He steps out of his house. It has a tin roof and door. It has tin walls and zero windows. He can’t sleep because of the mosquitoes and the flies. And also because he has no work. Time? What difference does it make anyway? Is what he tells himself. Must be fiveish.
His co-workers hear him shuffling around. They come out too. Only 7 had chosen to stay behind. For various reasons. The rest had gone home. They live in the temporary sheds that have been put up on the site. Very very close to one another. They don’t have a choice. He wonders if he has done the right thing by staying back. But brushes such thoughts away. Immediately.
He remembers the days when he had no work. He knows he can’t live through that. Not again. Yes, he missed his family. But the builder had promised them full wages for their “idle days” and a job after the lockdown ended. Only if they stayed on. So he stayed on. Hope was more comforting than the fear of the unknown.
He shares a strange kind of camaraderie with his co-workers. Sometimes on the spur of the moment, he joins them for a brisk jogging session early in the morning. At other times he plays a long game of cricket with them in the afternoons. Often when sleep eludes them all, they light a bonfire in the middle of the night, play some loud music and silently watch the flames dance to the strange rhythm in their hearts. This site was his home. For now. His co-workers his family. He is grateful for one thing. The water tanker fellow comes regularly. He feels good when he takes a bath in the open and puts on clean clothes. The dry toilets at the far end of the site serve his purpose.
He has lived through worse. He knows he can live through this too. But he is very scared. He gets a little solace from his happy memories. He wants to go home. He knows he can’t. Not yet. Just a little longer. Just a little longer. He consoles himself. And brushes away his tears.
He keeps himself fit. His savings are close to his chest. He cooks and eats. Alone. And rarely talks for long with the others. He knows no one can or will take care of him if he falls sick. And that was that.
She lives in a one-room kitchen wala house. Her house has a tiny window, a front and back door. The bathroom is an enclosure within the kitchen. The toilet outside the kitchen. She washes vessels and dries their clothes in the small backyard outside the kitchen.
She has no running water. She hasn’t experienced that kind of luxury in decades now. She is used to it. Over 50 one-room kitchen wala houses depend on a common source of water supply. She is lucky. Her house is just four houses away from the six taps. The supply starts at 1.30 in the afternoon and peters out exactly at 2.30 p.m. Empty buckets are lined up as and when they get empty. But she has to be there physically to fill her buckets when the supply starts.
She, like all the other women, has mastered the art of getting her household chores done with as little water as possible. Yesterday she saw two women shrieking and pulling each other’s hair. And walked away calmly. She knows how precious one bucket of water can be.
She stares blankly at her madams when they tell her to “stay home, stay safe. Use a sanitizer. Wash your hands frequently.” And just nods her head silently. Only one madam gives her salary to her in advance. She gets a “paid” break for the first time in her life. But all she wonders about is if their water supply will be affected during the lockdown.
There had been no water supply yesterday. She wonders if they would get the supply at 1.30 a.m. or at any other time. She is anxious. She has just enough water to drink. Not cook. And is overjoyed when they get at 2.00 a.m. She washes all the clothes, cleans the bathroom and the toilet, mops the kitchen, has a bath, cooks and stocks up on as much water as she can before daybreak. She has her tea with her husband and son and goes to sleep.
She had slapped her son the other day. Hard. He had sneaked out of the house to play a game of cricket with the other boys in their street. And for the first time in her life, she saw fear in her child’s eyes. She hugged him. Tightly. Immediately. And wept. I don’t want you to die. I can’t bear to see you die. She said. Her husband had gathered both of them in his arms. She could see the tears in his eyes. We’ll get through this. We’ll get through this too. He said. She believed him. But was scared too. Very scared.
Her husband and son play games on their phone and watch TV on mute mode till she catches up on her sleep. She decides to cook something nice for them every day. She smiles when her son tells her that he will teach her how to use WhatsApp on their phone now that she has no work.
“I’m not listening to anything. I am not asking you to stay at home. I am ordering you to do so. Yes, I am crazy. But you will not step out of the house from today. I was extremely patient with you for the past week. You worked on-site while the others worked from home. I tried my best to understand your work requirements. Not anymore.
Don’t define things like “essential services” to me. Just tell me. I can’t drive a car. If you fall sick, you will be in no condition to sit on a two-wheeler. There are no rickshaws or cabs on the road. I seriously doubt if the doctors will be free enough to examine you. You are diabetic, have BP and are a heart patient? How will I ferry you to the hospital? It’s fine by me if you can’t work from home now. Will you be able to work from the hospital if you fall sick? Deal with it in any way you want or can. I don’t care. You will do what I say until the lockdown ends. Period.”
And I gaze dumbly at the series of WhatsApp messages that pop up on my phone screen. One highly educated rich lady has the gumption to call such lowly folks “idiots” because she can see “men moving around” and “children playing cricket on the streets.”
I want to ask her several questions. But I don’t. I have better things to do with my time. So I’ll vent out here. Have you lived in a tiny house sweetie? Would you like to do so? Can you? Do you even have the courage to imagine living like that? Open your eyes. Not the ones in your head. The ones in your heart. I have created a picture for you with my words because I know you are blind to such things.
Don’t look down upon such industrious people scornfully. Don’t dare to talk sarcastically about them. Don’t, please don’t call them illiterate. Because I don’t – really – honestly – think being educated alone – is enough to qualify as a humane being. It takes more than that. Believe me when I say this. Live through their lives first. Then open that damned well-greased mouth of yours and talk the nonsense that you have to. And hear me out.
They know everything that we do about the Carona virus. And they know what they have to do. They are doing their best to deal with it in as best a manner as they can. And are more sensitive about the well being of others than you and I are. And you know what? I trust them. More than I trust you.
If I, a responsible citizen, can take my own decisions and keep my distance from people like you – physically, mentally and emotionally – I am sure they too can take their own decisions and do what they have to. And just because they are not as financially fortunate as you and I are – does not by default make them irresponsible. Understand that. Very well.
And in case, just in case, they want some expert advice – I am damn sure they won’t come knocking on your doors. So stay safe and continue to stay in that ivory tower of yours that you call “home.” Aaah. And do me a favour. Please. Just shut your mouth and mind your own business.