66 In Conversation with India

Seema Chechi

The Hero in Plain Clothes

It was late in the evening when forty-eight year old Seema walked into her home. Her daughter, nineteen year old Manju, was relaxing on the sofa watching TV while her eighty-two year old mother was washing the rice for the night’s dinner. In answer to her mother’s tired "Hi Mole¹" Manju looked up for just an instant and went back to her TV serial; after all tonight would be the night when the hero would propose to the heroine and Manju couldn’t afford to miss it. In the only other room of the house, Seema’s husband was praying; for a better future, for more money, for a job or two. He was a painter who worked once in a while for a meagre daily wage when there were jobs going; after all, the man from Bihar² would be willing to work for far less wages and would work harder than him, and so he couldn’t afford to put up his price. Seema’s sister was in the kitchen with their mother, helping her prepare their simple meal of rice porridge and pickle. She lived with her sister’s family as she was widowed and couldn’t live alone. Seema had offered the woman and her eighteen year old son a safe place to live, and she felt safe here.

Have you completed your homework? Seema asked Manju, but before she could reply, her sister’s son walked in with a group of his football mates.

Is there anything to eat?

Trying her best not to lose her temper, Seema told the boy,

"Mone³, why don’t you play outside for a while, we’ll see what we can make for dinner later."

Seema heaved a sigh of relief as she shooed the boys out. Now she could finally enjoy a few moments of privacy, but her husband called out,

Seema, is that you? Get me a cup of your special tea.

Walking into the kitchen, Seema found her mother weeping with pain; the arthritis in her knees had become worse and she was not able to stand at the kitchen stove. While ushering her mother out, Seema kept the pot on for tea, while also washing for her evening prayers. The cell phone rang in a rendition of the latest film music and as she listened to it, Seema felt her heart sink; it was her older daughter and she was calling to tell her mother about her mother-in-law troubles. As Manju handed over the phone to her mother, Seema turned down the flame on the stove so that she could talk to her daughter. Consoling her daughter and telling her not to worry, and that things would be all right soon took up the better part of the hour, and Seema was exhausted at the end.

With both body and mind drained, Seema quickly washed her face and settled down to what was left of the evening and as she glanced at the letter from the bank in her hand her heart sank. It stated clearly that if she didn’t pay the housing loan within the next few days, her house would be taken over by the bank.

Please let my troubles end soon she whispered to her God, please keep my family safe and let no harm befall them.

Seema worked as a housemaid in an apartment building in Kochi city, Kerala. Her day started at 6.30 AM and ended at 6.30 PM. She worked non-stop during the day, washing dirty dishes, cleaning floors, toilets, and washing clothes. She found time in between to chat with friends, help people less fortunate than her, and generally paste a smile on her face during the day. It was only at night that she let all the tiredness in her body escape, and she cried out in pain as her muscles relaxed.

The hero that she was, Seema had managed to set aside a little part of her salary every month; after accumulating a reasonable amount, she had approached the local bank, applied for a housing loan, and actually built her family a home, brick by brick.

Today, no matter what her troubles may be, she knows she can provide a safe haven for her loved ones; her mother and sister live with her. Although they are a great financial burden on her, Seema does not mind as she knows that someday, her God will look her up and make sure her family is safe.

Seema knows everything will work out eventually, and in the meanwhile, she repays the loan regularly and keeps hoping that her husband will find better work to ease her burden. Seema’s mother smiles up toothlessly at her as she feeds her her favourite mix of porridge⁴, and Seema feels that everything is worth it, and that life is meant to be lived fully and unconditionally.

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1. ‘Daughter’ in Malayalam, which is the language spoken in Kerala, a Southern Indian state

2. India’s 12th largest state, located in Eastern India

3. ‘Son’ in Malayalam

4. Colloquially termed ‘Kanji’ in Southern India, this dish made of disintegrating rice through prolonged cooking in water is often served to the elderly or the ill. It is also a staple food in the South of India.

Unnamed, Unclaimed

Hope within the Abandoned

One bright Saturday morning, as the sun was rising in all its morning glory over the brightly sparkling deep blue waters of the Arabian Sea, walkers and joggers on Calicut¹ Beach went about their exercise briskly and vigorously, while the Grandmammas and Grandpappas walked along slowly and steadily. We were all enjoying the lovely morning sea breezes rolling in and fanning our sweaty faces and bodies. There were dozens of children running about everywhere, keeping themselves entertained while their parents tried to walk off that extra fat accumulated through either laziness or over eating, or of course a combination of both.

I was there as well, trying to get rid of those extra calories I had consumed the previous night; it was Diwali² after all, and everyone was indeed allowed that indulgence. As I plodded along, discreetly aiming my jealous eyes at the young twenty something girl who had a svelte figure and long beautiful hair to boot, I noticed a tired middle-aged man standing at the water’s edge, holding his lungi³ rather tightly around himself. The lungi was in fact trying to fly away, and the man was using up a lot of his energy in keeping himself modestly covered. The weary man with long matted brown hair and an overgrowth of beard was bowed down and looked about ready to give up the struggle, but before that could happen, I saw him bend down and pick something up from the shore.

I drew closer to the man to talk to him, and although his speech was garbled and unintelligible, I did manage to catch a few sentences, and I have been disturbed since...

‘Unnamed’ as I am forced to refer to him, had been abandoned at the Calicut railway station by his relatives. Unnamed has absolutely no recollection of where he is from, what language he speaks, and even where he lives. The man probably suffers from some form of memory loss and related issues, and it was rather difficult to watch him struggle to form coherent words and string them together in meaningful sentences. According to him, he had arrived at the beach sometime during the past year, and before that he had been living at an overcrowded railway platform, and before that he had been sleeping on the pavements outside the main bus terminus in the city. He does not remember what he eats; perhaps he eats from the rubbish bins lined up on the beach, or perhaps some kind-hearted soul feeds him a few scraps once in a while.

Unnamed appeared to be ill, and almost about to collapse. He confessed to me, I am not feeling too well today, and I do wish I had somewhere to rest my body. I only have this one lungi to wear (he didn’t even have a shirt or a T-shirt to cover his upper body) and even this lungi doesn’t stay on me and I don’t know why, and it keeps unwrapping itself. Can you see this piece of nylon rope? I just found it on the beach now, and I have used it to tie the lungi tightly around myself. I think I was lucky today, as I found this piece of rope.

Ill and tired though he was, Unnamed had still managed to find a small ray of hope in his life; he called himself ‘lucky’ because he had found a small piece of rope that would keep his lungi on his body.

‘Unnamed’ will in all probability remain unclaimed as well, and the truth is that there are many more Unnameds that walk around our country, unclaimed, unloved, and abandoned by their relatives ( Indian Council for Medical Research)⁴. A few do get rescued and placed in Homes that take care of them and of their basic health and physical well-being. However, Unnamed will remain etched in my personal memory because of the fact that a single piece of rope brought him happiness.

The green nylon rope offered him a small ray of hope, allowing him to look forward to his future.

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1. Third largest city in Kerala, located on the Malabar Coast region, dubbed in the Middle Ages as the ‘City of Spices’. Portuguese explorer Vasco da Gama landed upon its shores in 1498, opening up a trade route between Europe and Southern India.

2. Also known as the ‘Festival of Lights’, it is an ancient Hindu festival celebrated in autumn every year and spiritually symbolizes the victory of light over darkness. Often, sweets and savouries are consumed in a celebratory fashion and are distributed amongst neighbours, friends and relatives.

3. Also known as a Sarong, it is a traditional male garment worn around the waist, and is popular in regions characterised by high humidity

4. The Indian Council for Medical Research estimates that about 7% or at least 70 million people of India’s population struggles with some form of major mental illness and in urban areas, at least half will remain untreated, and worse, they are abandoned to their own fate. Dr R Thara of the Indian Institute of Mental Health says, We don’t have sufficient hospitals for the mentally ill in the city. Many hospitals find it difficult to return patients to their homes as most families don’t want to take them back.

Kumtaz

Bitten by Wanderlust

The divine notes of a flute mesmerised and beckoned to me as I walked along the backwaters¹ of Cochin one fine evening, enjoying the cool breeze fanning my face. I realised that it was a young boy who was creating these sounds as he sat under a tree selling the flutes to passersby. He had a large bamboo basket filled with other rustic handmade musical instruments like the damroo², and the dholak³. I have encountered many such boys playing their own musical instruments and then selling them to passersby. People from outside India find it especially fascinating that a flute or a dholak, for instance, can be fashioned out of a piece of bamboo obtained from just that old bamboo tree around the corner.

Now, as I approached the young flautist and his friends, several of whom were also selling flutes, one of them started chatting with me, wanting to tell me the story of his life.

Twenty year old Kumtaz was born in Bihar, and as a fourteen year old was studying in the ninth grade when both his mother and his farmer father fell ill and became bedridden. The family including his two brothers and three sisters had to go through turbulent times before Kumtaz and his siblings decided to give up their education in order to support their family.

However, Kumtaz was no ordinary young man; he could speak English fluently⁴, and had been bitten by wanderlust. He had decided to pack his belongings and travel to Srinagar in Jammu and Kashmir⁵, a place he had heard of from his Uncle and had always wanted to visit. He had planned to earn money on the go by creating flutes and other small musical instruments that would actually produce music out of small pieces of bamboo. This is exactly what he did as he travelled from Srinagar in North India to Mumbai in Maharashtra. He had lived in Mumbai for a few years, after which he decided to travel towards the South of India to see what those parts of his country looked like. At this time, Kumtaz was barely eighteen years old, but he had been filled with the self-confidence that he could take on any challenge and conquer it.

I was struck by Kumtaz’s self-assurance, as such a thing does not come easily to a boy born and brought up in dire circumstances, and Kumtaz was but a boy born into poverty and hardship.

Kumtaz had been