It was long back. There used to be an old man a pale young woman sitting outside the hostel I was living in Bangalore. The woman- or girl, for it was impossible to ascertain her age- wore saree, and sat quietly besides the man, always pointing her gaze downwards. Both were in rags; the man had rather ugly voice, and he begged for money in a passionless or monotonous way, that only irritated passersby. Even with the miserable look of the girl, they did not make much money, for she did not partake in begging, only sat there, without any expression, and the man was also not a seasoned beggar. Over time they became a constant background of that Yeswantpur bus-stop,like the advertisement of radio mirchi, and the regular passengers always ignored them. One Sunday morning, on a what promised to be a beautiful day, not too hot and not too cold, bright red flowers of March beginning to appear on both sides of the highway, we were going to the market. We saw the man sitting a bit far away from his usual place. There were some other usual beggars squatting nearby, some smoking, as if on a holiday. As we walked close by the we saw the girl was lying on the earth, her body covered in a new white cloth, and an agarbathi burning near head, along with a few bananas, and sweets. She had that calm look on her face as she always had.
We don't know what happened to the man. He was never seen there afterwards.
I believe he begged only for the sake of the girl.
From remote parts of Karnataka and India people flock to Bangalore
in the hope of finding a livelihood. The old man could have
come from Bellary from one of the closed mining fields. Or from
Shimoga, Kolar, or from neighbouring Peenya Industrial Estate,
which recently threw away
tens of thousands to street. Or he might have owned huge land in Marthahlli that he was coaxed by big builders to part with. We don't know for sure. If we had a Dickens among us, he would have told us the story of the wandering old man and his grand daughter. But we don't have and we don't care.
In those parts of the world, the third world, human life does not value much. And in big cities bare survival itself is a very delicate balancing act for many.
'Life in the Undergrowth' was a David Attenborough documentary on the
creatures that live under the earth, termites, caterpillars, and the like,
too small or insignificant to notice except when they become nuisance.
[image courtesy: http://www.aliceneel.com]
In those parts of the world, the third world, human life does not value much. And in big cities bare survival itself is a very delicate balancing act for many.
In India we were made to believe that there are too many to feed. It impossible to feed the teeming millions, and it was implied that, some will have to, well, die. Charity was of course encouraged, cited, and celebrated, as if that is the only thing left to try. (There was even a nobel price for charity.) Naive and gentle intellectuals always assured us that as we control population we will have more resources to spare and share.
Canada is about three times bigger than India. And it has thirty times less people to feed. While India has about 364 people in every square kilo meter Canada has only 3. And Canada is one of the wealthiest nations in the world. It is full of philanthropists of all kinds. To top all Canada has one of the most benevolent (from a naive Indian perspective) and extreme welfare capitalism at the helm
shaped by strong wave of working class movements here. So even when we get rid of extra people- 99 out of 100- who are assumed to be there only to eat and multiply and even when we become the next superpower, and even when half our
rich turn into philanthropy, we will be doing only as well.
Montreal appears as quiet beautiful city outwards. Students, professors, and the government staff. Tourists. Smiling faces everywhere, nice manners, clean city.
But beneath this benign skin lies city's under privileged. They have been carefully segregated from the main city to distant neighborhoods so that the poor
do not swarm around the slums and sewage canals in the city, and prick your conscience.
But city is not well cemented. In July alone 80,000 lost their jobs (Source: Canada Labour Force Survey). Sometimes it is not hard to come across healthy looking men and women, even in the prime of their youth, walking or cycling, with a bundle carrying all their belongings. A bundle of clothes, a water bottle, mug, few tissue papers, all rolled and attached to a single bag. They are not leisure hikers. They are the modern nomads, forced to live on the move, because they have no place to call home. If you are an early bird, and walk around parks and other public spaces you would easily come across many sleeping there. There are more artistic ways as well: like our train musician and street painters. (some are quite amazing, but one must keep in mind that they attract talent on an international scale and level, among them some end up in streets.) Some would come to you, like decent gentlemen or ladies. "Sir, can you spare some change ?". Often when you say "Sorry, no change" they would walk away. Resigned to their fate, and too proud.
But it is hard to maintain decorum, particularly when one goes hungry in extreme weather. Many would sit in street corners often keeping a placard in front of them narrating their situation. Refugees out of provincial healthcare, or other umpteen situations which left them without the support of the state, to seek
charity elsewhere. One such placard was blunt and to the point: "I need to eat."
Yesterday happened to be birthday for one of us. Being a special day, and far from near and dear, a stroll along St Catherine seemed like the right thing to do. It was a beautyful sunny day, and being a long weekend, streets would not be crowded.
St. Catherine is one one saint in North America who share same fate of Saint Gandhi. Roads named after him are usually the busiest and poshest. They contain the most expensive showrooms, restaurants, pubs, massage parlours, and other murky things of city life. They have the statue of the saint in some obscure corner
shadowed by flashy hoardings of obscene liquor or lingerie advertisements.
On rue st catherine near a big supermarket we came across a family- a young handsome man in his twenties sat looking downward on a bundle of clothes, trying to quieten two dogs (I have never seen children in street); a woman of the same age, sat on the pavement. The lady(?) carried a placard, which read: "Today is my birthday; please spare some change".
So much for the first world.
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'Life in the Undergrowth' was a David Attenborough documentary on the
creatures that live under the earth, termites, caterpillars, and the like,
too small or insignificant to notice except when they become nuisance.
[image courtesy: http://www.aliceneel.com]
