LOST SPRING - stories of stolen childhood. LOST SPRING - stories of stolen childhood.
'Sometimes I Find a Rupee in the garbage'
Why do you do this ?"I ask Saheb whom I encounter every morning scrounging for gold in the garbage dumps of my neighbourhood.Saheb left his home long ago.Set amidst the green fields of Dhaka , his home is not even a distant memory.There were many storms that swept away their fields and homes , his mother tells him.That's why they left , looking for gold in the big city where he now lives .
" I have nothing else to looking awa ."Go to school ,"I say glibly , realising immediately how hollow the advice must sound."There is no school in my neighbourhood . When they build one , I will go ."start a school , will you come ? " I ask , half - joking."Yes,"he says , smiling broadly .A few days later I see him running up to me ."Is your school ready?" "It takes longer to build a school,"I say , embarrassed at having made a promise that was not meant But promises like mine abound in every corner of his bleak world .
After months of knowing him , I ask him his name."Saheb-e -Alam ,"he announces.He does not know what it means . If he knew its meaning - lord of the universe - he would have a hard time believing it.Unaware of what his name represents,he roams the streets with his friends,an army of barefoot boys who appear like the morning birds and disappear at noon.Over the months , I have come to recognise each of them . " Why aren't you wearing chappals ?"I ask one ."My mother did not bring them down from the shelf."he answers simply .
" Even if she did he will throw them off," adds another who is wearing shoes that do not match When I comment on it , he shuffles his feet and says nothing ."I want shoes,"says a third boy who has never owned a pair all his life.Travelling across the country I have seen children walking barefoot , in cities , on village roads . It is not lack of money but a tradition to stay barefoot , is one explanation . I wonder if this is only an excuse to explain away a perpetual state of poverty .
My acquaintance with the barefoot ragpickers leads me to Seemapuri , a place on the periphery of Delhi yet miles away from it , metaphorically . Those who live here are squatters who came from Bangladesh back in 1971. Saheb's family is among them . Seemapuri was then a wilderness It still is , but it is no longer empty . In structures of mud , with roofs of tin and tarpaulin , devoid of sewage , drainage or running water , live 10,000 ragpickers . They have lived here for more than thirty years without an identity , without permits but with ration cards that get their names on voters ' lists and enable them to buy grain . Food is more important for survival than an identity . " If at the end of the day we can feed our families and go to bed without an aching stomach , we would rather live here than in the fields that gave us no grain , " say a group of women in tattered saris when I ask them why they left their beautiful land of green fields and rivers .Wherever they find food , they pitch their tents that become transit homes . Children grow up in them , becoming partners in survival . And survival in Seemapuri means rag - picing Through the years , it has acquired the proportions of a fine art.Garbage to them is gold . It is their daily bread , a roof over their heads , even if it is a lehking roof . But for a child it is even more .
"I sometimes find a rupee , even a ten - rupee note , " Saheb says , his eyes lighting up,Where you can find a silver coin in a heap of garbage ,you dont stop scrounging , for there is hope of finding nore.It seems that for children , garbage has a meaning different from what it means to their arents, For the children it is wrapped in wonder , for the elders it is a means of survival.
one morning , Saheb is on his way to the milk booth . In his hand is a steel canister.now he work in a tea stall, canister is heavier then plastic bag it belongs to the owner of the tea shop.At present he is no his own master.
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