Lina KrishnanMigration stories from Bangalore’s hinterland
Walking back from the Naveena-Praveena shop, our little nameless village store run by a pair of brothers, we fell into step with a youngish man. We looked at him with the diffident gaze of strangers.
Suddenly, as though he was bursting to talk, he addressed us. “Hindi baat karte? Do you speak Hindi?” It was not immediately apparent what he had said. Then we said, “haan, baat karte hain. Yes, we speak it.”
He responded, “Hum Orissa se hain. I’m from Orissa”. He was Hari, from Bhubaneswar, came to work in Bangalore. He was eager to exchange thoughts, and since we have travelled a bit in Orissa, we chatted of Puri and Cuttack and Chilika, and how Bhubaneswar had of late become very glitz compared to the ancient temple town it used to be, and of which the old part still remains.
He responded, “Capital hai na?” Sab capital aisa hi ho jaatein hain. All capital cities become like that one day”. Larger than life, expensive to live in, yet a note of pride for the state’s people.
We have been seeing many workers like him lately. This is an area on the edge of Bangalore town, but under development, as they call it. So it has many construction projects, which in turn attract skilled labour that find the wages in Bangalore about three times as high as in their home states. Even if the southern language is unfamiliar, the terrain is not, given that most of these boys come from farming communities, and all this land was under the sickle until lately, and a lot of small farmers still have their little allotments here. We also buy our vegetables from them, although it seems every day that one more small farmer has found that leasing his land for making small rental homes is more profitable than trying to grow fruit or coax gourds out of it.
Like Hari, most of them live in clusters with their own compatriots, and the boss who drafts them is usually from their region. They migrate, they live in four to one room in the jerry-built buildings that have sprouted like chickweed in the village, and send half their wages home. They live well, though, spending the other half on flamboyant film-starry clothes and hair oil, stocking up on rice and wheat, and occasional bus fare to the city centre, which is relatively high for the mileage.
All at once, he stopped walking, stood upright, squaring his shoulders, and decided to confide in us. He had stopped studying at 15, as his father was poor, and there were three elder sisters to be married. So many like him. But he had worked steadily at a pharmacy, achieving his goal and thus his freedom from family responsibilities. Now, at 25, he was free to work, to travel, to dream. A younger brother still remained, but “Jab mein usko chup bolta hoon, toh woh aise khada ho jaata hai. When I shush him, he stands obediently, head lowered.” No trouble there.
He seemed to have his life plan worked out – “I will go on walking” – almost sounding like the idealistic, undeterred schoolboy of old Nehruvian cinema, the Nanna Munna Raahi who sang: aage hi aage, badhaoonga kadam”, I will go on, one step at a time”.
He then talked of his work in a plastics factory nearby, the difficulties of housing in this area, the water shortage – resolved in the heavy downpour in his singsong way as “aaj hun baarish mein nahaya – today I have finally showered, in the rain”. Having arrived at the turn to his workplace, he said goodbye to us as we promised au revoir, phir milenge!
A chance encounter on the road and what stories come tumbling out. After working for more than 25 years, do I have the sense of purpose and achievement that Hari displayed? I wonder What lies ahead? I wish him well.
