Reservoirs Of Indifference

While volunteering in a village school near Lucknow some years ago, thestraight words of a little boy revealed one of life’s lessons to me. I wasfilling in for the schoolmaster for a few weeks, teaching children of all agesto read and write. Bored of regurgitating the alphabet one summer morning, Ithought I would encourage the kids to bathe under the hand pump near the schoolinstead. My suggestion was promptly ignored, and the children exploited thesituation to disperse early. But when I persisted on the days which followed, Iwas soon granted many wonderful photo opportunities: the children would play inthe water lying flat on their stomachs, pretending to swim, crying ‘Machli,Machli!’ On the first of such days, after I had convinced Hariya – a youngboy of eight or nine – to take a bath, I casually asked him: "Don’t youwant to bring a change of clothes from home?" Hariya’s answer remains withme to this day. "Garib aadmi hai na didiji. Ek hi kapda hai." 

The uncertainty and fear in Hariya’s eyes while attempting to read simpletext, forced me to realize how little we understand the haunting despair of themajority of our countrymen, striving against overwhelming odds in search ofsurvival, dignity and hope. On our part, we have managed to silence the voicesof empathy in our heads, to an extent that the poor are mere irritants that wemust somehow live with. The reservoirs of indifference towards the disadvantagedthat we carry within us manifest themselves in various ways in our everydaylives. Our existence is so comfortably shielded from the realities of poverty,that the unbridgeable distance between the two affords little scope for any realengagement. So we have employers who routinely complain about their maids takingthat day off, not once realizing that they don’t allow their servants aholiday on the weekends, leave alone annual leave. We have families enjoyingdinners in restaurants, all the while peremptorily ordering the waiters around,but tipping them with petty change. We hear casual remarks from travellers ontrains, that the frail old woman begging in their compartment does so in orderto shirk work. Not once do we pause to think that the withered woman in hersixties is perhaps incapable of physical labour, the only work she can possiblyfind, if at all she does. Not for a moment does it occur to us that in thiscountry of a billion people, work is hard to come by. We merely shrug ourshoulders and tell the beggar to move on, a reflex that comes to us so easily,habitually, almost naturally, that it prevents any possible sympathy fromarising in our minds and hearts. 

Every day, we come across developments in our midst which affect the poor ingrave, unjust ways that are beyond the scope of our imagination. One hopes thatwe might pay attention to such injustice, that we might even do something aboutit, if only, we register it in our minds. In Bangalore where I live, in thefirst five weeks of the inauguration of the swank international airport, oneperson was killed every two days while crossing the airport highway which runsright through their lives. With motorists cruising at never-before speeds up to150 kmph, this highway - which might be the most amazing thing that everhappened to driving enthusiasts – has become a death trap for pedestrians whohave to dart across. Residents of the area, school children and vendors have nochoice but to cross the highway, though the possibility of a fatal accidentlurks every moment. Did the thought of building underpasses or skywalks forpedestrians not even cross the minds of the planners? And shouldn’t we, astravellers on such highways who enjoy the convenience and pleasure they provideus, share responsibility for the blood that they spill? Aren’t we to blame,that we somehow, always manage to look the other way? 

One of the most disturbing experiences I’ve had of this callousinsensitivity which has become a regular feature of our society, came my way ona tour of Kevadia Colony in Gujarat. Here, the houses and agricultural lands ofsix Adivasi villages were acquired in 1961, to build infrastructure for theconstruction of that icon of development in modern India: the Sardar Sarovardam. Despite being uprooted almost half a century ago, the residents of thesevillages are not even recognized as project-affected, and thus not entitled toresettlement. In a show of extraordinary defiance, the people have refused topart with their homes and lands. They continue to protest non-violently bystaying put in their houses, even after the land on which they stand has beenacquired by the government. If they didn’t, they’d have nowhere to go. 

And now, as if to rub salt into their wounds, the government has set inmotion a fresh wave of displacement in Kevadia. Plans are in place for aspectacular tourism project on the very lands which were originally acquired fora ‘public purpose’. A luxury hotel located on the cusp of the colony, whoseconstruction was preceded by an attempt to forcibly evict half a dozen tribalfamilies using a sizeable police force, is already welcoming guests. Itsadvertisement reads: Chill. Still. Tranquil. Unfortunately for the hoteliers,tribal huts disrupt the magnificent view of the river, and the Adivasisthemselves interfere with their tranquility. 

On a recent visit, a friend and I decided to visit this hotel. A managerpromptly welcomed us, and gave us the information we asked for. The land hadbeen leased out to the company by the government. Rooms would cost Rs. 4000 anight. A swimming pool was under construction. Further in the conversation, whenmy friend revealed that she used to be an activist in the movement which isfighting for the rights of the uprooted people, the manager changed his tack. 

 "But we are hiring the locals", he averred optimistically. "Weare training them. Our motto is to ensure that they move forward with us."This when the land on which the hotel stands itself belongs to the very peoplewho will sweep and mop it, water its gardens and make beds for its guests.Needless to say, the numbers that can potentially be hired for the tourismproject fall ridiculously short of those uprooted 

"And what are you training the local people for?" we asked. "Forcleaning, gardening and making beds. Also cooking." Here, he paused, thenalmost as an afterthought, added: "But there is a problem with hiringlocals." "And what might that be?" we asked, not knowing what to expect."Well, you see, these local Adivasis, they can be trained to meet ourneeds", he explained, "except for one task, for which we must hireoutsiders." 

"You see", he concluded with a straight face. "They can’t cookChinese!"