I was following my ritual of fortnightly gallery hopping trip to Kala Ghoda, sipping coconut water by the road side stall, trying to find some respite from the heat and humidity. There is lot of drama that unfolds every day if you have eye to watch it and having coconut water at the stall on the footpath provides you ample of time to peep into burgeoning tiny microcosms in this effervescent city of Bombay!
Hundreds of people traverse on this road every day, scurrying to work; hawkers, beggars, people running illicit small enterprises, students and office goers trying to catch a quick bite from road side food stall, all making an interesting menagerie of people! The city is invariably always alive and kicking with such a lovely energy, always thronging, buzzing with activity, and teeming with life.
I looked at my favourite corner, normally occupied by a small group of people, mostly women, doing brisk business of artificial jewelry, puppets and stuffed toys. I love observing them for their colourful attires and acute sense of business!
There was hidden tension in the air as one of the group member's merchandise was confiscated by police and an intrepid, civic minded municipality officer who had swung into action of clearing the area from hawkers, the road from squatters, tear down illegal constructions, remove all encroachments around, making the hawkers jittery. At a distance, stood a police van and the head of the group was seen pleading, negotiating with the officer in command. After a few minutes of tough negotiations the hawker's property was released for an unrecorded, unofficial amount. Slowly, the life returned to normalcy and the group huddled together, occupying pre-appointed spaces by the head of the group, setting up their respective stalls.
I asked one of the women, an old familiar face from the group,"Kya hua? Police ne mana kiya kya yahan dukan lagane ko?" (What happened? Has police stopped you from setting your shop here?) She replied shrewdly, "Madam, koi naya afsar aya hain. Jugaad karna padega. Do chaar din tang karega fir hafta badha denge to pareshan nahi karega" (There is new officer on duty. We might have to try new tricks. He will harass us for few days but once the amount of bribe is increased, he would stop bothering us).
Inevitably, the age-old instinct for survival draws a large number of hawkers to the road each morning, offering every imaginable service. The spectrum of activities is mind-boggling. ‘Where would all these people go if they were expelled?’ I sometimes wonder! There are a few questions that come to mind when we look at these people not merely as hawkers, squatters or beggars. Why are they here and not tilling the soil or doing whatever their ancestors were wont to do, in their village? Another is: Anyone can see that most of them are doing pretty well for themselves (some even better than educated professionals) but they are not paying any taxes! You may squawk.
Like thousands of people who migrate to Bombay chasing an elusive dream of better opportunities, these women hail from different parts of the country. Most of the times, their husband or the patriarchal figure in the family is not seen around but their invisible hold is difficult to miss. Far too often for these women, struggle for the everyday existence turns ugly. Beneath their painstakingly nurtured inscrutable personae lie layered insecurities, aggression, inadequacies and deep pain of alienation. Their everyday life involves physical, mental and emotional abuse from their family members, local goons, Police or even from other dispossessed inhabitants just like them who compete to outpace everybody, in the race for survival. The desire to stay ahead of others is so potent that it doesn't matter if they steal, scavenge or beguile their way through life.
I have had occasional encounters with enterprising women hawkers and sometimes, I have been fortunate to discover their sensitive, intense and very vulnerable emotions of piercing agony that always festers and breeds, making a cozy home within. The outcome of my interactions with them is a sardonic pastiche, a vicious cauldron of urban destitution. Some of these women manage to find respite in temptations of this ravenous metropolis, some get lost over period of time and some really thrive very well despite all the odds by mastering art of the great Indian "Jugaad"!
