The sultry heat on a midsummer afternoon is a depiction of sun god’s prowess on the petty human souls and the barren land that is being baked by his glowing furnace. I stood along the payment of the construction site, analyzing the changing dynamics of realty (that’s my profession). I dreaded this visit. The minute I stepped out of the cozy confines of my air-conditioned car, I was profusely sweating. In a minute I was soaked in a deluge of body fluids that ceaselessly flowed from every minute pore, like a ruptured pipe. I looked up, gazing at the concrete jungle to find skeletal figures working atop the roof, hundreds of feet high- it is a merciless profession and the very sight was painful.

You work all day long, with a mixture of bricks, sand and stones, bearing the brunt of the torturing heat. As you retire for the day, your choking unable to resist the side effects of the “construction world”. The life of construction workers are like nomadic tribes, loitering from place to place in search of work. A shaky hut, instantly resurrected amidst the chaos, is a home for many. While the ‘localities’ have the freedom to stray away from the site, the ‘exported workers’ who make their way to the cities in search of a living, survive within the dusty confines of their project.
Every construction site has it’s share of mishaps that are conveniently camouflaged like a stray injury, that was never to be. Engrossed in providing a exquisite finish to their work, many have had a free bungee jump, slipping off the roof, never to return again. For those who live to die another day-The show must go on.

As I stepped into the compound, it was a familiar sight of dust, din and animated orders being yelled out by the supervisor. My presence brought back a crafted smile that had long gone missing. He quickly offered me a helmet, showcasing ‘highly maintained’ security standards. I research the changing dynamics of the realty market and am seldom out there at the site – a mechanical engineer would terribly fail at analyzing the intricacies of concrete! However the last two and a half years had thought me the reality of realty.

As I made my way to the top, the supervisor continued to chatter of the world-class facilities that would adorn each floor. In deep contrast, I saw workers struggling to survive in the unforgiving heat. Once completed, this piece of craftsmanship would merely be a spectacle for them, completely out of bounds. After the work is completed, they ‘disown’ their child, as they move on to seek another job. Years later, when these ‘monuments’ become landmarks in the city, they stand along the sidewalks, silently admiring their exquisite piece of art.

I stood atop the 12th floor of the complex, admiring the scenic views of my ever-changing city, as each tower was competing with the other, to stamp it’s sign of ‘vertical dominance’. As I casually peeped down, the world seemed miniature in size, with microscopic vehicles speeding on the highway. The very thought of a free fall from here, sent a shiver down my spine.” Ignorance is Bliss”, I convinced my provocative mind, as I stepped back from the fringes.

In another few minutes I was back to the ground floor, busy discussing the completion date of this ‘concrete marvel’. My phone buzzed and I casually walked away when a little child, caught my eye. She must have been 2 years old. She lay amidst the heap of sand, digging her tiny hands deep into the fine grains. Unmindful of sun god’s vengeance, she remained in her world of blissful ignorance. This wasn’t the first time she was out there in the scorching heat. It seemed she had befriended the sun god’s warmth, as she playfully indulged in dirtying her torn attire. Her nose continued to flow ceaselessly, as she carelessly enjoyed her ‘joyful world’ of dust and stones.
I looked around, and there wasn’t a single soul in sight. Her mother was probably a worker in the project, who had left her in this “sand crèche”, while she went about earning a living. The little child smiled at me. It was alien for her to have visitors. She seemed thrilled at seeing me. Her sparkling smile, brought back a cheer on my face. Children are god’s gift, they are magical. A little smile has a soothing effect, calming your reckless nerves in a moment. She was refreshingly different. Beyond her shabby attire and unkempt self was a charming soul, endearing her ‘alien visitor’.
I stood admiring her beauty, whilst answering the phone, when in an absurd moment of insanity, I was thrown away by the magnitude of a huge thud. There was a moment of blankness, as I grappled with the situation. I lay on the ground, unable to interpret the cause of this jolt, when cries of concern echoed the air. As I recouped, I remembered the endearing soul that had captivated my senses. Mustering my diminishing courage, I rose from the ground, to notice a maddening crowd rushing to the heap of sand. The crowd was heading towards her. My heart skipped a beat, as I limped forward. There were cries of a concerned mother. My mind conceived the worst, my heart detested the same –these were indefinable moments of anxiety.

At a distance, I again saw the same endearing smile, in the hands of a wailing mother. The little one continued to smile, as her mother cried in relief. She continued to be in her world of ignorance, unaware of a probable tragedy. Her innocence sparkled amidst the mayhem.

A pile of steel slabs had fallen off the roof, landing right beside her. It was god’s act of retaining some blissful innocence in this complex world. After enquiring of her well-being, as I headed towards my car, the world on it’s part dispersed leaving the mother to tend to her priceless soul. The mother would have to leave her again on the heap of sand, while she went about earning a living.

Imagine a little child all of 2 years, surviving in a world of dust, sand and stones. Do we call it fate or an innocent fight for survival?
Some souls are born to fight for survival; she blissfully continues her fight in the concrete jungle!

It’s a cold winter morning and the dense fog shrouds the atmosphere creating little visibility, as the lone pedestrian makes a hurried walk down the alley. The spine chilling wind has kept the morning joggers from venturing outside. Our old little lady, Nagamma, makes her way through the sidewalks of the dusty street. The heavy winds that brought along dunes of dust have dirtied an otherwise well-tarred road. The bright red flowers of the gulmohar tree lay freely scattered on the dusty street, unable to tolerate the ‘torture’ of the merciless northwest winds that has been wrecking havoc since the previous night, signaling an imminent cyclone.

Unmindful of the weather, she steadily paces her aged legs to get to work. She has been doing this for  more than a decade, that she cares little for the vengeance of nature. “ I have seen it all “, she tells herself .The mind is firm at accomplishing the task, while the body seems to give in, that she slows down at the corner of the street , gasping for breath. Nevertheless she continues her journey to the destination, the 80 Feet Main Road.

As she makes her way through the dingy by-lane, she fumbles over a log of wood, cutting the strap of her pensioned rubber slippers. Annoyed at the timing of the little mishap, she picks the slipper and begins a cobbler’s job of pinning back the strap with a safety pin that was conveniently being used as a button for the woolen sweater. Her attire is a patchwork of sorts; a cut-piece of an old sari (Indian attire) was being used as a headscarf. A tattered sweater, gifted by a benevolent soul was her only protection from the cold.

She steadily makes her way to 80 feet road, oblivious of the gradually growing crowd. The ‘illegal teashop’ owner, who prides at having encroached the footpath, welcomed her with a smile. On his ‘steel box’ tea shop, hangs a court stay order preventing the authorities from razing his business. She reciprocates his presence and moves to pick her paraphernalia- Brooms of varied sizes and a plastic bucket to collect the waste.

She has been a cleaner with the local corporation for the last decade, cleaning the streets for a living. The broom and the bucket have been her only constant companions all these years.

’ It’s a government job’; she would tell her detractors in order to mitigate the criticism.

The fact however remained that she was a daily wageworker who began her career at Rs 30 /day, and today after years of service and seniority drew a salary of Rs 75 /day.  Her younger colleagues who had recently joined the workforce at a salary of Rs 70/ day envied her, often grumbling in her absence. None of her colleagues remained in the ‘organization’ for long. They would often get better offers of being cleaners at some corporate office, where the salary and perks were relatively astronomical. Age was against her. Nobody wanted an old cleaner!

It’s 7.10a.m when she gets to work, ten minutes behind schedule and the traffic had steadily begun to grow. She has a daunting task of cleaning the slushy main street in another 30 minutes before she could proceed to the colony. Her anxiety grows. The wrath of nature had only compounded her problems. “ It’s difficult to clean a slushy road “, she murmurs, as the broom makes a first sweep. The wet mixture of dust and leaves remain glued to the broom that she bends down to analyse the nature of dirt and then decides to shift to a longer one. 10 minutes on, she had covered about half the stretch and seemed satisfied with her work.

Nagamma continued her monotonous task, only to wilt in pain. Her chronic back pain had announced it’s arrival, at the most importunate moment. She has been persisting with this inexcusable pain for the last 5 years. The dividend of a demanding job! The doctors had advised her complete rest, warning her of irreparable damage if the condition aggravated. Little did she heed to their advice, little could she care for those concerned voices. A job was her only means to survival.

Unable to swallow the pain, she slowly moved to the sidewalks to rest her ailing back. All along she remained worried of the contractor who would arrive for inspection. Only his mark of approval would fetch her the day’s pay. She sat on the footpath cursing her fate. At an age where she had to remain indoors fondling her grandchildren, she was on the street struggling for survival.

A few seconds later, as she stepped on to the street, she fell with a sudden thud.  For a few moments, she was transported to a dark unknown world of blankness. A sudden rush of noises pierced her ears, concerned agitated voices. A splash of water brought back sanity to the surroundings. The little crowd that had gathered sighed in relief as Nagamma tried to muster her strength to rise from the street. As she tried to stretch her legs, there was blood oozing off her knees . In pain she sat on the street. The crowd carried her to the footpath. The hands were bruised; blood flowing down her temples and the dust on the street had embraced her sweater. From the little she could gather, it was a brash motorcyclist who had jolted her senses and sped away into eternity. Few moments later, the crowd had dispersed leaving her alone.

She sat on the footpath, concealing her tears of pain and misery. The work had to still happen, she needed the money. She had to sweep the road, there was little choice. She rose with immense pain and limped a few steps towards the broom. As she looked up, she remained dazed at the sight of the waste bucket being emptied on the street. The entire contents of accumulate filth lay scattered. The heavy breeze was blowing away the dust in all directions .Her entire work was undone by an irresponsible rogue who had sped away without a tinge of concern. Tears failed to hold back, she wept silently as the noisy vehicles descended on the street. She slowly limped to the bucket and again began her monotonous task of gathering the dirt. With every sweep, drops of tears gelled with the waste particles to become one with it.

She cursed herself for having survived the accident. She for once wished that she were transported into the world of eternity forever. All along the broom stroked the street.She had to survive till she breathed her last. The ‘Government Job ‘ was her only means to survival. A struggle till the very last!

Acknowledge their presence at least, if you cannot support their cause.

The train rolled away from the station, leaving behind a bustling life of vendors and waving relatives biding adieu to their dear one’s. As the train picked speed, a sense of having left behind a distinct lifestyle slowly descended on me. Each railway station in India has a distinct culture and mannerism. The dialect, attire, the services, it’s people are all unique and different in their own way. A journey through the country is a lesson on the rich cultural diversity of an unexplored nation, that continues to surprise it’s very inhabitants.

I looked around to find my new neighbours who had occupied the seat besides me. It was a young “just married “couple. I had noticed them seeking blessings of the elders at the station, as they set forth together on a new journey in life, far away from home. A typical scene often seen in the movies.

As the young woman settled into her seat, she let free the dupatta (Indian attire) which until then was around her head. A sense of relief from the ‘ traditional suffocation ‘was visible as she got into a lively conservation with her husband. She for certain had left behind her conservative self at the previous station! The man on his part scanned the other passengers with a sense of caution, typical of a protective husband. A little smile from my end eased his nerves as he reciprocated with a handshake, breaking into a conversation.

A train journey creates new friends, where people try to seek similarities to keep a conversation going. Many a times, the friendship only lasts till you reach your destination, while some blossom into relationships that last a lifetime. Each person has a story untold.

In a few minutes, I was back to my secluded corner listening to music on my cell phone, as the train chugged past green fields with little homes visible at a distance. A distinct smell of ‘railway smoke’ engulfed the air, as vendors made their way through the bogey, selling tea and eateries. Their stereotypical tone and style, is a mimics wonderland and instantly reminded me of my school days. I would mime the various voices at the railway station to garner attention of the pretty girls in my class. Today, in retrospect I could only but laugh at those foolish acts.

A distinct sound of the harmonium playing the latest bollywood hit songs pierced the air, as a father and his little daughter made their way through the sleeper class seeking alms . Eunuchs, beggars and many a time hopelessly lazy people use the train as a means to survival, seeking money from people who pay them out of frustration. Years of travel had thought me to ignore them at first sight by turning away with a stone cold face as they persistently nudged you for money.

The man on the harmonium was playing a famous Shahrukh Khan love song, tailor-made to suit the young couple who cared little for them. The girl must have been 5 years old, wearing a torn dress with shabby hair and an overflowing nose. In her hand was a little utensil she used to seek money, while her father played the instrument .It was a pity sight. In disgust I turned away, gazing out of the window, munching a packet of chips to keep myself pre-occupied. A sense of irritation persisted as I anxiously waited for the father-daughter duo to leave my compartment, when a little hand gently tugged my pant. Unmindful of the attempt, I nodded a vehement NO, without even looking at the girl. I for certain wasn’t going to pay her any money. I detested her act and the man seemed like a villain, who was putting the little girl through all this shame.

The girl continued to hold my jeans seeking attention. In disgust, I turned around to shrug her away, when I noticed the little eyeballs gazing at the packet of chips. As I looked, her hands symbolically touched the dry lips, seeking a few chips to appease her growing hunger. For a prolonged second, I gazed at her, unable to cope with the gravity of the moment. The skeletal girl was starving, while the world continued to ignore her. I quickly recouped to give her the entire packet of chips, as she happily left, munching bits of flavored potato.

She may not have been right in her act to seek money, but above all was a little hungered child fighting for survival. A child, who by fate was forced into stretching her arms for help. She had, but little choice in life.

As I got off the train, there was a sense of satisfaction of having provided little food to a starving stomach. Such are the ways of life.

Do your bit and make a difference !

It’s 11 am on a Monday morning and Residency road is bustling with traffic. As I stand along the footpath, I find a “ lost world “, heading to their respective destinations. It is a world where none have the time or disposition to care for another soul. Around me I find a whole  world of characters that I probably would not remember the next moment.

Looking for girlfriend, find a friend in your area, sexy girls

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