In New India: The Forgotten Citizens
Sunita was inconsolable. She had no idea where she was nor was she aware about the happenings around her, all she wanted was to go back home to Bihar. To her deceased husband. Her bereft eyes screaming for a return home, the mask loosely hanging over her mouth and her bag of clothes well balanced on her head, the world continued to move around her, collect and holler at one another. Each had their own plight, vulnerability and despair.
Sunita is standing at the Delhi — Uttar Pradesh border, few kilometres ahead of the Gazipur Mandi, along with many thousands like her. This has become the epicentre for all migrants. Every day since 24th March 2020, hundred thousand have used this border to make the crossover towards their village. These scenes of migrants walking helplessly covered our tv screens and social media, thus bringing an ugly repute to the government in the two months of the lockdown. As a result the border has now been sealed. Police presence has been heightened and barricades have become a wall that is difficult to climb over.
But when hope becomes a habit, nothing can rattle it. Everyday thousands still converge at this border hoping for a way out of the hell and way into their homes. Many who are now thronging this area are the ones who had waited, waited for lockdowns to ease, waited for government to come to their rescue, neither reaching them. Now frightened, desperate and dejected by the system, they too want to walk back. But now even those steps have become forbidden.
“Yeh police humko aagey janey nhain de rahi jab ki humare pass pass hein” (these policemen are not allowing us to pass through, even when we have a pass), shouts Manoj.
Manoj and twenty more like him had reached Delhi from Jammu in one of the special trains. Each had a hard-printed copy of the ticket which allowed them to go till their home in Bulandshahr and Meerut. But after an indefinite wait at the train station for some guidance, a direction, they collectively decided to walk. But with just 100 kms short from home they were stopped by the Uttar Pradesh police at the border. They had been waiting for home for two months, and their perpetual wait continued.
As India is starting to open up, allowing movements of cars and trucks between states free and unrestricted, for the migrants nothing remains unchanged. The Government’s much publicised ‘special shramik trains’ and ‘buses’ remain unattainable for the migrants. And why will they not be, for bookings can be made only through mobile apps and online. And in case one is successful in making the booking, there is no help provided for reaching the station. A lot therefore continues to be expected out of a class who has no basic formal education up their sleeve and survives on Rs 500/- day (some even less).
The Ministry of Home Affairs has imposed a strict order in place allowing no migrant to be walking on the road. With such heavy clause in place the police is now roughing these men and women of steel in buses and dropping them at camps, making their journey back home arduous.
But not unachievable. With more anger and fervour they are determined to reach their heaven in home.
Sarvaesh had spent two nights walking from Nathpura (in Punjab) till Kundali border in Haryana. But from there he was turned back by the police. Dejected but not given up, Sarvesh walked backwards on the same road, hoping to reach his village in Hardoi through inside routes and villages. Sarvesh was not doing this journey alone. He had his nine-month-old baby girl slouched on his shoulder while his wife walked a few metres behind them carrying their world in a messy bundle on her head. When I met them they had walked almost 500 kilometres (maybe more) by foot (and maybe a certain distance by truck) and had exhausted all food and drinks upon them. As I gave them some packets of juice and biscuits, the baby girl had come down from the shoulder into his arms and started taking the juice packets from his hand. Sarvesh somehow survived the two months of lockdown in his dingy room at Nathpura. But has money started to run out and so did opportunities for work, he decided to walk his family back home, in their plastic slippers and determination. I asked him if in this time he or his wife has received any money in their account from the government.
“Sarkar ne kuch nhain diya. Mere pass account nhain, but meri patni ke pass hein aur jo bhi paisa tha usemein who khatam ho gaya”. (The Government did not provide us any help. I don’t have a account but my wife does and whatever money we had in her account we used it for our survival in these two months).
This plight is not just about Sunita. Or Manoj or Sarvesh. Nor is it just about the 8 year old Jisha and her family who were walking till Bihar. Or 12 year old Vikas walking with his old father and other from his village to Gaya. Or about 2 year old Babu and Nandini who are walking on their parents back to home in Panna, Madhya Pradesh. It is about the many many more like them who had been forgotten at the start of the corona lockdown and continue to be forgotten and abandoned even as the lockdown moves in its 4th phase.
Where and when did this country lose its consciousness?
The 500 kilometres that I covered from Uttar Pradesh to Haryana last week, trying to document the footsteps of all those who have been walking the road to reach their home, there are not enough words that can explain the plight. There are not enough suitable words to re-tell their suffering.
I have washed my mask twice, my shoes, my clothes, my hair, my hands a bazillion times, but cannot wash the memory of those forlorn beings with those tired eyes, hunched shoulders and bruised feet, those masks covered faces with their tattered clothes and dirt under their nails. Those who are willing to accept food from any stranger, who is willing to eat anything with unwashed hands, who does not know what Corona is but are wearing masks because they just have to. Those who doesn’t care about the rising heat or sun, wind or rain, for they are consumed by the only thought of home. They are ready to die to reach home. They are ready to die for home.
And what does the system do? How does the government take action?
By continuing to tom-tom about their shramik trains and the people they have supposedly sent home, and then targeting the journalists, the humanitarians who are trying to do their little bit.
When I posted the photos of Sarvesh, Sunita and all those who I met on my way, my Twitter handle was flooded with idiocy and abuses.
“why are they not using the train? Instead of going back they should go to the nearest railway station and board the train…”
“Yeh aapna agenda chala rahi hein”, (She is trying to run her agenda)
“ aap apni gaadi mai bus stand tak chord aati”, (Couldn’t you have dropped them to the bus stand in your car)
“gyan kaise palenge yeh” (How will she forward her agenda)
“Can’t you take them to the nearest railway station? Where are the trains? Or camps?”
Latest to this barrage has been Kevin Carter’s iconic picture of vulture and the little Sudanese girl with the text “The Journalist who took the picture below had the same mentality like yours but ended up committing suicide few months later because of shame and regret”. (This has been circulating like wildfire on whats app, facebook, twitter and Instagram — and many who are forwarding this are people who are in some very powerful positions, having received by many I know by people who are important in this country)
This is our new India in which we are supposedly living. One where only after posting it on Twitter did Sunita get the help (she was sent home by political party of the opposition). Sarvesh however is probably still walking. Jisha too. Nandini and Babu might be taking a break under the shade of a tree. For this is the new India that is not fighting the pandemic of corona rather fighting the vultures of system to reach home. For this is the new India where the ones working to fight the pandemic are being beaten and abused by the ones who are shamelessly sharing images and routines of their luxurious food and life in lockdown. For this is the new India where each day is waking up to a new dawn of darkness and death.
