The Ass hole

She shook her head left and right . He answered back. She repeated the act half a dozen time so did he. She rushed towards him in quick steps and nudged him with her nose barely touching his body what appeared to be a gentle attempted caress. She stood motionless frozen for a moment. She lifted her right leg in a bend of 90 degree and then straightened it. She repeated it with her left leg. Left-right, left-right over and over and again, her legs hovering and sliding up and down his body. He lay there on sand filled rectangular bed where the title holder is yet to construct his house. She walked straight upto the desolate street , took a turn towards the north , went ahead a few metres , stopped and and turned her face back gazing at him , took a few more steps ahead in a jiffy . She was there on the sand bed standing away form him this time - her body cut half into mild yellow and greyish white by the morning sunlight and the red brick house in ther north, watching intently at him. Many of these assess and ponies are out of work because of Delhi High Court's stay on further encroachments and constructions on the vast tract of Yamuna river gobbled up by illegal settlers. So the emaciated and sickly creatures have to fend for themselves and they roam the streets and lanes trying to find food in garbage heaps which rarely have any thing worth eating for them and everywhere in this grassless and treeless waste.

The calf as if propelled by a shock raised itself on his fours and pranced towards her mother's tit. After fondling with her tits few times, he broke away and stood a little distance away. The truth had now unfolded itself bare perhaps . Perhaps the calf would not have any more of the bluffs. Mother's milk had run dry.

hakim tried

Hakim tried to say full throated to come over his gruffly voice "let them ban rickshaw in Zakirnagar the buttock of residents would go burst" Zakir Chacha has started selling off his rickshaws lest he'd have to sell them off by weight. The owner might also ask him to vacate the (vacant) plot any moment - election is drawing near - building activities have started up here and there - the police was saying that MLA sahib has instructed the Sahab (Station House Officer of Police Station) to go soft on illegal constructions and encroachments- there is no spare rickshaw available on rent in Zakirnagar - The poor fellows are without work for a week. Elsewhere they won’t rent rickshaw to a strangers. They ask for reference. Who would in this alien city (most of the rickshaw pullers hails from the remote villages and districts in Bihar West Bengal etc. They would rent rickshaw only if half a dozen of rickshaw pullers already there testify that the incumbent is already known to him."

The world of rickshaw pullers in Delhi

Being a rickshaw puller is not every man's cup of tea. More than endurance and stamina you need a super human grit and a thick skin to put up with the daily dozes of revolting muscles and bones, thrashings, abuses and sometimes wounds that take long to heal. at the hands of beings whom the father of our nation once called bullies.

The round the corner tea shack is the only shop that opens at 6A.M. - a rickshaw pullers only haunt. People here wake up an hour and half later than the rest of Delhi. The missing of morning newspaper, ever since I shifted here 4 months back is more than offsetted by the conversations, gossips - that to me is a thresh hold to a new world - that takes place among the rickshawpullers, laborers and in this small hut and which has graced me with moral duty to highlight there plight and take up their cause under the aegis of our newly formed Organisation: " movement for Economic Democracy". I share with you excerpts of their conversation adverbtim.

May 2008 Sunday

I was in the hut, 5 minutes walk away from my one room tenement at Okhla- predominantly Muslim locality close to now dried up and wasted river Yamuna.
" Brought medicines yesterday. Heaviness in the head and nausea go away"
said Rafi the rickshaw puller, emaciated , in his 20's who has taken to the job 6 month back.
"Nothing left in Delhi - prices are soaring - better labour in fields of others in the village"
Said Bholoo a middle aged one.
"But he has 3 sisters to marry " said the tea vendor pointing towards Rafi " I asked him, six days ago to go to medical( All India Institute of Medical Sciences) W hat does this quack know what has gone inside. They do free x-ray over there ."
"Why didn't you whirl your cycle chain at them - I would have done it if I had been in your place" said another in sandow and a piece of cloth wound around his lower torso.
" Easier said than done" said the tea vendor "Who cares about us - not even the police - we are always wrong always a suspect (of delinquency) - on street, in markert, in mosques, in shrines- one day they checked the bag of loharoo while he was coming out of mosque to ensure that he was not carrying away the sandals of the faithfuls".

personal

I am a lawyer and a social activist based in this bustling, beautiful, green city of 15 million - New Delhi- the capital of my beloved country: India

Truth and justice is the pivot around which my sky of consciousness and thoughts circumnutates.

The attachment with truth and justice seems to be etched in the telomerase of our chromosomes. My brothers and sisters my parents and fore-fathers share the trait in varying degrees.

Giving up my atavistic core values is akin to giving up my head.

My uncle i.e. elder brother of my father died of wounds he had received while trying to protect a stranger from criminals.

My late father had a history of getting into trouble for others by taking up the cause of victims of goons and ruffians in a predominantly Muslim dominated locality in Kolkata the erstwhile British capital of India. The bootleggers and wagerers got him twice behind bars on trumped up charges. He lived a life amidst threats, harassment, and assaults and breathed his last in it. He was never repentant for the trial and tribulation he underwent.

I joined a number of organizations, afectating to be espousing the cause of the oppressed and underprivileged but I abandoned them sooner therefore.

I have helped form "Assembly of People of Heart" registered with the Registrar of Societies Govt. of India in the last week of April 2008. I am its Vice-chairman. I pray and hope that I am able to deliver.

Now we are campaigning against cruelty on draft animals, in Delhi.

Bulls amd men ofclay

It is four months since I took up residence here at Jogabai Extension, an out growth of the predominantly Muslim locality known as Zakirnagar .The outgrowth is said to be an unlawful encroachment on the dried up bed of river Yamuna. I stay in the ground floor, in a small room, of a two storey, un-plastered house built on fifty square feet of sand filled land. One of the doors of my room opens on traffic less street which is used by pedestrian cyclists and occasionally two wheelers as of now

.Ever since my stay here, when ever I happen to wake up any time in the night I would be met by a disturbing and terrific tradling, squeaking sound of a bullock cart zooming past till the muezzins’ call of adhan went up at the crack of dawn , and beyond. The rhythmic whack of baton in perfect rhyme with mad raining of hooves squeaks and treadles... The impressions would evaporate no sooner they would get registered in my mind matter of factedly.


Today I went in a different direction for my morning cup of tea in the open and walk and for that matter I ventured further north towards the Yamuna on my return journey. Was it an alive being with the senses of thirst, hunger, pain? Its mouth open in perfect 30 degree angle, bisected by a straight nearly cylindrical muddy tongue struggling to shoot out from the base. The mouth and tongue seemed locked still in a picture frame- out of thirst, hunger, pain or constriction it is difficult for me to say.

The bruised black open mouthed buffalo-bull answering the intermittent raining of batons with spurts of vertical jumps and then resuming the run. The cart was the size of a mini-truck laden with a mountain of grey sand loaded from the Yamuna bank. It was 7.30 in the morning. Alas! One more prayer had gone up from the minaret’s, dotting the sky line. “For Allah’s sake stop this cruelty”. It was 120 days and 120 nights the poor creature had been undergoing the merciless travails and how many more days lay ahead of him to be a perfect clay.


I sat brooding on the side walk with a Rs.3/- pen and a piece of soiled paper: “Ah Allah has not enabled me to have a digital camera to capture the life of men”., a small caravan of 3 elders and probably seven children passed by the size of procession never swelled till the grave yard. None of the faithful gave their ritualistic at least few steps together to the corpse and the bereaved. The oldest among them in his 60’s walked with the body wrapped in sparkling white coffin the two ends of which was tied giving the package a shape of bottle, in his lap. The body was that of a child but not of a baby.

One of the children walked behind holding a small polythene bag which showed a packet of incense stick a match box and some other stuff. In his left hand, with the other he held her sister’s hand firmly who seemed half his age.

Interestingly I found almost no lips muttering a prayer for the poor soul. A few days back a coffin bearing caravan had also passed that way then countless faces with down cast eyes had turned muttering prayers to bless the soul. Passer byes and shopkeepers and hawkers had lent their steps to earn the pleasure of Allah and honor the tradition of Prophet... It was a caravan of well-fed and well-clothed the size of which went on swelling till the procession reached the grave yard at the end of the road.

This was a patch of soiled men of clay. The next day when my bruised heart sought solace from another one, one of my Hindu friends said;” It is because of their previous bad karmas because of which they are suffering. My Muslim friend said “it is the will of Allah the master of all affairs, a sin to thing otherwise”

First knock of death in my head! and then others

The first death and earliest experience of death in life was that of a neighbour whom everybody called chachi . I didnt see her dying. She had died half a minute before. Those were the days shen T.B was thought to be incurable and fatal. She would be around 50 years or probably less at that rime. We saw her coughing and spitting all the time in an alumunium spittoon. She rarely moved out of the room, most of the time sitting on her haunches on a wooden cot raised with 3 layers of bricks to the window level. Sometime she would descend from her cot to the floor..


My Aunt Husna was the only person among the neighbours and their relatives who would give her company against the advise of many.
She would say "kisi sey nafrat aur ghin nahi karna chahiye "one should not or be averse to anybody for these reasons". " jo hota hai Allah key hukum sey hota hai"i.e Whatever happens happens by the will of Allah"
My Aunt was a very plain, simple,kindhearted and God fearing person.

Regretfully the events and circumstances leading to the death of my aunt still makes me sad and remorseful and sombre.

It is nearly 25 years when she died. It was a couple of days before Eid festival when she began to writhe with pain in her left arm and chest.

She lay on the floor writhing in pain and whimpering all the time. Father had no money on him to bear the expenses of doctor or medicine. We would give her PUDINHARA capsules and husk of flax seeds thinking that the gas must be resulting from gas..

For every second of the 48 hours she lay writhing and whimpering, day and night. She was lying on a separate bedding next to me when I went to sleep. It was probably 2 o'clock in the morning when I woke up to the sound of loud thud and sound of deep blow of air. I saw aunt face down fallen. She had been to the toilet.

I shouted plaintively " bari amma ko kya ho gaya" " bari amma ko kya ho gaya" meaning "what
has happened to bari amma'

Father asked me to go to Islamia Hospital at Chitranjan Avenue and fetch a doctor.

I wondered how "How I am going to address him?, What should I say? . Now suppose if he losses his temper? I formulated words and sentences and kept rehearsing till I reached the hospital.

A couple of junior doctors from the hostel readily and matter of factedly accompanied me home. They declared aunt dead. Sobs turned into cries.
Male members rushed in different in different direction carrying the message of aunt's death to relatives and acquaintences.

The mourners and her body was carried in an open lorry to Sola aana graveyard at Kidderpore where she was burried. The memoirs of graveyards is bit hazy can't say why.

Aunt stayed with us along with her daughter eversince uncle's untimely death. She was dependent on father.

My heart sank as we returned from the graveyard. I wont see Aunt anymore .Memories of the past came like heavy blocks of rocks on my being- my head, my heart my stomach, my leg my sole. I could defintely feel every organ and limb sad and exhausted like me.