Day -starters

It was another usual day where everyone was busy getting ready for work. I was running a bit behind the schedule, which was showing in my temper. It had rained heavily last night and the surroundings were immersed in water. I was waiting for the maid to come and do her routine task so that I can leave with a sense of neat and clean house. She was trying to cope up with the flood situation in her house and busy to rescue the limited belongings that she possessed. ‘Damn!! I will be late’ was the thought when I took charge of the steering wheel. The traffic was chaotic on the road. Everybody trying to overtake from whichever side. The underway beneath the railway bridge gets waterlogged; I have to take a longer route now. A car went full speed splashing the dirty water. My hair and sleeve of the dress got drenched. “Owner of this luxury car is supposed to be educated and well-groomed, why can’t they show some sense?” I was imagining myself entering the office as the dirty character of ‘washing- powder- Nirma-ad’.

Anyway, I have to concentrate on the round-about ahead. On a smaller one usually there is no traffic-signal. The Traffic police are posted but in a hurry you tend to miss him standing on one side of the road under a shady tree. Traffic police on the road is a recent scene for me. The city I grew up had no concept of ‘road sense’. Foot walkers, cyclists, scooterists and motorists (who were very rare) used to share the road with equal pride. In mornings and evenings the pride was further shared by buffaloes, cows and goats. ‘Keep left’ was a slogan mugged in school but hardly practiced. My memory of a Traffic-police was a man clad in white uniform; recently changed to blue and white. Another information I had was they commonly suffer from varicose veins which is an occupational hazard. In this city I come across Traffic police profoundly during the helmet-pehno-seatbelt-bandho-drive  or licence-check-karoa-drive  or pandrah-agast-chhabbis-janvari-explosive-checking-drive. I have changed the nomenclature to Terriffic police.

I was following the car in front of me, making a mental note that the motorbike should not be allowed to cross or I would have to wait till the huge caravan of vehicles pass off. I was alarmed by the shrill tone of whistle and a white-blue person emerging in front of me. He was signaling me to stop and waving the caravan of the opposite side to pass by. Suddenly in a deft gesture he turned right-angle, clapped heels together and started signaling to the other caravan. The whistle was blowing in a rhythmic fashion as if talking to the vehicles and instructing the drivers what to do. His face was fresh and friendly and his eyes observant, efficiently taking a note of where the traffic is clogging. While his moves were professional, his decisions were empathetic. It was rare scene and I was enjoying it. Suddenly I felt a sense of peace coming down on the drivers. Shrieking of horns subsided and the vehicles were attentive to take orders like disciplined rows of children in the assembly ground. He was in total command of the situation. No yelling, no honking, the vehicles were gliding by as if in a trans. He was acting as an antidote to subside the overflow of peptic juices. I shall be late today but cheerful.

I signaled a thumbs-up sign while passing by and he acknowledged it with a subtle smile.   

Human Touch

Inside the glass door it was a different world all together. Cool quiet and plush interior was oblivious to the heat and dust outside. Technology has reduced opportunities of actual human interface in general. ATM, net banking, customer care services, shopping apps on mobile are at your disposal round the clock.

I remembered the days when you have to stand in queue to get the passbook updated. Clerical staff at the window seemed to be your buddy in this monthly ritual. The window clerk was our mentor for the beginners in banking rituals.

-          Abhi MT (money transfer) hua nahi hai

-           Arre… savings accounbt ke liye gulabi slip bhariye

-          Ye toh deposit slip hai…..withdrawal karna hai naa…

It had been years that I actually entered a bank. Either money withdrawal from ATM or talking to a faceless voice solved maximum of my problems. Last month I had to visit a bank for two reasons….. one- my debit card had expired and  two- my  passbook needed updated entry. With heavy heart I decided to visit the bank before going to work. I cautioned my office of reporting a little late on work as I was sure that both the things will be time consuming.

I was met with a straight-faced woman at the counter. She handed over a form for reissue of debit card.

“When should I come back to collect the card?”

“Wait for 5 minutes”

 She checked form details, noted down the information in a register, took out a card and sealed PIN number and handed over to me. “It will be activated within 48 hours, remember to withdraw some amount day after tomorrow”. I was flabbergasted with the speed of service!!Still trying to get out of the jet-trance I slid my passbook and stammered ccann yoouu updddate it ppleasse….

GET IT DONE AT THE KIOSK OUTSIDE…….She verbally slapped me for my ignorance. I felt behind the time to know that the banks are operating on a mechanized mode. Security guard at the entrance took pride in teaching me how to get the passbook updated in the machine. Its very simple madam…. See its done…

 While profusely thanking him I noticed to my horror that the amount is not fully updated as per my knowledge. I sheepishly told this to the woman at the counter. She looked at me for a second and instructed her junior to update the amount manually.

Within those 20 minutes I had mixed feelings. The country is galloping towards development with mechanization …. still the mechanical precision needs the human touch.

Bubbly bubble where do you fly….

The huge black iron gate had kept hope and joy at bay. The premises looked like a routine government set-up with yellow painted old building and an uneven approach way. At the entrance we were met with a group of officials who were responsible to manage and run this shelter home for destitute women. Their briefing about the place created a hope that ‘all is well’. Being my first visit to a shelter home, my imagination canvas was painted with images derived from the perception of such places. The films depicted these as hub of crime, oppressed rights, hatred and despair. My expectation of an old dilapidated structure with a gloomy and dark atmosphere was confirmed by an inmate emerging out of the building. She was looking at an imaginary spot in the air, aloof of our presence. Her salt-and-pepper hair were cut too short which indicated more of the caretaker’s comfort than being a style statement. My heart missed a beat for a fear of visualizing a herd of mentally challenged women in dirty clothes, body odour announcing their being.

The caretaker took us to a side courtyard. It was recently cleaned with a colourful carpet –rug spread in the centre. Few plastic chairs placed along stated that we were superior beings than the inmates we were about to meet. The word ‘inmate’ sounds like a branding for curtailed freedom of the subject where they are dependent upon benevolence of others.

Suddenly the gloomy screensaver melted into thousands of colours; like a stream of chirpy children flowed from entrance of a nursery school. 10-15 young girls clad in simple but clean clothes gathered in the courtyard.  They were all between 16-20 years. Their eyes twinkled with enthusiasm and the face glowed with confidence. Few elder girls had a small child tagged to them. They seemed a little dull and intrigued by their role as a single, unsupported mother. Almost all the girls had a thick sindoor line   in the parting. They were decked up fashionable in the most possible way in the limited resources available with them. Three of them adorned stylish hairstyle which only a professional hairstylist could have done.

Our discussions started with small talks on their name, village, since when they are here.  Most were the victims of marrying against the family’s wishes. Parents submitted birth certificates (sometime fake) showing the girl to be a minor. The boy was alleged for alluring a minor girl and sent to jail. Some girls were unfortunate (or fortunate) to be caught before the marriage could take place. As the girl had stepped out of the parental home and not accepted in the boy’s family, she had no place to go. The court sent her to the shelter home till she becomes a major and has a place to go. This arrangement seems to be very effective and optimistic. But the trend depicts a grave scenario that these girls may stay in the shelter home for months, years, sometime almost whole life. How and when they would get out? They don’t know when their ‘husband’ is released, whether he and his family will still accept her? What if the marriage is labelled as illegal?  

These girls have taken a decision against all odds, which confirms that they are brave and confident. But the 24 hours are spent only in gossips. Who is preparing them to face the outside world? There is no way of building their vocational skills, helping them in getting a schooling/ degree. Their youth is getting waste in uncertainty costing on the confidence level. A group of chirping young girls are soon to turn into acrid human beings. Who takes its onus? These are bubbly bubbles who are doomed to burst against the hard, uneven wall of the premises.

December 2015