Koyals, red vented bulbuls call March morning. Irrfan Khan seriously sick, beeps FB. On a walking stick, tottered 7 o'clock Wednesday morning. Metroing Link Road shut up, resting from Tuesday surgery. Bhaiyas were nodding away, bhaiyas from UP, Jharkhand, Bihar. Debris of India. They do every dirty work as their villages have no work. Their lands for politicians to usurp and sell for cash. Bhaiyas do any work. At Vembanadu Kayal, they were laying bricks for a home, trudging all the way from Siliguri in West Bengal. In between, they dived the kayal, to keep cool. J.Kumar, the construction firm, blazes the trucks and cranes; Metroing Link Road, hundreds of them chewing tambaku or smoking a biri between work and a tea -- their daily wages can fetch them that much. Operating tonner cranes, they slog, contract workers. Uneasy yellow helmets atop heads, cannot take crowshit hits; no ear muffs; no goggles; they will be deaf and blind in four or five years working in noise, unsleeping middle class in apartments; outsize boots, hindering walk; bare hands, some with torn gloves. Denied life decencies and protections, the bhaiyya is unminded, being familiar with karmic cruelty. No bhaiyya can afford the metro when it speeds past; may not be around, killed at work spots. Bibis waits in gaons with buffalos for company. With red and yellow beaming sticks, they guide middle class in mercs rushing to work places; no mercs care; they run over bhayyas; bhayyas fall; stand up; dust themselves; wonder whereto the Mumbaikar speeds, to hospital or work place, both same; bhayyas are turned tougher than mercs. No ambulance stands by. Ah! bhayya is dispensable. At the police chowki, pot holed policemen nose for bribes. Morning walkers and me dribble by, trying to put down yesterday's dinner; bhayya has no such walks; he sleeps standing; he dozes sitting; snores lying on wooden and stone benches built by charitable trusts and politicians. Today, Wednesday he is still asleep in helmets under a 32 degrees sun. Is bhayya a human? Or God's nasty mood product with no expiry dates?
Tuesday, March 6, 2018
Metro work
Koyals, red vented bulbuls call March morning. Irrfan Khan seriously sick, beeps FB. On a walking stick, tottered 7 o'clock Wednesday morning. Metroing Link Road shut up, resting from Tuesday surgery. Bhaiyas were nodding away, bhaiyas from UP, Jharkhand, Bihar. Debris of India. They do every dirty work as their villages have no work. Their lands for politicians to usurp and sell for cash. Bhaiyas do any work. At Vembanadu Kayal, they were laying bricks for a home, trudging all the way from Siliguri in West Bengal. In between, they dived the kayal, to keep cool. J.Kumar, the construction firm, blazes the trucks and cranes; Metroing Link Road, hundreds of them chewing tambaku or smoking a biri between work and a tea -- their daily wages can fetch them that much. Operating tonner cranes, they slog, contract workers. Uneasy yellow helmets atop heads, cannot take crowshit hits; no ear muffs; no goggles; they will be deaf and blind in four or five years working in noise, unsleeping middle class in apartments; outsize boots, hindering walk; bare hands, some with torn gloves. Denied life decencies and protections, the bhaiyya is unminded, being familiar with karmic cruelty. No bhaiyya can afford the metro when it speeds past; may not be around, killed at work spots. Bibis waits in gaons with buffalos for company. With red and yellow beaming sticks, they guide middle class in mercs rushing to work places; no mercs care; they run over bhayyas; bhayyas fall; stand up; dust themselves; wonder whereto the Mumbaikar speeds, to hospital or work place, both same; bhayyas are turned tougher than mercs. No ambulance stands by. Ah! bhayya is dispensable. At the police chowki, pot holed policemen nose for bribes. Morning walkers and me dribble by, trying to put down yesterday's dinner; bhayya has no such walks; he sleeps standing; he dozes sitting; snores lying on wooden and stone benches built by charitable trusts and politicians. Today, Wednesday he is still asleep in helmets under a 32 degrees sun. Is bhayya a human? Or God's nasty mood product with no expiry dates?
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