassum here whose daughter Saloni was born in a private hospital after an operation that costs her 10,000 rupees.


The women congregated around us here, were more vociferous with their problems. The water situation in the basti was precarious they told us, women have no work and the elderly get no pension. Here too the same fear of non-functional sarkari hospital was deep-seated, only one among the group was aware of the provisions under Janani Suraksha Yojana.

Women talk about their problems in the Ishapur Nahar Basti The Anganwadi centre in the area was run by people who came from outside and children in the group informed us that they were given kichidi after every 15-20 days. Abdur Razzak an elderly man who runs a small educational centre in the basti told us that the forms for the pre and post matric scholarships were never distributed in time by the state government and were difficult to fill in.


Women in this basti like the others we visited did not have any means of livelihood but were open to learning news skills and trades.

Now as we sit to gather the shards of our memory and sketchily written notes to paper, our minds traverses back to the basti’s we visited; the numerous women and men who came forward to tell us that they want to better their lives. The single strand that streaks them all is hope. Hope that is bedded on the faith of their strengths to learn and apply themselves and better their life situations.

[1] Nukar- street corner
[2] Dhabas- centres where people congregate to eat learn etc.
[3] Haat- trading area

The Story of a Shoe

Crafted I was in a shoe-man house,
My brothers and I were leather bound,
The loving hands that created my soul
Coughing over winter nights forlorn,

I was a dandy of the shop that adorned,
The best amongst the lot,
I stood tall, invincible and proud
For I knew I was priceless and beautiful without a shroud
Of guilt I stood out, craning my neck
For the beautiful dame’s grace
Oh the hands that touch me
The yearning that sets in to please,
This creature with my tease

Fidgeting to fit in right,
Tested and tried- the small walk, the gallop
The squeal of joy, the rush of adrenaline

The journey into the unknown, a land of dreams
To travel and see the world and all beautiful things
The walk, the strut, the swinging motion
The marble floor, the soft mosaic…like satin on rose

Urghhh what happens here, the pushing and the jostling
The feet I adorn, kicking and falling
Collapsing on my soul, this woman of price
A one-dime room and a brute for the night
Kicked, torn apart, raped and hurt
I survive, blistered is my soul
I crawl and lick my wounds

Something ruffles beneath my side,
I heave and find papers with marks of the might,
Scattered on the floor they lie
A testimony to the violence of the night


The hands that bend to collect them let out a sigh
The cold feet grapples for my sight
Kicked torn raped and hurt
I survive, blistered in my soul
I walk the satin rose that hurt my body like thorns


I walk with my head bent low
Counting the pebbled street slow
Bending, twisting, falling, standing
The marathon, I must finish
To my creator I must replenish my soul
To the world adieu I bid
The graveyard of hell I have lived!

Crossroads

Caught you checking your reflection in the mirror,
Walking the unpaved path, protruding stones, dingy alleys
At crossroads of life as dusk sets in,
Between the blanks of life, a memory that lingers
The quiet tranquil night and the pup rolled close to his mother
At crossroadsof life,as night calls upon,


The moon and the thousand stars embedded in the sky
The shadows of a caress that reminds you
Of the crossroads of life…

Paths chosen, threaded, forgotten and then chosen again
The hands that held you tight in their grasp
To let go, in the crossroads of life

Shadows in dreams, tales of sins
Love has a cost, a price- that we call compromise
That you decide… at the crossroads of life

Lost eyes blinded by the morning light,
Caught your reflection by the mirror, walking the alley last night
Between crossing paths with the shadows of yesterday,
At the crossroads of life.

Risings from the Underbelly

Sonagachi - the largest red-light area in South - Asia, commands an historical antecedent. Once known to entertain the noble Bhadralok, the ruminant buildings of Neel Kamal and Lal Kamal, today stand tall in the squalor of decay, waste and poverty, in line with the hundreds of shack like structures. Today, the word Sonagachi evokes various streams of emotion- contempt, embarrassment and even anger, but its existence is undeniable, as also the flesh trade that occurs freely in its streets. Women, like commodities are priced tagged here- their ethnicity, skin, eyes, figure and age important determinants of the price they fetch, in this modern day market. Every year hundreds of women, find their way to Sonagachi, trafficked from different parts of the country and outside. Violated, betrayed and abused by their own, they struggle to survive and live in this quagmire of abuse.

Yet the winds of change has not left the lives of these women untouched. Translated in Bengali to mean Unstoppable, Durbar Mahila Samanwaya Samiti is a forum of 65,000 sex workers that unites all those sold into sex slave trade and denied rights to live. This union in Sonagachi monitors minor girls coming into the areas as well as protects the women in the area from police brutalities. One of the gravest concerns in India today is the rising number of HIV/AIDS cases, and the Sonagachi Project, run by Durbar since 1999, fulfills its role of an STD/HIV Intervention Programme for this at-risk population. The union covers a population of over 20,000 sex workers, migrant labourers and street-based sex workers through 49 sex work sites in West Bengal.

DMSC has given to the women of Sonagachi, what they are most denied - an identity. The body -the priced and priceless have come together to construct a rising.

Travel Tales

Viewer’s discretion advised although if you are a young man attempting to initiate and explore your “masculine sexuality and strength”, this may be good reading...

Lessons on Public Behaving in City Buses.

Attention: All men of all shapes and sizes of brains, hands and other parts of the anatomy- This one is for you.

Some salient points:

All buses have rods, and well seats. The rods are to hold and the seats to sit in. And that is an universal truth. Rods are to hold, not swing and certainly not to lose or attempt to lose your balance and fall. If you must keep both your hands high up in the air and swing like a monkey in a zoo, please find a park for yourself and not the lady in the seat in front of you. And you neednt position to stand at her shoulder , you are really not as "big" as you think you are!

Hold on to something when the bus breaks, it isn’t rocket science really. You don’t have to fall and apologies! Also if it’s a relatively empty bus, why not stand on the other side and swing? That should certainly give you and your clan more to talk about.

Also all private and public buses in the city of Delhi have a Ladies side, often spelt as Ladis -but you get the general idea! Fights erupt over seats reserved for women. I say that you stop molesting, raping, eyeing, cat calling, checking out, feeling up all the women on the streets, at home and elsewhere and we, as women will stop asking you for seats. Till then keep your trap shut. When a lady asks you for a seat…give it. Where is the eternal "chivalrous masculine man" anyway?

A lot of times buses are crowded please don’t use that opportunity to molest women, help them instead… I understand it is a difficult thing to ask for but perhaps one could give it a shot.

In a crowed bus, if you are a man- able, healthy and reasonably wise and if you see the lady in front of you in distress, please give her the seat. It isn’t really about gender you know. If the world had suddenly changed and women started feeling up and touching men without their consent at every opportune moment, I would as a women definitely offer any man in distress a seat. That’s called insight. And that’s not really a brain thing; it can be cultivated with a little bit of practice.

If you moving to reach the front or the back side of the bus and crossing women passengers standing, please turn the other way and brush yourself against your male co-patriots. Its quite simple really, ( demos have worked!)- You turn and move in a way that if I am standing and you are walking past me, the only fleeting contact that you make with me is with the back brushing my body!

If you are standing next to or behind a woman in a crowed bus, make sure you keep distance, a bag, your own hands- perhaps one placed on the rod on the seat, can prevent the jerk fall and the contact. BEWARE OF SUCH REPEATED ENCOUNTERS...

This is a dangerous position to be in so if you are not careful you could risk a wide range of acts some of which can lead to public humiliation. Mild fallouts may be an elbow squarely placed on your stomach or elsewhere, the serious ones could get you slapped and beaten up!


If you must stare at every woman who gets into the bus- Do So Discretely. You don’t need to bore your eyes in her or attempt to see through her top. It simple again- It is not meant for you to see.

If there are a lot of people getting on to the bus, make sure there is a line, and that statement is really meant for all. For men- dangling out of buses and windows, a popular site in Delhi...please don’t try to impress anyone in the bus, by either jumping out of a running bus or jumping into a moving bus.

The last two factors notwithstanding, GET A GRIP -

I mean.... on the rods, handles, seats and

on your misplaced masculinities as well!

Bare Dance

The ubiquitous bear dancer parades the streets of dispassion
Stick in one hand, a noose in the other that lugs and pulls the “tamed” beast
He sings a distant tune, concocting images of conquer and war
He sings of, the hero and the relinquished,
The powerful and the powerless, the ruler and the vanquished!!!

He sings to call upon his brethrens to watch the Bear dance
On its two hind leg it rises, at the tune of the imaginary song
He sways his heavy weight, as spectators spit and vacillate
Between cheering and leering for an encore

The noose grows tighter, the muzzle that covers the mouth
Hides the tears in the shadow of the lids
The pain, the anguish, the suffering
The agony of labour

Dancing the Bear Dance on the streets of nonchalance
The bear dances to the glories of the past
Empires and years haven’t changed his status
Will this be his “Last dance?”