India Untold

Long before Slumdog millionaire, this piece is my take of my beloved country. A country where history sprouts on street corners and hope exists eternally. A country of paradoxes and of abject poverty.

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. 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.

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, 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. Every street corner had garbage piled of several days emitting a stench utterly indescribable. s 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 wholesale place. Trade on the streets was at its peak, as was the filthy water - both relentlessly pursuing their goals.

After a precarious five 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 families. Firdausa Bibi told us about the non-functioning anganwadi. The situation was such that, even the smallest of children return home to use the toilet. Kausar Jahan, 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 was sent back from the Government hospital, and had a baby in a rickshaw on her way home! Everyone in this basti goes to private doctors and clinics. 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 food at school. But he says, there are no teachers.

As the rains splatter the seepages of the old ruins, the broodiness of the skies above mirrors 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.

Our next destination was the Flute makers shanty 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 ten to feed. She earns a measly one rupees for her flutes. Here again there is no government PHC, no dispensary.

Asma is ten years old and a school dropout. 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 trash and riding rickshaws. Mohammad Tahir tells us that the structure has been burnt thrice in the past because of communal tension.

Merun Khatoon told us that she had to pay 600 rupees, as bribe to the Daula 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”.

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.

We found Maha Sundari Devi, on a cycle van in a bedraggled saree splattered with blood. She had travelled 5 kms to deliver a baby and looked 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.

Although ambulance service is free, it is not available. The duty doctor didn't know why she had been discharged and no senior doctors were available. 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 third child.

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.

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