Keep your voice down dear.
Even if they hear us, they will start barking.
I hope they haven’t smelt us.
Bloody bastards.
Mumbai rains are partly poetic, partly poignant. Hiding our heads beneath jumbo, large, medium, small sized umbrellas; we never raise our heads, to witness the stories which are struggling to survive around us. Calling it a selfish virtue would be wrong. But tagging it ignorant won’t go against being not so right.
So here is that story, which made me feel again; lives stand divided irrespective of caste, creed, status or season.
Two girls had just stepped out of a banquet hall. Carrying the leftovers from a plush dinner party of last night, these two girls in their worn out attire, kept walking barefooted towards a slum. The rains had grown thicker. The girls didn’t have an umbrella to protect themselves. Neither did they try covering them with the plastic sheets, which they had wrapped their waists around with. As I walked a little closer to them, I realized their clothes were torn. Thus they had peeled off the plastic sheet from the top of an unattended cart, which could have belonged to a vegetable vendor. They must have then tore it into two pieces of same size and tried covering their torn parts of the dress.
Looking at their faces, I realized they were not much older than ten or twelve years. Yet to hit their teens, they kept walking towards a slum, which stood at the end of a narrow road. Plush housing societies lined this narrow road, which led to their slums. I too was walking into one of the corporate structures of the same locality. Before I could enter the gate, I saw these girls taking an unannounced pause.
One of them remarked, ‘Wait. They are out for their first feed of the day.’
The other agreed, ‘Oh Yes. This is the life they are lucky to live.’
The girl who spoke first seemed to be slightly elder than the other one.
Thus the elder one spoke again, ‘Do you think, the food they are served is specially cooked for them?’
The younger one said, ‘Looking at the regularity and the time they are served by, I guess the food is cooked every morning.’
The elder one then cautioned the younger one, ‘Hide. Before they see us, just hide.’
Huddling besides each other, they sought cover behind a parked car. It took me some time to realize; not too far from where I stood and the girls sought cover at; around five to six dogs were being fed by few women. Every dog had its mouth deeply sunk in plastic boxes, which looked similar to each other in size; only differentiated by the women they were attended by. Every time, the box seemed to be running out of stock, the women standing alongside would reload them.
The younger one said, ‘Look how spoiled they are. What’s the difference between them and us? Those dogs live on the same road as us. But they are being fed every day.’
The elder one said, ‘I know. My sister was saying that they are well fed indeed; three times a day.’
The younger one replied amusingly, ‘Three times a day! These rich bastards, living in their plush homes, can throw food out to those dogs. But when we go begging for it during days and nights of our hunger, the building security shoos us off. On many occasions, they have kicked you and me both.’
The elder one then remarked, ‘Keep your voice down dear. These dogs are so sharp. Even if they hear us, they will start barking. Whatever we are holding dear to us, we may have to throw that too to these tailed bastards.’
The younger one spoke up, ‘I hope they haven’t smelt us like they did the last week. One of them barked furiously and almost caught me by my feet. Such sharp are their tooth and claws.’
The elder one then added, ‘With the kind of food they are feeding upon, do you think, they are ever going to grow frail!’
Both concluded their conversation by remarking unanimously, ‘Bloody bastards.’
By the time, the conversation between those two girls ended, the feeding-of-dogs ritual was over too. The women feeding the dogs walked into the gates, they stepped out from. They seemed to me like housemaids who were assigned this task every morning. Perhaps the food fed to dogs were also leftovers of last night. Or if the girls are to be believed, it could be freshly cooked.
Through this story, I am not trying to make any point. Neither am I targeting dog lovers and their feeders. But I am trying to understand my vision and seek attention to the fact that ours is indeed a life divided.
The dogs, the two poor girls, the housemaids, the rich people of those plush housing societies are a part of the same civilization. Yet, the way, the treatment differs between humans and dogs, the rich and the poor, the homeless and the settled, the successful and the unsuccessful.
Life definitely is divided. But this divide is not just limited to this story. This divide could be felt within our offices (this will need an altogether separate story), within social hubs, within communities, within families, within friends.
In this concluding portion of the post, I would like to add the conversation I had with the girls.
I asked them both, ‘Aren’t you both scared? The dogs might still bark at you or come for you.’
Both replied with a chunk of laughter in their voices, ‘There’s no chance. Look at the way they have eaten up the whole stock. They don’t have the strength to move a step ahead. Leave biting alone, even barking is out of their capacity.’
I then asked, ‘How often do you take this road?’
Without batting an eyelid, both replied, ‘Almost every day. And every day we have to wait till those bastard dogs are done with their ritual of feeding upon.’
As I stepped into the corporate premise, I looked out for those girls. Carrying the stuff on their heads, they were walking merrily again beneath the heavy rains. Paying no attention to the dogs, which were still lurking by the roadside, they mustered the courage to tease each other and made their way home with their survival kit for the day.
- Virtuous Vociferous | July 10 | July Blog-1 | Never Settle | 2019
Even if they hear us, they will start barking.
I hope they haven’t smelt us.
Bloody bastards.
Mumbai rains are partly poetic, partly poignant. Hiding our heads beneath jumbo, large, medium, small sized umbrellas; we never raise our heads, to witness the stories which are struggling to survive around us. Calling it a selfish virtue would be wrong. But tagging it ignorant won’t go against being not so right.
So here is that story, which made me feel again; lives stand divided irrespective of caste, creed, status or season.
Two girls had just stepped out of a banquet hall. Carrying the leftovers from a plush dinner party of last night, these two girls in their worn out attire, kept walking barefooted towards a slum. The rains had grown thicker. The girls didn’t have an umbrella to protect themselves. Neither did they try covering them with the plastic sheets, which they had wrapped their waists around with. As I walked a little closer to them, I realized their clothes were torn. Thus they had peeled off the plastic sheet from the top of an unattended cart, which could have belonged to a vegetable vendor. They must have then tore it into two pieces of same size and tried covering their torn parts of the dress.
Looking at their faces, I realized they were not much older than ten or twelve years. Yet to hit their teens, they kept walking towards a slum, which stood at the end of a narrow road. Plush housing societies lined this narrow road, which led to their slums. I too was walking into one of the corporate structures of the same locality. Before I could enter the gate, I saw these girls taking an unannounced pause.
One of them remarked, ‘Wait. They are out for their first feed of the day.’
The other agreed, ‘Oh Yes. This is the life they are lucky to live.’
The girl who spoke first seemed to be slightly elder than the other one.
Thus the elder one spoke again, ‘Do you think, the food they are served is specially cooked for them?’
The younger one said, ‘Looking at the regularity and the time they are served by, I guess the food is cooked every morning.’
The elder one then cautioned the younger one, ‘Hide. Before they see us, just hide.’
Huddling besides each other, they sought cover behind a parked car. It took me some time to realize; not too far from where I stood and the girls sought cover at; around five to six dogs were being fed by few women. Every dog had its mouth deeply sunk in plastic boxes, which looked similar to each other in size; only differentiated by the women they were attended by. Every time, the box seemed to be running out of stock, the women standing alongside would reload them.
The younger one said, ‘Look how spoiled they are. What’s the difference between them and us? Those dogs live on the same road as us. But they are being fed every day.’
The elder one said, ‘I know. My sister was saying that they are well fed indeed; three times a day.’
The younger one replied amusingly, ‘Three times a day! These rich bastards, living in their plush homes, can throw food out to those dogs. But when we go begging for it during days and nights of our hunger, the building security shoos us off. On many occasions, they have kicked you and me both.’
The elder one then remarked, ‘Keep your voice down dear. These dogs are so sharp. Even if they hear us, they will start barking. Whatever we are holding dear to us, we may have to throw that too to these tailed bastards.’
The younger one spoke up, ‘I hope they haven’t smelt us like they did the last week. One of them barked furiously and almost caught me by my feet. Such sharp are their tooth and claws.’
The elder one then added, ‘With the kind of food they are feeding upon, do you think, they are ever going to grow frail!’
Both concluded their conversation by remarking unanimously, ‘Bloody bastards.’
By the time, the conversation between those two girls ended, the feeding-of-dogs ritual was over too. The women feeding the dogs walked into the gates, they stepped out from. They seemed to me like housemaids who were assigned this task every morning. Perhaps the food fed to dogs were also leftovers of last night. Or if the girls are to be believed, it could be freshly cooked.
Through this story, I am not trying to make any point. Neither am I targeting dog lovers and their feeders. But I am trying to understand my vision and seek attention to the fact that ours is indeed a life divided.
The dogs, the two poor girls, the housemaids, the rich people of those plush housing societies are a part of the same civilization. Yet, the way, the treatment differs between humans and dogs, the rich and the poor, the homeless and the settled, the successful and the unsuccessful.
Life definitely is divided. But this divide is not just limited to this story. This divide could be felt within our offices (this will need an altogether separate story), within social hubs, within communities, within families, within friends.
In this concluding portion of the post, I would like to add the conversation I had with the girls.
I asked them both, ‘Aren’t you both scared? The dogs might still bark at you or come for you.’
Both replied with a chunk of laughter in their voices, ‘There’s no chance. Look at the way they have eaten up the whole stock. They don’t have the strength to move a step ahead. Leave biting alone, even barking is out of their capacity.’
I then asked, ‘How often do you take this road?’
Without batting an eyelid, both replied, ‘Almost every day. And every day we have to wait till those bastard dogs are done with their ritual of feeding upon.’
As I stepped into the corporate premise, I looked out for those girls. Carrying the stuff on their heads, they were walking merrily again beneath the heavy rains. Paying no attention to the dogs, which were still lurking by the roadside, they mustered the courage to tease each other and made their way home with their survival kit for the day.
- Virtuous Vociferous | July 10 | July Blog-1 | Never Settle | 2019
