http://qualandar.tigblog.org/ What's on the minds of young leaders from around the globe? en-us http://qualandar.tigblog.org/post/461927 The landlords to say could be the owner of 5floor building or hurried cobbled up unplastered brick houses, with small hovels for rooms. build on 50 sq ft of encroached land. The land lords would count how many times you had been to urinals and toilets.they and their family members would pass adverse remarks if they happen to see you near the house during the day. A tenant is expected not to return before 9 in the night.

]]> Sun, 24 Aug 2008 05:38:00 EDT http://qualandar.tigblog.org/post/461927 http://qualandar.tigblog.org/post/384195
The round the corner tea shack is the only shop that opens at 6A.M. - a rickshaw pullers only haunt. People here wake up an hour and half later than the rest of Delhi. The missing of morning newspaper, ever since I shifted here 4 months back is more than offsetted by the conversations, gossips - that to me is a thresh hold to a new world - that takes place among the rickshawpullers, laborers and in this small hut and which has graced me with moral duty to highlight there plight and take up their cause under the aegis of our newly formed Organisation: " movement for Economic Democracy". I share with you excerpts of their conversation adverbtim.

I was in the hut, 5 minutes walk away from my one room tenement at Okhla- predominantly Muslim locality close to now dried up and wasted river Yamuna.
" Brought medicines yesterday. Heaviness in the head and nausea go away"
said Rafi the rickshaw puller, emaciated , in his 20's who has taken to the job 6 month back.
"Nothing left in Delhi - prices are soaring - better labour in fields of others in the village"
Said Bholoo a middle aged one.
"But he has 3 sisters to marry " said the tea vendor pointing towards Rafi " I asked him, six days ago to go to medical( All India Institute of Medical Sciences) W hat does this quack know what has gone inside. They do free x-ray over there ."
"Why didn't you whirl your cycle chain at them - I would have done it if I had been in your place" said another in sandow and a piece of cloth wound around his lower torso.
" Easier said than done" said the tea vendor "Who cares about us - not even the police - we are always wrong always a suspect (of delinquency) - on street, in markert, in mosques, in shrines- one day they checked the bag of loharoo while he was coming out of mosque to ensure that he was not carrying away the sandals of the faithfuls".

Hakim tried to say full throated to come over his gruffly voice "let them ban rickshaw in Zakirnagar the buttock of residents would go burst" Zakir Chacha has started selling off his rickshaws lest he'd have to sell them off by weight. The owner might also ask him to vacate the (vacant) plot any moment - election is drawing near - building activities have started here and there - the police was saying that MLA sahib has instructed the Sahab (Station House Officer of Police Station) to go soft on illegal constructions and encroachments- there is no spare rickshaw available on rent in Zakirnagar - The poor fellows are without work for a week. Elsewhere they won’t rent rickshaw to a stranger. They ask for reference. Who would this alien city (most of the rickshaw pullers hails from the remote villages and districts in Bihar West Bengal etc. They would rent rickshaw only f half a dozen of rickshaw pullers pullers already there testify that the incumbent is already known to him.

After a week I chanced upon Rafi in the same hut and enquired about his health and what had happened that day that led to his illness.
" There is no more nausea but the heaviness in head wont go away. There is a sort of tiredness in the eyes all the time - piercing pain quite now and then is agonizing the chest - all the time I feel afraid while on street with my rickshaw."
"What had happened “I enquired.”?

"I was waiting for the lady near lane No5- she had gone inside to fetch fare of Rs. 5/- she was short of change- A shopkeeper on the other side of the road started abusing me and ordered me to move - upon my saying that I am waiting for the fare, Hell broke loose-- He pounced upon me - rained kicks and blows all over me and then held my neck in his powerful grip 0 I began to suffocate- my position was like the hen in the grip of round the corner butcher - I was passing out - lay on the road - then somebody threw a bucket of water on me. I regained control of my body and mind. Somebody asked me to do BELDARI (laboring in construction of houses and buildings in the area. There are absolutely no safe guards. You'd find workers working in hair raising precarious conditions... Fatal accidents are common. These workers are not entitled to get compensation under any law. Those who survive have no option but to beg I'd come to this segment later.

“Only 15 days back a 3000 liter water tank fell on kafeel- they were five of them- they were raising the tank to the fifth floor. The two below managed to escape unhurt. He was recovering well with steel rods inserted in his back, hands and legs. Doctors had declared him out of danger. His family was told in the morning when they went to the hospital to bring him home that he was dead.
After two days they received his postmortem body. He was only 18. He lived next to Al-taqwa mosque at jogabai extension - supported his father to manage 6 dependent heads".contd….
]]> Fri, 06 Jun 2008 13:15:00 EDT http://qualandar.tigblog.org/post/384195 http://qualandar.tigblog.org/post/356939
Ever since my stay here when ever I woke up any time in the night I would be met by a disturbing and terrific tradling, squeaking sound of a bullock cart zooming past till the muezzins’ call of adhan went up at the crack of dawn , and beyond. The rhythmic whack of baton in perfect rhyme with mad raining of hooves squeaks and treadles... The impressions would evaporate no sooner they would get registered in my mind matter of factedly. .

Today I went in a different direction for my morning cup of tea in the open and walk and for that matter I ventured further north towards the Yamuna on my return journey. Was it an alive being with the senses of thirst, hunger, pain? Its mouth open in perfect 30 degree angle, bisected by a straight nearly cylindrical muddy tongue struggling to shoot out from the base. The mouth and tongue seemed locked still in a picture frame out of thirst, hunger, pain or constriction it is difficult for me to say.


The bruised black open mouthed buffalo-bull answering intermittent raining of batons with spurts of vertical jumps and then resuming the run. The cart was the size of a mini-truck laden with a mountain of grey sand loaded from the Yamuna bank. It was 7.30 in the morning. Alas! One more prayer had gone up from the minaret’s, dotting the sky line. “For Allah’s sake stop this cruelty”. It was 120 days and 120 nights the poor creature had been undergoing the merciless travails and how many more days lay ahead of him to be perfect clay

I sat brooding on the side walk with a Rs.3/- pen and a piece of soiled paper: “Ah Allah has not enabled me to have a digital camera to capture the life of men”., a small caravan of 3 elders and probably seven children passed by the size of procession never swelled till the grave yard. None of the faithful gave their ritualistic at least few steps together to the corpse and the bereaved. The oldest among them in his 60’s walked with the body wrapped in sparkling white coffin the two ends of which was tied giving the package a shape of bottle, in his lap. The body was that of a child but not of a baby.
One of the children walked behind holding a small polythene bag which showed a packet of incense stick a match box and some other stuff. In his left hand, with the other he held her sister’s hand firmly who seemed much younger to him.

Interestingly I found almost no lips muttering a prayer for the poor soul. A few days back a coffin bearing caravan had also passed that way then countless faces with down cast eyes had turned muttering prayers to bless the soul. Passer byes and shopkeepers and hawkers had lent their steps to earn the pleasure of Allah and honor the tradition of Prophet... It was a caravan of well-fed and well-clothed the size of which went on swelling till the procession reached the grave yard at the end of the road.

This was a patch of soiled men of clay. The next day when my bruised heart sought solace from another one, one of my Hindu friends said;” I is because of their previous bad karma because of which they are suffering. My Muslim friend said “it is the will of Allah the master of all affairs, a sin to think otherwise".


]]> Sun, 13 Apr 2008 02:12:00 EDT http://qualandar.tigblog.org/post/356939 http://qualandar.tigblog.org/post/354333 It was a happy home, sweet home till I gained consciousness of immortal gloom that enveloped us and still stalks me from all side.
My father was not even able to bear school fees of Rs. 10/- because of big family consisting of 12 heads that included dependent aunt, and cousins.

I sat outside the office of principal, Aapa sat beside me. She had prepared me for the interview; I don’t remember the face of father. I remember hazily that he made me read from a colorful alphabet book. He talked to me English and probably asked simple questions. After coming out of the office, I narrated to Aapa what principal made me read and what questions he asked. Probably she was not happy with several of my answers.

My supervisor mam who was of dark complexion, young, middle height wore thick red lipstick on her lips and smelled with scent, would roam the lawns while children played, to see if any of us spoke in our native tongue। She always carried a wooden ruler. If any of the children, was found not speaking in english, she would impose a fine of six paisa. She would take the student to principal office to note down particulars. She was a dedicated supervisor with a remarkable memory.
She would keep a sharp eye on students: on our dress, manners, cleanliness and behaviors, inside the classroom and outside of it.

It was my cousin sister who got me admitted to Welland Gold Smith School, at Bow Street and helped me oft and on with expenses. I remember the first day in the school vividly. The assembly in the chapel was in full swing. I went running on the stage, interrupting the proceedings and told ma'm in my native language i/e Urdu: : "Main toilet jaaunga" She made me repeat twice or thrice: "May I go to toilet".
Then there was an uncle the proprietor of an optical shop. Everyday he would distribute chocolates to students who passed by his shop.
Our dress was blue pant and yellow shirt. Bhaijan: Aquil adopted son of my aunt or Haqqa chaccha, Osman bhai , a servant who was rather a family member, would fetch me from the school at 2pm.The school was in fact 10-15 minutes walk from my home.

One day Aquil bhai on way from school told me that they have bought kids at home. I was overjoyed and began to twist and jump with joy while walking along the sidewalk.

They were three kids, white, brown and the other a mixture of brown and white. The brown one survived. After one year or so it was stolen. The goat was tied to a lamppost below. I was quite attached with the goat and felt very sad for many days.


Boys could only study up to class 2 in the school so she got my school changed when I passed class I and got me admitted to Ling Liang English High School- at Phears Lane। It was a missionary school। It was the values I imbibed in my missionary Schools made me misfit in the present society I think, I am seeking and searching the same values everywhere।



There was and endemic problem to keep me in the school because of fees repeated default in payment of fees and accumulation, dress, shoes, books exercise books and of course my poor performance and bad hand writing and poor health because of malnutrition. Some of my teachers thought that I was suffering from some disease and would avoid close contact.
Nevertheless my neighbors and relatives thought that I was intelligent and good.
So at last I was taken out of Ling Liang school mid-way and admitted to an Urdu medium school. I loved my previous school inspite of all the trouble and worry and wept. But I never insisted my parents to let me there, because I felt pity on them.


]]> Sun, 06 Apr 2008 09:49:00 EDT http://qualandar.tigblog.org/post/354333 http://qualandar.tigblog.org/post/354327 Sun, 06 Apr 2008 09:18:00 EDT http://qualandar.tigblog.org/post/354327