You've heard this from me before - Indian companies dislike the way many fresh MBAs believe they are God's gift to mankind! They are flighty, avoid real work, and want 'career growth' handed to them on a platter in their very first month of employment. They are easily bored and change jobs at the slightest opportunity.
This leads me to quote from a wonderful poetic retelling by Vikram Seth of the immortal tale of The Hare and the Tortoise (Beastly Tales from Here & There, Penguin). Instead of running the race, the socialite hare is easily distracted:
"Boring, boring, life is boring.
Birdies, help me go exploring.
Let's go off the beaten track.
In a minute I'll be back -"
Off the hare went, fancy-free.
One hour pased, then two, then three.
Expectedly, the tortoise wins the race.
After the announcer's gun
Had pronounced that he had won,
And the cheering of the crowd
Died at last, the tortoise bowed,
Clasped the cup with quiet pride,
And sat down, self-satisfied.
And he though: "That silly hare!
So much for her charm and flair.
So much for her idle boast.
In her cup I'll raise a toast
To hard work and regularity.
Silly creature! Such vulgarity!
Now she'll learn that sure and slow
Is the only way to go -
That you can't rise to the top
With a skip, a jump, a hop -
That you've got to hatch your eggs,
That you've got to count your legs,
That you've got to do your duty,
Not depend on verve and beauty."
Nice words! MBA students, are you listening?
(Now there is a twist at the end of this particular version of the tale, but I'll let you read it for yourself. Smile.)
**************************************
Incidentally, while I'm reading this tiny book of poems, I'm also reading A Suitable Boy by the same author, 1500 pages and yet a page-turner. It is a tour de force. The then Stanford University President, Gerhard Casper, had recommended this epic while welcoming us to the campus as international students, but it's taken my 17 years to get to it.
Another tangential comment - while many budding poets ruin their poetry by forcing it to rhyme, I'm simply blown away by Vikram Seth's best rhymes (The Golden Gate, for example) and even more so by Pushkin's verse (Eugene Onegin) and of course Shakespeare's sonnets.
ideas, inspirations, insights for everyone. Corporate solutions Proton Indore.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Capitalizing Compulsively
Why do we Indians capitalize every other word in business documents? And why does it unsettle me?
Whenever I look at a resume, a draft proposal or a presentation, I feel like taking a red pen and crossing out all the unnecessarily capitalized words!
It is entirely appropriate to write "I hold a B.E. degree in Software Engineering and am an expert in user interface design". 'Software Engineering' was probably the exact title of the degree and so may be capitalized.
But if you write "I hold a B.E. Degree in Software Engineering and am an Expert in User Interface Design", then you are going too far. Too much unnecessary capitalization.
You may argue that 'User Interface' is a standard term (abbreviated as UI) and its design is a formal area of knowledge, hence the words may be capitalized.
But I see it as a slippery slope. The modern world is littered with many formal areas of knowledge, some here to stay and some just passing fads, some established and some controversial, some broadly popular and some niche. To capitalize them all would render documents ugly and unreadable.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
So I try to resist capitalization of mere areas of knowledge.
Therefore, I would not like to see on a general resume that the candidate is "an expert in Supply Chain". Or "an expert in Operations Management". Or "an expert in Human Resource Management" even. (And definitely not "an Expert" of any sort!)
In a few select cases, capitalization is more permissible since the words now mean something highly specific, something quite different from their general meaning. So, for example, 'I am an expert in Enterprise Resource Planning' is somewhat acceptable. Saying you are an expert 'in Supply Chain Management' or 'in Quality Assurance' is borderline tolerable.
Still I would suggest: err on the side of caution.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Capitalization is totally acceptable only where we are referring to the name of a formal department (e.g. the 'User Interface Group') or a formal job title (e.g. 'User Interface Designer') or a course (e.g. 'ME210: Heat Transfer') or a universally accepted software category (e.g. 'Customer Relationship Management software') or something similar. Otherwise it is typically best avoided.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Now, why does excessive capitalization bother me?
1. Reasons of effectiveness:
Every time you capitalize a word, you draw the reader's attention to that single word, pulling it away from an orderly perusal of the text. Is that single word where you want the reader's attention to go? Mostly not.
2. Reasons of aesthetics:
Too much capitalization strewn about the page makes the document look cluttered and ugly.
3. Reasons of presumption:
By capitalizing a general word or phrase referring to a body of knowledge, you are arrogantly proclaiming that it is a formal, well accepted area. As a reader, I may not know about it, or as an educated reader, I may not agree with the importance you are giving it. Therefore you have to be careful. E.g. a phrase such as 'Communication-Driven Decision Support' should be capitalized (if at all) only where the specific audience will certainly understand what exactly is being referred to. Normally never.
4. 'Slippery slope' reasons:
Once you start capitalizing, it's difficult to stop. Consider the following paragraph:
"In the past ten years, there has been an increasing focus on using information technology to address various supply chain areas, including supply chain management, supply chain optimization, supply chain execution and supply chain event management. Supply chain management guru Dr. XYZ says that increasingly forecasting, replenishment, and warehouse management are also coming under the scope of supply chain IT."
Suppose you allowed the use of capitalization for 'Supply Chain Management'. There would then be a tendency to capitalize 'Supply Chain Optimization' as well. And so on. Soon, the paragraph would look like this:
"In the past ten years, there has been an increasing focus on using Information Technology to address various Supply Chain areas, including Supply Chain Management, Supply Chain Optimization, Supply Chain Execution and Supply Chain Event Management. Supply Chain Management guru Dr. XYZ says that increasingly Forecasting, Replenishment, and Warehouse Management are also coming under the scope of Supply Chain IT."
You see now what I mean when I say it is a slippery slope?
5. Reasons of inconsistency:
Most people who capitalize freely are also poor at maintaining consistency. Therefore they may sometimes refer to 'Human Resource Management' and sometimes to 'Human Resource management'. This inconsistent capitalization is painful. At the same time, if you aim to be highly consistent in capitalization, you waste a lot of your time thinking about how to avoid situations like the slippery slope example in the previous point.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
The way out is simple - avoid capitalization where possible. Resist.
Specifically, capitalize the names of knowledge areas only if you are referring in fact to the names of courses, departments, job titles or something similarly formal and permanent. Otherwise, think again.
Whenever I look at a resume, a draft proposal or a presentation, I feel like taking a red pen and crossing out all the unnecessarily capitalized words!
It is entirely appropriate to write "I hold a B.E. degree in Software Engineering and am an expert in user interface design". 'Software Engineering' was probably the exact title of the degree and so may be capitalized.
But if you write "I hold a B.E. Degree in Software Engineering and am an Expert in User Interface Design", then you are going too far. Too much unnecessary capitalization.
You may argue that 'User Interface' is a standard term (abbreviated as UI) and its design is a formal area of knowledge, hence the words may be capitalized.
But I see it as a slippery slope. The modern world is littered with many formal areas of knowledge, some here to stay and some just passing fads, some established and some controversial, some broadly popular and some niche. To capitalize them all would render documents ugly and unreadable.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
So I try to resist capitalization of mere areas of knowledge.
Therefore, I would not like to see on a general resume that the candidate is "an expert in Supply Chain". Or "an expert in Operations Management". Or "an expert in Human Resource Management" even. (And definitely not "an Expert" of any sort!)
In a few select cases, capitalization is more permissible since the words now mean something highly specific, something quite different from their general meaning. So, for example, 'I am an expert in Enterprise Resource Planning' is somewhat acceptable. Saying you are an expert 'in Supply Chain Management' or 'in Quality Assurance' is borderline tolerable.
Still I would suggest: err on the side of caution.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Capitalization is totally acceptable only where we are referring to the name of a formal department (e.g. the 'User Interface Group') or a formal job title (e.g. 'User Interface Designer') or a course (e.g. 'ME210: Heat Transfer') or a universally accepted software category (e.g. 'Customer Relationship Management software') or something similar. Otherwise it is typically best avoided.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Now, why does excessive capitalization bother me?
1. Reasons of effectiveness:
Every time you capitalize a word, you draw the reader's attention to that single word, pulling it away from an orderly perusal of the text. Is that single word where you want the reader's attention to go? Mostly not.
2. Reasons of aesthetics:
Too much capitalization strewn about the page makes the document look cluttered and ugly.
3. Reasons of presumption:
By capitalizing a general word or phrase referring to a body of knowledge, you are arrogantly proclaiming that it is a formal, well accepted area. As a reader, I may not know about it, or as an educated reader, I may not agree with the importance you are giving it. Therefore you have to be careful. E.g. a phrase such as 'Communication-Driven Decision Support' should be capitalized (if at all) only where the specific audience will certainly understand what exactly is being referred to. Normally never.
4. 'Slippery slope' reasons:
Once you start capitalizing, it's difficult to stop. Consider the following paragraph:
"In the past ten years, there has been an increasing focus on using information technology to address various supply chain areas, including supply chain management, supply chain optimization, supply chain execution and supply chain event management. Supply chain management guru Dr. XYZ says that increasingly forecasting, replenishment, and warehouse management are also coming under the scope of supply chain IT."
Suppose you allowed the use of capitalization for 'Supply Chain Management'. There would then be a tendency to capitalize 'Supply Chain Optimization' as well. And so on. Soon, the paragraph would look like this:
"In the past ten years, there has been an increasing focus on using Information Technology to address various Supply Chain areas, including Supply Chain Management, Supply Chain Optimization, Supply Chain Execution and Supply Chain Event Management. Supply Chain Management guru Dr. XYZ says that increasingly Forecasting, Replenishment, and Warehouse Management are also coming under the scope of Supply Chain IT."
You see now what I mean when I say it is a slippery slope?
5. Reasons of inconsistency:
Most people who capitalize freely are also poor at maintaining consistency. Therefore they may sometimes refer to 'Human Resource Management' and sometimes to 'Human Resource management'. This inconsistent capitalization is painful. At the same time, if you aim to be highly consistent in capitalization, you waste a lot of your time thinking about how to avoid situations like the slippery slope example in the previous point.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
The way out is simple - avoid capitalization where possible. Resist.
Specifically, capitalize the names of knowledge areas only if you are referring in fact to the names of courses, departments, job titles or something similarly formal and permanent. Otherwise, think again.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Toyota's travails
You must have heard about Toyota's quality travails in the US over defective interiors. In fact I was a little intrigued why this purdafaash took so long.
I must admit I feel this way solely from personal experience - I used to drive a Toyota Camry in the US and had all sorts of niggling problems. Yes, something about the accelerator pedal would make me worry that the it would stick under the floor mat (I used to pull back the floor mat before driving); the sticky accelerator was the problem that finally did Toyota in. But there were also other issues with the interiors. The center console storage had a cover whose hinges gave way. The sun visor on the driver's side had a plastic flip cover over the vanity mirror whose hinges grew, er, plasticky and then gave way - twice!
The core of the car was simply perfect, but the plastics seemed very badly put together. I never had such problems even with my Santro in India.
The state of the Camry's interior seemed so much at variance with the mantra we learned in our manufacturing classes about Toyota quality. I thought it may have been a result of the Americanization of the production for the US market. But it now seems it was at least a little because of a slightly pompous "we know best" mindset back at Toyota's Japan HQ.
Perhaps they were out driving Lexuses! (http://manasblog.proton.in/2009/09/eat-your-own-dog-food.html )
Quality translates directly into repeat business. I had - at another time - a VW New Beetle, which had the recurring problem of fused headlamps, and I knew a friend who had to return his VW Jetta under the US's "Lemon Law". So I would not easily buy a VW in India. And my sisters and I each had Honda Civics at some point or other which never gave us any trouble at all, so I bought a Civic in India as well. Also, when I had to trust my safety to a motorcycle on relatively fast US highways, I felt most confident on a machine made by Honda.
Just for the record, my latest Civic has given me considerable trouble - a knocking engine sound from the first day that their engineers just could not fix for two years, and some odd electronic whirring connected with the aircon. Let's see what happens to their quality reputation in India a few years hence.
I must admit I feel this way solely from personal experience - I used to drive a Toyota Camry in the US and had all sorts of niggling problems. Yes, something about the accelerator pedal would make me worry that the it would stick under the floor mat (I used to pull back the floor mat before driving); the sticky accelerator was the problem that finally did Toyota in. But there were also other issues with the interiors. The center console storage had a cover whose hinges gave way. The sun visor on the driver's side had a plastic flip cover over the vanity mirror whose hinges grew, er, plasticky and then gave way - twice!
The core of the car was simply perfect, but the plastics seemed very badly put together. I never had such problems even with my Santro in India.
The state of the Camry's interior seemed so much at variance with the mantra we learned in our manufacturing classes about Toyota quality. I thought it may have been a result of the Americanization of the production for the US market. But it now seems it was at least a little because of a slightly pompous "we know best" mindset back at Toyota's Japan HQ.
Perhaps they were out driving Lexuses! (http://manasblog.proton.in/2009/09/eat-your-own-dog-food.html )
Quality translates directly into repeat business. I had - at another time - a VW New Beetle, which had the recurring problem of fused headlamps, and I knew a friend who had to return his VW Jetta under the US's "Lemon Law". So I would not easily buy a VW in India. And my sisters and I each had Honda Civics at some point or other which never gave us any trouble at all, so I bought a Civic in India as well. Also, when I had to trust my safety to a motorcycle on relatively fast US highways, I felt most confident on a machine made by Honda.
Just for the record, my latest Civic has given me considerable trouble - a knocking engine sound from the first day that their engineers just could not fix for two years, and some odd electronic whirring connected with the aircon. Let's see what happens to their quality reputation in India a few years hence.
Monday, February 8, 2010
An India we have to address
I realize that I have already used two consecutive installments of this blog on "A midsummer nightmare" and I wondered if I should risk a third on a similar theme. This is, after all, a blog on a business school website.
But as things turned out, I came across an intense essay by a young friend who is of Indian origin but was born in the US and has lived there all her life. Her name is Meesha and she is a second year science undergrad. She visited India when she was 16, and wrote this essay when she was 19 for an English class. I was compelled by its elegant sadness to put it up here.
It talks of things about India that we all know but have to gloss over in order to stay sane. And it describes them through the innocent eyes of the very young who have never lived here.
It's worth reading, even as I look out of my Gurgaon window and see an entire horizon of skyscrapers twinkling with lights.
So here goes - an essay on a trip to the Taj Mahal.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
What constitutes the title “wonder of the world?” Is it a wall constructed perfectly to keep the enemy out, is it an ancient city on a mountain, is it a colossal theater, or is it a beautifully designed tomb for someone's long lost love? Furthermore, once titled, should everything surrounding the “wonder” be shrouded in a mask of majesty; can nothing other than the facade of it's name be perceived? Well, if that was the intent, I am witness to failure.
The Taj Mahal itself is the most impressive structure I have ever witnessed. As I crossed the threshold from the blindness of being behind the surrounding walls to a panoramic view of the Taj Mahal, the sheer size of the building and it's surroundings caught the breath short in my chest (opulence seems to have been one of Mumtaz's specialties). The reflection pool laid in front of the Taj is analogous to a red carpet; setting one up for the extravagance to come. While walking up the the steps, the sun reflecting off the marble and into my retinas provided the next transition of scenery: the inside. The tomb is embellished from top to bottom causing one's eye to dart frantically trying to absorb all of the information. Essentially, the ceiling is the inside of a giant onion dome that begs the question of how such a large structure remains suspended. After surveying the inside in it's entirety I left with a memory that will be forever have engraved in my mind.
With all this said, one may ask where the failure component occurred. The reason I suggest that I felt disappointed is not because of the experience of seeing the Taj Mahal itself, but rather the journey to get to it. When I think back on my experience, rather than feeling fond, I am immediately flooded with despair. The things that I witnessed on a five hour car ride changed my life forever.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
As I get into the car I hear my mother outside talking to her brother. She mutters in Hindi, “I don't know if I can handle this.” He reassures her and she gets into the vehicle. We start the journey in our air conditioned SUV that sticks out like a sore thumb on the winding dirt roads. As per usual we witness the occasional beggar or child selling corn on the side of the road. As the heat of the noon starts beating down on our metal case the air condition struggles to maintain equilibrium. We crack open a can of coke and drink it greedily. As the hours pass the scenery changes from the tranquil India I know to a very different world. I see nothing but shacks. Tiny “home” contraptions made of old car parts and scrap metal. People line the roads by the hundreds, so much so that we are not driving any longer, but rather, crawling.
The people are a whole new world too. Due to the lack of shelter their skin appears to be charred by the sun like burgers left on a grill too long. Their corneas and teeth are the same shade of unhealthy yellow. Their hair is matted to their head like a dog that hasn't been brushed in years. Actually, the longer I look at them the more they remind me of stray animals rather than people. The things they do start to strike me as beast-like. A naked man crudely blows his nose into his hand. A mother carries her child on her back while looking through a garbage heap with her hands. The air is thick with melancholy.
Then I see the most graphic image I have ever witnessed in my life. It is burned into my memory; vivid and brutally honest. When I close my eyes and think about this car ride I see a child wearing only a dirty loin cloth squatting on the roadside defecating exactly like my dog does in the back yard. I can see the discomfort of his severe diarrhea in his eyes. I can see him being reduced to less than a beast. He has been stripped of all humanity, he has lost what it means to be a homosapien; he is merely a mass. This is the brush that colored my world with an entirely different palate than I had ever imagined. Suddenly a stark reality set in that the world around me sucks.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
After this point the rest of the trip was cast in shadows. The trip that I had been looking forward to with a naïve sense of optimism, was now tainted with truth. Ever since this fated moment, whenever I see a homeless person, or someone being petty and materialistic, the image of that boy pops into my head and drapes me in a sheet of sorrow.
The reason that this trip had such a profound effect on me is largely because of the context I come from. I come from the world of middle-class America. Where I have privileges that only a fraction of the world has the luxury of enjoying. One such privilege is watching the trials of the world on the silver screen in the safety of an overly air-conditioned movie theater. I did just that when I saw the movie Slumdog Millionaire. I felt the same way the day I watched that movie that I did at the moment I witnessed that boy. I could not speak afterwards, and the rest of the day was cast in those same shadows.
I feel that I will revisit that boy many times in my life. Although, it hurts me, I am glad that I have him. He keeps me grounded. He reminds me of how incredibly blessed I am. He also drives me to help; to help him and everyone around him. Finally, I learned from him. I learned that India is a beautiful country rich with culture, but it is also a broken spirit. There are far too many little boys out there who don't know what it feels like to be comfortable and well. When I think of the Taj Mahal I taste a bittersweetness in my mouth. The structure itself is beautiful, but the journey to get to it is morbid. I find this to be a metaphor for all of India; the potential is there, but you need to go through a lot of hardships to reach perfection.
But as things turned out, I came across an intense essay by a young friend who is of Indian origin but was born in the US and has lived there all her life. Her name is Meesha and she is a second year science undergrad. She visited India when she was 16, and wrote this essay when she was 19 for an English class. I was compelled by its elegant sadness to put it up here.
It talks of things about India that we all know but have to gloss over in order to stay sane. And it describes them through the innocent eyes of the very young who have never lived here.
It's worth reading, even as I look out of my Gurgaon window and see an entire horizon of skyscrapers twinkling with lights.
So here goes - an essay on a trip to the Taj Mahal.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
What constitutes the title “wonder of the world?” Is it a wall constructed perfectly to keep the enemy out, is it an ancient city on a mountain, is it a colossal theater, or is it a beautifully designed tomb for someone's long lost love? Furthermore, once titled, should everything surrounding the “wonder” be shrouded in a mask of majesty; can nothing other than the facade of it's name be perceived? Well, if that was the intent, I am witness to failure.
The Taj Mahal itself is the most impressive structure I have ever witnessed. As I crossed the threshold from the blindness of being behind the surrounding walls to a panoramic view of the Taj Mahal, the sheer size of the building and it's surroundings caught the breath short in my chest (opulence seems to have been one of Mumtaz's specialties). The reflection pool laid in front of the Taj is analogous to a red carpet; setting one up for the extravagance to come. While walking up the the steps, the sun reflecting off the marble and into my retinas provided the next transition of scenery: the inside. The tomb is embellished from top to bottom causing one's eye to dart frantically trying to absorb all of the information. Essentially, the ceiling is the inside of a giant onion dome that begs the question of how such a large structure remains suspended. After surveying the inside in it's entirety I left with a memory that will be forever have engraved in my mind.
With all this said, one may ask where the failure component occurred. The reason I suggest that I felt disappointed is not because of the experience of seeing the Taj Mahal itself, but rather the journey to get to it. When I think back on my experience, rather than feeling fond, I am immediately flooded with despair. The things that I witnessed on a five hour car ride changed my life forever.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
As I get into the car I hear my mother outside talking to her brother. She mutters in Hindi, “I don't know if I can handle this.” He reassures her and she gets into the vehicle. We start the journey in our air conditioned SUV that sticks out like a sore thumb on the winding dirt roads. As per usual we witness the occasional beggar or child selling corn on the side of the road. As the heat of the noon starts beating down on our metal case the air condition struggles to maintain equilibrium. We crack open a can of coke and drink it greedily. As the hours pass the scenery changes from the tranquil India I know to a very different world. I see nothing but shacks. Tiny “home” contraptions made of old car parts and scrap metal. People line the roads by the hundreds, so much so that we are not driving any longer, but rather, crawling.
The people are a whole new world too. Due to the lack of shelter their skin appears to be charred by the sun like burgers left on a grill too long. Their corneas and teeth are the same shade of unhealthy yellow. Their hair is matted to their head like a dog that hasn't been brushed in years. Actually, the longer I look at them the more they remind me of stray animals rather than people. The things they do start to strike me as beast-like. A naked man crudely blows his nose into his hand. A mother carries her child on her back while looking through a garbage heap with her hands. The air is thick with melancholy.
Then I see the most graphic image I have ever witnessed in my life. It is burned into my memory; vivid and brutally honest. When I close my eyes and think about this car ride I see a child wearing only a dirty loin cloth squatting on the roadside defecating exactly like my dog does in the back yard. I can see the discomfort of his severe diarrhea in his eyes. I can see him being reduced to less than a beast. He has been stripped of all humanity, he has lost what it means to be a homosapien; he is merely a mass. This is the brush that colored my world with an entirely different palate than I had ever imagined. Suddenly a stark reality set in that the world around me sucks.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
After this point the rest of the trip was cast in shadows. The trip that I had been looking forward to with a naïve sense of optimism, was now tainted with truth. Ever since this fated moment, whenever I see a homeless person, or someone being petty and materialistic, the image of that boy pops into my head and drapes me in a sheet of sorrow.
The reason that this trip had such a profound effect on me is largely because of the context I come from. I come from the world of middle-class America. Where I have privileges that only a fraction of the world has the luxury of enjoying. One such privilege is watching the trials of the world on the silver screen in the safety of an overly air-conditioned movie theater. I did just that when I saw the movie Slumdog Millionaire. I felt the same way the day I watched that movie that I did at the moment I witnessed that boy. I could not speak afterwards, and the rest of the day was cast in those same shadows.
I feel that I will revisit that boy many times in my life. Although, it hurts me, I am glad that I have him. He keeps me grounded. He reminds me of how incredibly blessed I am. He also drives me to help; to help him and everyone around him. Finally, I learned from him. I learned that India is a beautiful country rich with culture, but it is also a broken spirit. There are far too many little boys out there who don't know what it feels like to be comfortable and well. When I think of the Taj Mahal I taste a bittersweetness in my mouth. The structure itself is beautiful, but the journey to get to it is morbid. I find this to be a metaphor for all of India; the potential is there, but you need to go through a lot of hardships to reach perfection.
Monday, January 25, 2010
A midsummer nightmare - part 2
My last post "A midsummer nightmare" received an overwhelming response - on this blog but also on Facebook and via email and phone calls. Many noble friends volunteered to help in any way possible to address the heartrending situation the post described. A friend from IITD days (Vivek Verma) even took the pains to translate the Hindi dialogues into English. I am appending his version - only slightly modified - at the bottom of this post.
Now, as the offers of help came in, I happened to be reading Richard Bach's "Hypnotizing Maria". The book argued that nothing was simply a coincidence - that Nature aligned itself to your cause if you willed it to... a "Matrix" type funda. I found that hard to believe completely, of course. Just as obviously, I was convinced that it would give you great confidence and power to believe something like that!
And as I prepared for an IIT reunion last weekend, I tried to play a mind game with myself: Suppose this string of events is not a coincidence? This blogpost and the response and now the reunion - suppose they're all meant to kickstart the social work I've always wanted to do? Would it help to believe that?
Anyway, I went to the reunion, planning to talk to my old friends about an effort to save these children. As it turns out, one of the first people I met was Sanjeev Khirwar, IAS, just returned from Andaman & Nicobar where he was the Chief Electoral Officer in the 2009 elections. I asked him what he was up to these days. He replied, "I'm on a special posting in the Ministry of Women and Child Development"!
So in between a screening of "Three Idiots" and a good dinner, we had the beginnings of a conversation on the topic.
Coincidence? Smile.
*****
Despite the success of Slumdog Millionaire, almost every Indian city still has children running up to cars stopped at traffic lights or attaching themselves to shoppers at markets. They are always caked with grime covered with a layer of dust, but that's a minor thing in our dirty, dusty cities. Instead, what is most frightening is when their young bodies are missing a limb or two or are deformed in some other way. Most of these deformations have been "sculpted" by grown up humans.
Some months ago, I was at the upscale New Friends Colony market at around 9 pm. I noticed a very young boy, perhaps 6 years old, with a shoeshine box. Then I saw a beggar child, then another, and then another. There must have been 7 or 8 of them, ranging perhaps between 5 and 14 years of age. They all seemed to know each other and in between begging one would run to another and they'd play for a few minutes until they latched themselves on to another potential donor.
It all looked very innocent and one might have been forgiven for thinking, "Well, this is not as bad as it could have been." Perhaps beggar children moved up in life when they begged at posher neighborhoods.
Thinking this, I went into a restaurant for dinner. When I came out, I saw that most shoppers were now gone and the children were clustered around the oldest boy who had no legs and was resting what remained of his body on a skateboard. He had a grim air about him. They were discussing some matters in a business-like way. The children who were close to him weren't smiling.
I felt a chill as I was reminded of the "lead child" role in Slumdog Millionaire. On a hunch, I walked up to them, kneeled down, and asked him, "Tum in sab bachchon se bheekh mangwaa rahe ho? Are you forcing these children to beg?"
His eyes dropped, then he looked away. When I asked again, he seemed to wake up. "Nahin, hum sab alag alag jagahon se hain. Hum ek doosre ko nahin jaante. No, we come from different places and we don't know each other." This was the first of several well-scripted and apparently well-rehearsed lies that all the children would tell during the course of the night.
I repeated my question, then grew angry. There was a little girl of about 7 with grayish eyes, hair brown from malnutrition and a thin but pretty face. I took her a few meters to a side and asked, "Tum kahaan se ho? Where are you from?" She gave me the name of a village in UP and then added for good measure, "Hum ek doosre ko nahin jaante! We don't know each other!"
"Tumhaare maa-baap kahaan hain? Where are your parents?"
"Main maa ke saath rehti hoon, baap to bachpan mein hi chal basey. I live with my mother, Dad passed away when I was little." The language was filmy.
"Tumhaari maa kaa naam kyaa hai? What is your mother's name?"
At this she wavered. Her playfulness deserted her and she started to look scared. I asked her again. "Sharda Bibi", she said finally.
A little boy, around 4 or 5, ran up to me. He was too young to know what to say and what not to say. One of his hands had been cut off.
"Yeh kaun hai? Who is he?"
"Yeh mera bhai hai. He is my brother."
"Sharda Bibi ka beta hai? Sharda Bibi's son?"
"Haan. Yes."
"Yeh tumse kitne saal chhotaa hai? How many years younger is he?"
"Pata nahin. I don't know. Iske maa-baap ne ise train ki patri ke paas chhor diya tha, do saal se humaare saath hai. His parents left him on railroad tracks and he has been with us for two years."
So that was the story she had been told.
"Do saal se Sharda Bibi ke saath hai? He has been with Sharda Bibi for two years?"
"Haan. Yes. "
"To yeh tumhara asli bhai nahin hai? So he is not really your brother?"
She did not try to answer the question. She just twisted away in the manner that children do.
"Aur iske haath ko kya hua? What happened to his hand?"
She knew the answer to this one. "Train iske oopar se nikal gayi thi. A train ran ran over him."
A wheel of a train is a big thing when compared to a two or three year old boy. It's very difficult to imagine that such a wheel could cut such a boy's hand off without mangling the rest of his tiny body. The hand had been cut off in some other way.
And as I asked the children one question after another, I realized that this group of children was being run by an organized gang. Though they had been trained to say they did not know each other, they had also been trained to say they came from the same village, and the contradiction between the two answers was obvious. Given the mutilation of the children before me, it seemed to be a very unfortunate village, real or imagined.
As it realized that there were calculating grown ups behind the children's stories, I grew angrier. Finally, I got up and charged to the nearby police station, hardly a hundred meters away from where these children were.
"Sir!" said the policeman at the gate, inflecting his voice to make clear he didn't really mean to show respect. "Aapko kyaa kaam hai? What do you want?"
I was livid. "Main SHO se baat karoonga. I want to talk to the SHO - the station house officer."
"SHO saab to nahin hain. SHO sir isn't here."
"Dekhte hain! Let's find out!"
And I walked inside as though I owned the place. Yet the thought crept into my mind, "Had this been any place but Delhi, I'd have been stupid to walk into a police station in anger."
I told the policeman at the desk, "Aap yahaan baithe hain aur sau meter dur bachche bheekh maang rahe hain. Aap yahaan kyaa kar rahe hain? You are sitting here and little children are begging only a hundred meters away. What are you doing here?"
The policeman was young and looked impudent in a subtle way. "Kisi bachche ne tang kiya ya chori ki? Has any child bothered you or stolen anything?" he asked.
"Begging allowed nahin hai. Begging is not allowed. Aapkaa kaam hai kaanoon ko implement karna. Your job is to implement the law."
He kept shuffling some papers.
"Aap sun rahe hain ki nahin? Are you listening or not?" I asked.
"Kisi ko bhejtaa hoon. Do chaante lageinge bachchon ko to sab theek ho jayega. I will send someone. Everything will be fine after these kids are slapped twice."
He evidently knew that was not what I wanted to hear. He was playing a smart game.
Just then I looked behind his desk and saw written there "DCP South East District: Shalini Singh". Shalini Singh and my sister had been in school together. Shalini is now one of the leading lights of the Delhi police.
I fell into the trap that all we Indians fall into, as we try to elicit some minimum responsiveness from the system. "Aap Shalini Singh ji ko phone lagaao. Main unko jaanta hoon. Make a phone call to Shalini-ji, I know her."
That got their attention. The subtly impudent policeman was suddenly awkward and soon got up and left. Another older and gentler policeman engaged me instead.
"Sir, hum kya karein? Ab to bachchon ko hum thaane mein band bhi nahin kar sakte. Agar bachcha thaane mein aaye to bahut procedure hota hai - nahin to humaari vaat lag jaati hai. Sir, what can we do? We can't even lock these children in a cell in our police station. If children come to the police station then we have to follow a lot of procedures, otherwise we will get in trouble."
"To aap kaise sambhaalte ho aise matters ko? So how do you handle these matters?"
"Sir, ek NGO ko bataana padtaa hai. Phir wo aate hain. Kabhi nahin bhi aate hain. Agar aaye to hum jaakar kuchh kar sakte hain. Sir, we have to inform an NGO (Non-Government Organization). Sometimes they come, sometimes they don't. If they come then we can do something."
"Yeh bachche kisi aur ke liye bheekh maang rahe hain. Koi inhe exploit kar raha hai. Saara desh Slumdog Millionaire dekh raha hai. Aur aap aisa matter investigate nahin karoge? These children are begging for someone else. Someone is exploiting them. The whole country is watching Slumdog Millionaire and you will not investigate such a matter."
"Sir, aap jo bataao wo karenge! Sir, we will do whatever you say!"
"To chalo mere saath. So come with me. Dekh ke aate hain ki ye aadmi kaun hain jo inse bheekh mangwaa rahe hain. Let's go and see who is this person who is making them beg."
"Theek hai saab, chalo. Yes Sir, let's go." And he adjusted his cap, picked up a laathi and marched with me out of the station, past its dark gate into the lights of the market.
Seeing us come, the children scattered. The oldest boy on the skateboard could not really move anywhere quickly, so he just played with a few stones - with one hand he'd pick them up and then drop them gently on the ground one by one. He didn't say anything, didn't answer any questions.
I found the little girl who had spoken to me. She was very scared now.
"Daro mat. Don't be afraid," said the policeman kindly. "Tumko kuchh nahin hoga. You will not be harmed." This kindness the girl could not take and she began to cry.
She quietened down eventually. "Tum kahaan rehte ho? Where do you live?" the policeman asked.
"Yahaan se ek-do kilometer dur. One or two kilometers from here."
"Kahan par - where?"
But she could not say it in words.
"Humey saath le chaloge? Will you take us with you?"
She nodded yes.
"Gaadi mein chalein? Shall we take a car?" I asked.
At this she brightened up.
So the policeman, the beggar girl and I walked to my car. I held her little hand as we walked. People would pass us and then do a double take when they realized what they had just seen. Some women instinctively pulled their own children closer to themselves.
The girl sat at the back of the car with the policeman. When I pulled the ten rupees out of my wallet to pay the parking attendant, I felt guilty of my wealth.
It was almost midnight. We drove a kilometer or two as she chatted freely. But after a while she sobered and said, "Yaheen rok do - stop here."
We pulled over and got out. We were at one end of a flyover. A small path ran by the side of the flyover and disappeared into the night. The girl led us down the path.
It was pitch dark - I don't remember seeing such darkness in Delhi before. On the left were some bushes. On the right were some walls. There was not a soul to be seen, if anything could have been seen in that darkness.
"Sir, yahaan par to koi kisi ko kaat kar phenk de to kisi ko subah tak pata nahin chalega. Sir, if a person is knifed here and dumped, no one will know till morning." said the policeman betraying some nervousness.
I was nervous too. "Bolo, waapas chal kar aur log le aayein? What do you say, should we go back and get more people?" I said, ever believing that everything could be solved with more resources.
At this he firmed up his resolve. "Sir, is vardi par koi haath nahin uthaayegaa - no one will dare harm someone in a police uniform!"
But he seemed to grasp his stick more firmly.
Then the path opened into some light up ahead. We could make out scores of small dark bundles, blotting out the reflections of light from the railway tracks.
Almost at once we realized we had walked into perhaps a hundred sleeping human beings. Many were on the ground, while a few were on cots.
The girl pulled her hand away and ran. She was lost at once among the bodies, some of whom were stirring awake and sitting up. We strained our eyes to see despite the poor light. We felt rats at our feet, scurrying between the bodies.
It was a summer night and there were also many mosquitoes.
Two coarse young men materialized in front of us. "Kyaa baat hai? What is the matter?"
"Sharda Bibi kaun hai? Haan? Kaun hai Sharda Bibi? Who is Sharda Bibi, who is Sharda Bibi?" demanded the policeman, asserting himself.
"Is naam ka yahaan koi nahin hai. There is no one by that name here."
"Tum bachchon se bheekh mangwaate ho? You make children beg, don't you?"
"Saab, aap kyaa baat kar rahe hain! Sir, what are you talking about! Hum bechaare to yahaan par kisi tarah se jeene ki koshish kar rahe hain! Humaare koi bachche nahin hain! We poor people are somehow trying to survive! We don't have any children!"
"Yahaan koi bachche nahin hain? There are no kids here?"
"Saab, ek do hain. Saab, hum to unko parhaanaa chaahte hain, aap uska arrangement kar do na! Sir, we have just one or two kids here. Sir, we want to educate them, please arrange that!" one said thoroughly insincerely.
"Sharda Bibi kaun hai? Bataao nahin to main tumhe andar kar doongaa! Who is Sharda Bibi. Tell me or I will throw you in jail!"
He was bluffing but I was getting very nervous. I pretended to make a call on my cellphone. The BlackBerry's screen looked most eerie in this setting of huddled bodies. I spoke some authorative English into my phone.
The bluff seemed to work, partly. "Achchha achchha, OK OK! Wo Sharda Bibi... that Sharda Bibi... Wo to yahaan se thodi dur par hogi... She must be a little ways from here." And he pointed down the tracks into the night.
"Kitni dur? How far?"
"Aadhaa-ek kilometer... About half to one kilometers... "
Needless to say, neither the policeman nor I was eager to go after this mysterious lady in this dangerous darkness.
Just then we heard some noises coming down the path we had just come. I tensed, but only till I saw who it was.
It was the group of children. They descended unsuspectingly from the path into the clearing. At the center was the legless older boy - he rode on a cart. The cart was pulled and pushed by the other children, and a couple of them had jumped in beside him. There was a Pied Piper air about the scene.
As soon as they saw us - the policeman and me - their chatter ceased. The adults stared at them and the children averted their gazes in guilty silence. Then one child scampered, and as if on cue, they all ran in different directions.
One of them was foolish enough to run close to us. The policeman grabbed hold of him.
"Kahaan jaa raha hai? Bataa, tere maa baap kaun hain? Where are you going? Where are your parents?" he demanded.
The boy was of the scruffy kind. He must have been about ten. He hung his head sullenly.
"Bataa, inme se kaun hain tere maa baap? Tell me, who among these are your parents?"
"Baap nahin hai, maa dikhaata hoon! I have no father, I'll show you my mother!" he said, suddenly angry and liberated at the same time.
He walked over to a cot where a body lay covered with a sheet. He pulled the sheet out with one flourish. A woman of indeterminate age lay there, groaning.
"Uth uth.. get up, get up!", he said sharply, but there was no response.
"Uth, uth, ye tujhe milna chaahte hain.. Get up, get up, they want to meet you.." the boy said and roughly pulled his mother into a sitting position by her shoulders. But when he let go, she again slumped back.
He moved to where her head was and hit her across the face!
She came to, a little, and said a few words. Then he hit her again.
"Bewdi saali. Koi phaayda nahin hai. Drunk bitch, there is no use!" he said, and walked away. All of ten years old.
I stood there stunned. That young boy already had a reality so complicated that I would never understand it.
"Pata nahin kyaa charhaa kar so rahi hai... Don't know what she is high on..." said the policeman softly. He must have seen a lot of things in his job, but he sounded like a lost soul.
I felt lost too. I felt like a man might when he stumbles across a mass grave.
"Yahaan se nikalte hain... Let's get out of here!" I said decisively, and the policeman was relieved.
I took out my phone and clicked a couple of photographs for the record. But there was no light to register in the phone's camera. All I got was a grainy gray of varying shades.
We walked back to the car, with me straining hard to sense any aggressive movement or noise behind us. I only relaxed when I slid into the car and locked the door.
The Rs. 14 lakh car looked like something from another planet. The beige leather and the blue lights on the dash were at once striking and empty. We drove back in silence.
"Sir, phir koi baat ho to zaroor boliyega. Mera cellphone number rakh lijiye. Humaaraa kaam hi hai logon ki help karna. Sir, if there is another matter then definitely call me. Keep my cell phone number. It is our job to help people."
I was half-impressed. But he had one aspect of me foremost on his mind.
"Sir, aap Shalini Singh ji ko kaise jaante hain? Sir, how do you know Shalini-ji?"
Now, as the offers of help came in, I happened to be reading Richard Bach's "Hypnotizing Maria". The book argued that nothing was simply a coincidence - that Nature aligned itself to your cause if you willed it to... a "Matrix" type funda. I found that hard to believe completely, of course. Just as obviously, I was convinced that it would give you great confidence and power to believe something like that!
And as I prepared for an IIT reunion last weekend, I tried to play a mind game with myself: Suppose this string of events is not a coincidence? This blogpost and the response and now the reunion - suppose they're all meant to kickstart the social work I've always wanted to do? Would it help to believe that?
Anyway, I went to the reunion, planning to talk to my old friends about an effort to save these children. As it turns out, one of the first people I met was Sanjeev Khirwar, IAS, just returned from Andaman & Nicobar where he was the Chief Electoral Officer in the 2009 elections. I asked him what he was up to these days. He replied, "I'm on a special posting in the Ministry of Women and Child Development"!
So in between a screening of "Three Idiots" and a good dinner, we had the beginnings of a conversation on the topic.
Coincidence? Smile.
*****
Despite the success of Slumdog Millionaire, almost every Indian city still has children running up to cars stopped at traffic lights or attaching themselves to shoppers at markets. They are always caked with grime covered with a layer of dust, but that's a minor thing in our dirty, dusty cities. Instead, what is most frightening is when their young bodies are missing a limb or two or are deformed in some other way. Most of these deformations have been "sculpted" by grown up humans.
Some months ago, I was at the upscale New Friends Colony market at around 9 pm. I noticed a very young boy, perhaps 6 years old, with a shoeshine box. Then I saw a beggar child, then another, and then another. There must have been 7 or 8 of them, ranging perhaps between 5 and 14 years of age. They all seemed to know each other and in between begging one would run to another and they'd play for a few minutes until they latched themselves on to another potential donor.
It all looked very innocent and one might have been forgiven for thinking, "Well, this is not as bad as it could have been." Perhaps beggar children moved up in life when they begged at posher neighborhoods.
Thinking this, I went into a restaurant for dinner. When I came out, I saw that most shoppers were now gone and the children were clustered around the oldest boy who had no legs and was resting what remained of his body on a skateboard. He had a grim air about him. They were discussing some matters in a business-like way. The children who were close to him weren't smiling.
I felt a chill as I was reminded of the "lead child" role in Slumdog Millionaire. On a hunch, I walked up to them, kneeled down, and asked him, "Tum in sab bachchon se bheekh mangwaa rahe ho? Are you forcing these children to beg?"
His eyes dropped, then he looked away. When I asked again, he seemed to wake up. "Nahin, hum sab alag alag jagahon se hain. Hum ek doosre ko nahin jaante. No, we come from different places and we don't know each other." This was the first of several well-scripted and apparently well-rehearsed lies that all the children would tell during the course of the night.
I repeated my question, then grew angry. There was a little girl of about 7 with grayish eyes, hair brown from malnutrition and a thin but pretty face. I took her a few meters to a side and asked, "Tum kahaan se ho? Where are you from?" She gave me the name of a village in UP and then added for good measure, "Hum ek doosre ko nahin jaante! We don't know each other!"
"Tumhaare maa-baap kahaan hain? Where are your parents?"
"Main maa ke saath rehti hoon, baap to bachpan mein hi chal basey. I live with my mother, Dad passed away when I was little." The language was filmy.
"Tumhaari maa kaa naam kyaa hai? What is your mother's name?"
At this she wavered. Her playfulness deserted her and she started to look scared. I asked her again. "Sharda Bibi", she said finally.
A little boy, around 4 or 5, ran up to me. He was too young to know what to say and what not to say. One of his hands had been cut off.
"Yeh kaun hai? Who is he?"
"Yeh mera bhai hai. He is my brother."
"Sharda Bibi ka beta hai? Sharda Bibi's son?"
"Haan. Yes."
"Yeh tumse kitne saal chhotaa hai? How many years younger is he?"
"Pata nahin. I don't know. Iske maa-baap ne ise train ki patri ke paas chhor diya tha, do saal se humaare saath hai. His parents left him on railroad tracks and he has been with us for two years."
So that was the story she had been told.
"Do saal se Sharda Bibi ke saath hai? He has been with Sharda Bibi for two years?"
"Haan. Yes. "
"To yeh tumhara asli bhai nahin hai? So he is not really your brother?"
She did not try to answer the question. She just twisted away in the manner that children do.
"Aur iske haath ko kya hua? What happened to his hand?"
She knew the answer to this one. "Train iske oopar se nikal gayi thi. A train ran ran over him."
A wheel of a train is a big thing when compared to a two or three year old boy. It's very difficult to imagine that such a wheel could cut such a boy's hand off without mangling the rest of his tiny body. The hand had been cut off in some other way.
And as I asked the children one question after another, I realized that this group of children was being run by an organized gang. Though they had been trained to say they did not know each other, they had also been trained to say they came from the same village, and the contradiction between the two answers was obvious. Given the mutilation of the children before me, it seemed to be a very unfortunate village, real or imagined.
As it realized that there were calculating grown ups behind the children's stories, I grew angrier. Finally, I got up and charged to the nearby police station, hardly a hundred meters away from where these children were.
"Sir!" said the policeman at the gate, inflecting his voice to make clear he didn't really mean to show respect. "Aapko kyaa kaam hai? What do you want?"
I was livid. "Main SHO se baat karoonga. I want to talk to the SHO - the station house officer."
"SHO saab to nahin hain. SHO sir isn't here."
"Dekhte hain! Let's find out!"
And I walked inside as though I owned the place. Yet the thought crept into my mind, "Had this been any place but Delhi, I'd have been stupid to walk into a police station in anger."
I told the policeman at the desk, "Aap yahaan baithe hain aur sau meter dur bachche bheekh maang rahe hain. Aap yahaan kyaa kar rahe hain? You are sitting here and little children are begging only a hundred meters away. What are you doing here?"
The policeman was young and looked impudent in a subtle way. "Kisi bachche ne tang kiya ya chori ki? Has any child bothered you or stolen anything?" he asked.
"Begging allowed nahin hai. Begging is not allowed. Aapkaa kaam hai kaanoon ko implement karna. Your job is to implement the law."
He kept shuffling some papers.
"Aap sun rahe hain ki nahin? Are you listening or not?" I asked.
"Kisi ko bhejtaa hoon. Do chaante lageinge bachchon ko to sab theek ho jayega. I will send someone. Everything will be fine after these kids are slapped twice."
He evidently knew that was not what I wanted to hear. He was playing a smart game.
Just then I looked behind his desk and saw written there "DCP South East District: Shalini Singh". Shalini Singh and my sister had been in school together. Shalini is now one of the leading lights of the Delhi police.
I fell into the trap that all we Indians fall into, as we try to elicit some minimum responsiveness from the system. "Aap Shalini Singh ji ko phone lagaao. Main unko jaanta hoon. Make a phone call to Shalini-ji, I know her."
That got their attention. The subtly impudent policeman was suddenly awkward and soon got up and left. Another older and gentler policeman engaged me instead.
"Sir, hum kya karein? Ab to bachchon ko hum thaane mein band bhi nahin kar sakte. Agar bachcha thaane mein aaye to bahut procedure hota hai - nahin to humaari vaat lag jaati hai. Sir, what can we do? We can't even lock these children in a cell in our police station. If children come to the police station then we have to follow a lot of procedures, otherwise we will get in trouble."
"To aap kaise sambhaalte ho aise matters ko? So how do you handle these matters?"
"Sir, ek NGO ko bataana padtaa hai. Phir wo aate hain. Kabhi nahin bhi aate hain. Agar aaye to hum jaakar kuchh kar sakte hain. Sir, we have to inform an NGO (Non-Government Organization). Sometimes they come, sometimes they don't. If they come then we can do something."
"Yeh bachche kisi aur ke liye bheekh maang rahe hain. Koi inhe exploit kar raha hai. Saara desh Slumdog Millionaire dekh raha hai. Aur aap aisa matter investigate nahin karoge? These children are begging for someone else. Someone is exploiting them. The whole country is watching Slumdog Millionaire and you will not investigate such a matter."
"Sir, aap jo bataao wo karenge! Sir, we will do whatever you say!"
"To chalo mere saath. So come with me. Dekh ke aate hain ki ye aadmi kaun hain jo inse bheekh mangwaa rahe hain. Let's go and see who is this person who is making them beg."
"Theek hai saab, chalo. Yes Sir, let's go." And he adjusted his cap, picked up a laathi and marched with me out of the station, past its dark gate into the lights of the market.
Seeing us come, the children scattered. The oldest boy on the skateboard could not really move anywhere quickly, so he just played with a few stones - with one hand he'd pick them up and then drop them gently on the ground one by one. He didn't say anything, didn't answer any questions.
I found the little girl who had spoken to me. She was very scared now.
"Daro mat. Don't be afraid," said the policeman kindly. "Tumko kuchh nahin hoga. You will not be harmed." This kindness the girl could not take and she began to cry.
She quietened down eventually. "Tum kahaan rehte ho? Where do you live?" the policeman asked.
"Yahaan se ek-do kilometer dur. One or two kilometers from here."
"Kahan par - where?"
But she could not say it in words.
"Humey saath le chaloge? Will you take us with you?"
She nodded yes.
"Gaadi mein chalein? Shall we take a car?" I asked.
At this she brightened up.
So the policeman, the beggar girl and I walked to my car. I held her little hand as we walked. People would pass us and then do a double take when they realized what they had just seen. Some women instinctively pulled their own children closer to themselves.
The girl sat at the back of the car with the policeman. When I pulled the ten rupees out of my wallet to pay the parking attendant, I felt guilty of my wealth.
It was almost midnight. We drove a kilometer or two as she chatted freely. But after a while she sobered and said, "Yaheen rok do - stop here."
We pulled over and got out. We were at one end of a flyover. A small path ran by the side of the flyover and disappeared into the night. The girl led us down the path.
It was pitch dark - I don't remember seeing such darkness in Delhi before. On the left were some bushes. On the right were some walls. There was not a soul to be seen, if anything could have been seen in that darkness.
"Sir, yahaan par to koi kisi ko kaat kar phenk de to kisi ko subah tak pata nahin chalega. Sir, if a person is knifed here and dumped, no one will know till morning." said the policeman betraying some nervousness.
I was nervous too. "Bolo, waapas chal kar aur log le aayein? What do you say, should we go back and get more people?" I said, ever believing that everything could be solved with more resources.
At this he firmed up his resolve. "Sir, is vardi par koi haath nahin uthaayegaa - no one will dare harm someone in a police uniform!"
But he seemed to grasp his stick more firmly.
Then the path opened into some light up ahead. We could make out scores of small dark bundles, blotting out the reflections of light from the railway tracks.
Almost at once we realized we had walked into perhaps a hundred sleeping human beings. Many were on the ground, while a few were on cots.
The girl pulled her hand away and ran. She was lost at once among the bodies, some of whom were stirring awake and sitting up. We strained our eyes to see despite the poor light. We felt rats at our feet, scurrying between the bodies.
It was a summer night and there were also many mosquitoes.
Two coarse young men materialized in front of us. "Kyaa baat hai? What is the matter?"
"Sharda Bibi kaun hai? Haan? Kaun hai Sharda Bibi? Who is Sharda Bibi, who is Sharda Bibi?" demanded the policeman, asserting himself.
"Is naam ka yahaan koi nahin hai. There is no one by that name here."
"Tum bachchon se bheekh mangwaate ho? You make children beg, don't you?"
"Saab, aap kyaa baat kar rahe hain! Sir, what are you talking about! Hum bechaare to yahaan par kisi tarah se jeene ki koshish kar rahe hain! Humaare koi bachche nahin hain! We poor people are somehow trying to survive! We don't have any children!"
"Yahaan koi bachche nahin hain? There are no kids here?"
"Saab, ek do hain. Saab, hum to unko parhaanaa chaahte hain, aap uska arrangement kar do na! Sir, we have just one or two kids here. Sir, we want to educate them, please arrange that!" one said thoroughly insincerely.
"Sharda Bibi kaun hai? Bataao nahin to main tumhe andar kar doongaa! Who is Sharda Bibi. Tell me or I will throw you in jail!"
He was bluffing but I was getting very nervous. I pretended to make a call on my cellphone. The BlackBerry's screen looked most eerie in this setting of huddled bodies. I spoke some authorative English into my phone.
The bluff seemed to work, partly. "Achchha achchha, OK OK! Wo Sharda Bibi... that Sharda Bibi... Wo to yahaan se thodi dur par hogi... She must be a little ways from here." And he pointed down the tracks into the night.
"Kitni dur? How far?"
"Aadhaa-ek kilometer... About half to one kilometers... "
Needless to say, neither the policeman nor I was eager to go after this mysterious lady in this dangerous darkness.
Just then we heard some noises coming down the path we had just come. I tensed, but only till I saw who it was.
It was the group of children. They descended unsuspectingly from the path into the clearing. At the center was the legless older boy - he rode on a cart. The cart was pulled and pushed by the other children, and a couple of them had jumped in beside him. There was a Pied Piper air about the scene.
As soon as they saw us - the policeman and me - their chatter ceased. The adults stared at them and the children averted their gazes in guilty silence. Then one child scampered, and as if on cue, they all ran in different directions.
One of them was foolish enough to run close to us. The policeman grabbed hold of him.
"Kahaan jaa raha hai? Bataa, tere maa baap kaun hain? Where are you going? Where are your parents?" he demanded.
The boy was of the scruffy kind. He must have been about ten. He hung his head sullenly.
"Bataa, inme se kaun hain tere maa baap? Tell me, who among these are your parents?"
"Baap nahin hai, maa dikhaata hoon! I have no father, I'll show you my mother!" he said, suddenly angry and liberated at the same time.
He walked over to a cot where a body lay covered with a sheet. He pulled the sheet out with one flourish. A woman of indeterminate age lay there, groaning.
"Uth uth.. get up, get up!", he said sharply, but there was no response.
"Uth, uth, ye tujhe milna chaahte hain.. Get up, get up, they want to meet you.." the boy said and roughly pulled his mother into a sitting position by her shoulders. But when he let go, she again slumped back.
He moved to where her head was and hit her across the face!
She came to, a little, and said a few words. Then he hit her again.
"Bewdi saali. Koi phaayda nahin hai. Drunk bitch, there is no use!" he said, and walked away. All of ten years old.
I stood there stunned. That young boy already had a reality so complicated that I would never understand it.
"Pata nahin kyaa charhaa kar so rahi hai... Don't know what she is high on..." said the policeman softly. He must have seen a lot of things in his job, but he sounded like a lost soul.
I felt lost too. I felt like a man might when he stumbles across a mass grave.
"Yahaan se nikalte hain... Let's get out of here!" I said decisively, and the policeman was relieved.
I took out my phone and clicked a couple of photographs for the record. But there was no light to register in the phone's camera. All I got was a grainy gray of varying shades.
We walked back to the car, with me straining hard to sense any aggressive movement or noise behind us. I only relaxed when I slid into the car and locked the door.
The Rs. 14 lakh car looked like something from another planet. The beige leather and the blue lights on the dash were at once striking and empty. We drove back in silence.
"Sir, phir koi baat ho to zaroor boliyega. Mera cellphone number rakh lijiye. Humaaraa kaam hi hai logon ki help karna. Sir, if there is another matter then definitely call me. Keep my cell phone number. It is our job to help people."
I was half-impressed. But he had one aspect of me foremost on his mind.
"Sir, aap Shalini Singh ji ko kaise jaante hain? Sir, how do you know Shalini-ji?"
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