Surviving
The Streets
By Harsh Mander
Frontline
18 May, 2003
In the heart of New Delhi,
in Connaught Place, is a Hanuman temple, which devotees throng day and
night. In the murky shadows of this temple courtyard, between makeshift
stalls of incense, flowers and prasad, under the open sky live homeless
women. Many of them have known no other shelter for years, even decades.
It is a shrivelled community
of tough, but battered survivors. Women of all ages gather here every
night, in their begrimed, frayed discoloured sarees. Some are alone,
others tend sick, disabled or drunken male partners, still others fiercely
protect their children in the dusty spaces that are their homes without
roofs or walls. Children wander around, bringing cheer and mischief.
Older men grope for the women's unprotected bodies in the uneasy grey
darkness of the city's night, and the policemen intermittently assault
them with their batons and taunts. I will always remember the distraught
faces of a group of these women late one night, as two policemen confiscated
and set fire to the tiny, grubby, bundles of their entire life's belongings.
Tempers always seem to run high here, as women quarrel or a man suddenly
smashes an empty liquor bottle on a woman's head.
It is extremely difficult
to get to know these women. Their lives are so brutally unremittingly
public, and yet encased in hard, defensive shells. There are many widows
among them, or abandoned wives, or women who have survived and escaped
violent partners. Some are themselves grown up children of street women.
Some women are almost always in a daze, drunk or drugged. Some talk
compulsively, but the conversation typically is disjointed and inarticulate.
Others are withdrawn and resolutely silent, hiding untold grief. Almost
without exception, they all display diverse symptoms of some or the
other form of mental distress. It is almost impossible for any of them
to survive long on the streets without taking resort to casual sex work
or intermittent begging, in order to supplement their efforts to subsist
by petty pavement trade or occasional wage labour.
And yet, if you persist long
enough in this unlikely community of the dispossessed, you recognise
these to be women of extraordinary valour in the daily grimy battlefields
of their utterly besieged lives. For a woman whose only home is the
street or the open city ground, the inhospitable biting chill of winter
nights or the foul deluge of the monsoons are the least of trials.
SAROJA DEVI should know.
The streets and temple courtyards of Delhi have been her only home for
the greatest part of more than 30 years.
Beizzati (dishonour). This
was the overriding feature of her life, as Saroja recounted it, without
sentimentality or self-pity. "To live on the streets - beizzati.
The policeman beats you with his baton - beizzati. Any ruffian sits
next to you and runs his hands on your body - beizzati."
Saroja Devi spoke readily
about her life, but it was difficult for me to piece together the story
from the scattered fragments that she shaped with her staccato words.
She was born in a village in Guntur district in in Andhra Pradesh. She
has faded memories of an uneventful childhood. Her father, the village
pradhan, drank heavily and died early. Her mother was kind to her and
did not beat her. She was married off at the age of 15 to a soldier.
By 20, she was a widow.
All that she recounted about
her husband was: "Woh English peeta tha", (he drank English
liquor, not country toddy like the others). She repeated this many times.
Most of their years of marriage he spent at the borders or battle fronts,
while she lived with his mother at their home in Hyderabad.
Saroja Devi does not recall
which war he died in. I found this extraordinary, but she brushed aside
my question impatiently. What she did remember was that she was stretched
in bed, in a stupor of malaria fever, when men in uniform brought home
his ashes. She donned the coarse white of a widow, and resolved never
to marry again. Her soldier-husband left her two young girls. With the
girls by her side, she returned first to her parental home. Her brothers
refused to give her a share of their father's agricultural land. She
fought bitterly with them, and eventually left the home of her birth,
never to return.
Her next destination was
Bangalore. She stumbled through many fragile tiny enterprises, making
agarbattis, candles and matchboxes. But there was never enough money
to feed her children. Her savings were rapidly depleting. She met a
woman who advised her that her chances were far better in the thriving
metropolis of Delhi. She had never travelled north of Hyderabad, and
knew only a smattering of Hindi. But she bravely decided to take the
plunge.
Alighting from the passenger
train at the New Delhi railway station nearly 30 years ago, it was not
long before she found her way to Hanuman temple and its bedraggled unsteady
collective of forlorn women. Her daughters and she lived mainly by begging
and selling flowers.
She longed for some stability,
some permanence, some dignity. Therefore, when a woman slumlord offered
to sell her a shanty in a slum not far from Hanuman Mandir, she readily
gave her remaining savings, a few thousand rupees. She moved into a
shanty with her children, and continued to sell flowers outside the
temple.
But one day, government bulldozers
arrived and razed the entire slum settlement. It was government land,
she was told. They were illegal squatters with absolutely no rights.
The woman who had sold her the shanty disappeared. Saroja could never
find her again. She took with her the life savings of many dispossessed
people.
So Saroja Devi returned to
the temple courtyard, and its community of the luckless. The ensuing
years were the worst in her life. First, her elder daughter had jaundice.
She managed to admit her to the government hospital ward one day, but
she died the next day. It was not long before her younger daughter fell
from a tree, which she had climbed to pluck its jamun fruit. The child
lingered in agony with broken limbs and festering wounds in the overcrowded
public hospital for six months. Her mother did all she could to try
to save her life, but she died.
It was during those months
of desolate loneliness that Saroja met Rampyari, a crabby eccentric
older widow who shared the community spaces of the temple compound.
They cannot say who was initially drawn to whom, but Rampyari was kind
to the twice-bereaved mother, and Saroja in turn began to take care
of the older woman. These two profoundly lonely women, each without
family or home, decided to adopt each other as mother and daughter.
It is a sturdy unwavering bond that has survived more than two decades
of the vicissitudes of life on the streets. Many such alliances are
formed between despised people on the cities' pavements - alliances
that are sturdier in loyalties, more tolerant of idiosyncrasies, and
more tender in giving, than most biological relationships. I recall
a street boy who adopted a disabled old man as his grandfather: He would
carry the old man on his back, and save from his own earnings from rag-picking
for food, medicines and even the old man's addictions.
Between Saroja and Rampyari
is another of these unlikely unions of the streets. Rampyari is a widow
from Rae Bareily in Uttar Pradesh, proud of her Rajput origins. Her
husband used to work in the railway police. He and her sons were killed
in a family feud. Rampyari found her way eventually to the courtyard
of Hanuman Mandir.
Saroja, on the other hand,
dark-skinned and of gaunt frame, fluent only in Telugu, is everything
that Rampyari, with her surviving vestiges of upper-caste north Indian
arrogance, looks down upon. "I don't know what she is," Rampyari
told us. "A Madrasi," she said disparagingly. "Maybe
an isai. Maybe a kasai. Who knows?" An isai is a Christian; a kasai
is a pejorative word for a Muslim. But one day it happened that Saroja
gave her tea. They began to take care of each other. And their kinship
was sealed.
Together, the two women set
up a small, wayside stall, under a peepul tree on the pavement in front
of what Rampyari described as that `very tall glass building', the Life
Insurance Corporation's sky-scraper in Connaught Place. For years, they
sold a variety of trivia - rudrakas from Hardwar, maps of India and
Delhi, trinkets, flowers and newspapers. The bulk of their clients were
foreign tourists. They would return at night to sleep outside the temple.
Sometimes worshippers would give them money. In winter, there were always
people who distributed blankets.
If there was one thing that
women in the streets of Delhi are most frightened of it is a van named,
ironically, after Gandhiji's ashram Seva Kuteer. The van carries raiding
squads that round up people who live by begging and incarcerate them
in beggars' jails for up to three years. Women have to be alert and
nimble on their feet to escape their periodic marauding. However, Rampyari
is ageing and therefore has been twice jailed in Seva Kuteer in recent
years.
Saroja was distraught when
I spoke to her because her mother was in the beggars' jail, serving
a year's sentence. Apart from her husband drinking `English', it was
a theme to which she constantly returned as we spoke; "We must
find a way to get her out," she kept telling me. She visits Rampyari
every week at the beggars' jail, and carries with her fruits and sweets
wrapped in her saree's edge. She also smuggles in bundles of bidis for
Rampyari to smoke in secret, a privilege for which she has to bribe
the caretaker. With her characteristic stubborn resolve, Saroja even
managed to meet Chief Minister Sheila Dikshit, to petition her to release
her old mother.
SAROJA's fortunes have changed.
Activists from Ashray Adhikar Abhiyan, an organisation for homeless
people in Delhi, met the women who live in the courtyard of Hanuman
temple. The women said that they wished most of all for the security
and dignity of some roof over their heads. There was no shelther for
homeless women anywhere in Delhi. The organisation joined hands with
the Young Men's Christian Association (YMCA) and Bangla Saheb Gurudwara,
and built a small shelter called Anugraha for the women without any
home. The gurudwara provides them food, the YMCA subsistence wage work
in a vermiculture pit.
For the 40 women who have
found an abode in Anugraha, it is the only home with a roof that they
have known for several years. The facilities are austere, but together
they keep it clean, their belongings neatly piled beside their floor
mats. The walls are decorated with pictures of gods and places of worship
of all faiths. The women still quarrel and grumble, but the mercurial
violence outside the Hanuman temple that was integral to their daily
lives is at bay. A few women have small children, who are now smothered
and nurtured in this new sisterhood of the sanctuary.
Saroja Devi would be content
if only she could free her mother and tend her in their new home. "The
best thing about Anugraha is that you can have within its walls a full
night's undisturbed rest," she said.