Sunday, 22 March 2020

The roadside vendors in Corona time - Chennai


The one painful lesson I have learnt very clearly in the last few months is how 70% of our people have no reserves for over a month. The stark reality of the hand to mouth existence they lead. The utter despair after a month passes oby under lockdown.
The tailors, the auto drivers, the flower sellers, the vegetable vendors, the call drivers, the labourers, the weavers, the watchmen.
And how the country itself, and each of our lives, is built on their underpaid overworked labour.
The foundation of our privilege stands exposed.
The emperor has no clothes.




When I see posts about what all was gained in the lockdown ... time spent together, collective thinking, food explorations...
I think of the other stories.
The stories that are invisible.
Lives unravelled. Livlihoods vanished. Meager savings gone.
Poor parents at wits end on how to sustain families.
Poor children trying to borrow smartphones to access WhatsApp teachings. Squinting into a cracked screen. Trying to learn.
Suddenly the vast gap between them and privileged kids has become far vaster.
Many truths. Hidden in details.
One country. Two worlds.



Step out. Every day.
The flower sellers have to sell flowers every day. To eat that day. And similarly the man selling peanuts.
So we need to step out every day to buy the flowers they need to sell. And the peanuts.
The most important truths are the simplest.


That policy decision that does not ensure livlihoods for all is a mark of failed governence.
#lockdowns


The poor have never counted... our COVID 19 behavior has simply bared the extent and nature of our indifference to and irreverence of their lives. Its out in the open. Our insecurities. And our utter selfishness. We demand lockdowns to protect our precious lives. The poor be damned.

The more I see people who have never been able to put aside for a rainy day.
People who earn barely enough to survive that day. And are hungry today. All around us.
Underpaid, overworked souls.
The more painfully it is evident where our own privilege stems from.

Each person sharing gory statistics. From the cozy comfort of their laptop.
Remember.
You are the cause of the emptiness in the faces of every roadside vendor. Who sit waiting for customers who never come. "Everyone is too scared to come out." They say.
If you are dying of fear for your life, please do so in silence. You definitely have the reserves for this indulgence. This luxury.
Don't destroy the chance of others who need to sell their small wares to feed their children at home.
If you can't step out and help them. At least don't destroy them. Instilling fear everywhere. And ensuring that the vendor waits on empty streets.

For everyone scaremongering with random statistics. Make the time to read the figures below.
Remember with every thoughtless post from the confines of comfortable homes, you are putting in one more nail in the struggling efforts of the poor to survive.
As they sit with their flowers and coconuts and sewing machines. On empty streets.
Yes take some basic precautions as it's a contagious fever, but don't trade in meaningless terror.



Some acts are so terrible as to be past understanding. And therein lies true failure.
A very upper class gated apartment. All families have stopped maids as per association regulations. Only one home there continued to pay their maid thro the past months. All others stopped salaries.
This one family is berated by the rest. "Because of you our maids will also start demanding. By paying without commensurate work you are making them lazy ..."
Wherefrom duch blindness. Wherefrom such insensitivity. Wherefrom such evilness.
I come from another world. Of assetless landless agricultural labourers. Illiterate and poor. Who out of their small store of rice call and feed each hungry passerby. They call it Dharmam.


Friends, please step out. Buy from every vendor, they are all out there.
Buy what you need and what you don't need. Flowers, peanuts, coconuts, plastic trinkets. Give the roadside tailor something to stitch. The cycle puncture repair man some money.
Your staying at home will not protect you. Only your karma will. The gods will.
There is nothing as depleting to health, and to conscience and to integrity as fear.
Today our duty is to those tottering on the brink of hunger. They are out on the streets desperately trying to earn. They have children to feed.
Fight the fear.
I have been out almost every single day. I have parents at home, my mother in her seventies, my dad in his eighties. We are all ok.
Trust in right action.


If we had paid the labourers who constructed the home we live in well, if we had ensured the farmers who grew our food and the weavers who wove our clothes lives a good life, we would have been less privileged, better and happier people.
Our entire privilege has been constructed on their broken dreams. For each one of us.


Well meaning friends tell me not to step out. I ask them about the vendors and the beggers, about how they will survive. They do not understand the question.
They also tell me that my parents should stop their maid. I ask them how the maids will survive if everyone stops them. They do not understand my question.
Fear dumbs us down. Makes us cruel. Self centred.
Some precautions are ok. Fear is not. Marketing fear is not.

Destiny and Karma work in complex ways. COVID is part of this narrative.

- Even if we stop our maids, we must pay them. 

- Not enough. Because it sets/ strenghens a trend of stopping maids, and not everyone pays them.


MSaydn p6,o n2n0fsorollaed2oS0 
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Even as we outrage over the way migrants are treated, I hope we remember that each of our hands have blood on them too.
The homes we live in were built by them. They built them, and politely disappeared, and we closed our eyes and minds to them.
If we paid good living wages, by our own standards, we would be able to afford tiny one roomed or two rooms homes, at best. ... But there would be the happiness that they also have a roof.
Our food is grown by undernourished farmers. If they were assured good returns, we would have to pay far higher prices. And we could only afford simple dal rice meals.... But there would be the happiness that they also have nourishment.
Till we usher in that day, if we choose to, we are all equally complicit in all the inhumanity being perpetrated.
We are, each of us, beneficiaries.

The maid has been coming to my parents home down the days. She goes to other homes as well. She wants to work. She is well. They are well.
It is not enough to pay off maids, and keep them away. It adds to the fear. Then everyone keeps maids away. And many don't pay.
The flower vending woman comes and gives them flowers. And collects her money. She needs to sell flowers. It is not enough to just give her money. There are other faces in the chain of the flower strings, starting from the farmer who grows the flowers. All can be sustained only if the flower economy is sustsined.
The self appointed Nepali street watchman Bahadur comes and collects his salary, and extra two thousand for the lockdown time. As many people don't open the gates for him, especially in gated apartments. He is very happy, and immediately sends that to Nepal by money order. Glad to be able to send his family something despite harsh times.
The wheels of the economy need to keep running.
We owe it to one another.


Each person who goes on and on about Covid, fanning the fires of fear, drives in one more nail into the coffin of the poor.
Destroying those who need the wheels of life to turn to sustain their daily income.
Call out the scam of fear.
Almost every day I've been out. Buying flowers from roadside vendors. Going to the bylanes to give something to the beggers, going to the roadside tailors to give them some work. Feeding the strays, patting the particularly endearing one.
No, I don't sterilize the jasmine flowers. Revathi always cuts an extra length and asks me to wear it. I cannot possibly refuse. I wear it right there on the road.
I don't wash each item I bring I to the house.
I wear a mask with half enthusiasm. I think it's a subconscious response to reject this aura of fear which is finishing the poor. The fear of people to engage with street vendors will kill far more effectively than any virus can.
I am fine. My daughter accompanies me, she is fine. My husband had to travel a lot due to a family crisis, he is fine. My parents are fine, they are old.
Our friends have been in the streets for months thro the migrant crisis. They are fine.
It's a fever. Thats all. It's a contagious fever. Precautions are advisable. All fevers are a big pain, best to avoid them. TKe simple care.
It poses a risk mainly to those who are compromised in health due to other diseases.
The number game to strike terror seems to have been successful. I still don't get it. One counts dealths, one counts sick people. One doesn't do looking for positives 😶. We never did it even for TB.
But people lap up numbers. And if you add the word Science, they become blinded followers.
Which is their choice ... except that the poor cannot bear this hyped up narrative anymore.
Don't fan the fires. Yes stay safe. Take simple Ayurveda medicines to build immunity. We do that.



ttrJunSuep onsorosfen19nd 
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Lockdown begins in Chennai.
The faces will fade away from our minds.
Faces of the roadside vendors, the flower sellers, the men at the cycle repair shops, the woman at the tea stall, the man behind cart of plastic toys ...
They fade away so silently.
Unwilling to disturb us. Or or sleeping consciences.



I received a poignant and long WhatsApp message in Tamil from the Call Drivers my grandfather used to hire when he was alive, explaining that several of their drivers were facing extreme financial crunch due to the lockdown. The most touching line was this - "we have worked for you during all hours of the day, without seeing whether it is scorching hot or rainy and have always taken you around everywhere. Granted we took money for our service - we did not do it for free. But if you wish to help us now, when we really need it, please help us."
I cannot do anything but feel helpless. I really don't know how people like them are going to even get back on their feet, without income for months at a stretch. They are proud and hardworking people, and it is sad that they have to message us like this.


Four day complete lockdown declared in Chennai.
The roadside vendors who have just started tentative sales, reconnecting with customers, what about them.
They asked for no help. They somehow arranged the small investment to buy flowers buds, peanuts. And started weaving flower strands. Roasting peanuts. Smilingly calling out to customers.
Because they needed to earn that days meal.
Now what happens to them ? Whom can they ask ? Who will answer ?
In this soverign democratic republic of India.




iJmtumunSie ponrds1orSe7d 
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It is lockdown from dayafter.
While going for a walk in the evening I stepped into a supermarket to pick up a few non essentials. Biscuits and things.
Many others were there with overfull baskets. It seemed to be stocking up day.
A thin greying man in a folded veshti, a bush shirt, and a towel over his hunched shoulders was in the line ahead of me. He had a small plastic bottle of pickles in his hand. He did not look around him, just straight. He did not fit in here, maybe he sensed that. Maybe his wife was unwell at home and he was worrying, and had come for a small bottle of pickles with her patyam food. Who knows.
The girl at the cash table told him 53/-. He counted out some coins and gave it to her. And left shuffling. A small greying man. Into the grey of the dusk outside.
My purchases of complete non essentials after that seemed a crime. But I finished the act. Paid the bill of 300/-. And left with my full bag. In silence.
Some mental pictures are forever. This thin stooping man in a bright beautiful supermarket of beautiful people is one. This is the picture of my country.
Vigneshwaran Karthikeyan, Prabha Krishnan and 23 others
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Acres of flowers at home. Tonight.
After buying flowers from the familiar men and women on the streets, as we were returning in the deepening dusk, there was a voice calling out from from a dark corner.
The days of ignoring voices are past. The needs are too urgent.
A young woman with a bench full of flowers was sitting in the dark corner. "Today after morning, a boni, nothing got sold. I've just been sitting and waiting the whole day.
Tomorrow is lockdown. These flowers will all fade away. Today was a total loss.
I will think this is what was destined for me by Ishwara today, its ok."
She said it uncomplainingly, and with a smile as she handed me flowers. I bought more again.
My home smells like a jasmine garden today. And yet there is no joy.
It is only a reminder. Of how some of us have so much. And some nothing.
Of the world we have created collectively on crumpled dreams.


The livlihoods of the poor are destroyed with no buyers for their humble wares on the streets, and yet each of us sits 'safe at home', saving our precious skins.
A new kind of untouchability has reared it's head, with Covid. In its most viscious form




tSapMmcocahnycs e1uf3aao,r 2eu0dg20 
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The street vendors are out after many days. The women selling flowers are all there. It's the smallest investment, smallest risk. They have somehow managed to start again.
Not a crease on their foreheads. The usual beautiful smiles, on faces with the usual big red beautiful pottu, as they call out to passers by.
I have a bagful of jasmine strands in my bag. Bought at each lady's.
Which will fade away at home. How many can my daughter or i wear ? It's ok they have served their purpose, to sustain another. The purpose of all life. The purpose of our lives too.
Many people are not buying flowers, afraid that they will carry Corona. No more than the fruit and vegetable that is brought. We need to buy to sustain others, as much as sustain ourselves. When that need is stronger than fear for oneself, one has progressed one more step in the long journey of life.
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Chitra Sharan, Kriti Bhardwaj and 32 others
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iJmtumunSie ponrds1orSe7d 
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It is lockdown from dayafter.
While going for a walk in the evening I stepped into a supermarket to pick up a few non essentials. Biscuits and things.
Many others were there with overfull baskets. It seemed to be stocking up day.
A thin greying man in a folded veshti, a bush shirt, and a towel over his hunched shoulders was in the line ahead of me. He had a small plastic bottle of pickles in his hand. He did not look around him, just straight. He did not fit in here, maybe he sensed that. Maybe his wife was unwell at home and he was worrying, and had come for a small bottle of pickles with her patyam food. Who knows.
The girl at the cash table told him 53/-. He counted out some coins and gave it to her. And left shuffling. A small greying man. Into the grey of the dusk outside.
My purchases of complete non essentials after that seemed a crime. But I finished the act. Paid the bill of 300/-. And left with my full bag. In silence.
Some mental pictures are forever. This thin stooping man in a bright beautiful supermarket of beautiful people is one. This is the picture of my country.


FLOWER SELLERS

The woman I buy flowers from daily was silent today. None of her usual smile and greetings. I asked her quietly if sales were very bad. She said she had sold nothing. It was nearly 9 pm when I stopped at her small table under the tree.
She said that the temples were all closed on order. The park also. Passersby were few. No one bought anything.

Her items are perishable. She travels to Koyambedu to buy flowers. Bus charges are substantial. When the days pass like today, it's not just zero earnings, it's a loss.
The flowers fade away. She also fades away.
She is one of the 'masses'. Her son is a drunk. She and her daughter in law run the home. Her daughter in law works as a maid in a few homes.
She has a rickety table and a rickety stool on a corner of the footpath. That is her entire business.
Fading flowers, trying to act unfaded ...
Today on the streetside I saw the rickety table back, and the familiar figure I had been seeking so long. Kaveri, from whom we used to buy flowers daily. Because she needs to sell them as much as my daughter loves to wear flowers.
But after the lockdown the table stayed forlorn, and I had tried to reach her in vain.
Today she was there again, with a few flowers. Sad lookin flowers. She called out seeing me, and chatted with usual warmth. And asked if I wanted flowers. She said take it all, give what you want. I gave her the
money I had been trying to reach to her last few days in this lockdown.
And she continued in a lower voice. How her grandson had had a cold and wheezing, and how he was admitted in the government hospital at Egmore. How the ambulance took him, and they came back after 3 days. They needed to take an auto, 500/-, as there was no transport. ... money vanishes these days in a minute.
I took her number now, and have her mine. It feels better.
As I walked down, the old man with his tea cart was back. And further some more women with flowers spread on the footpath.
The poor are back, doing all that they know to do. To try to eke a living. To earn an honest days wage.
Social distancing can happen to us whose meals are assured ...



Went down the street. To the woman selling flowers on the rickety wooden table. Under the rickety tree.
My friend. Kaveri.
"I called out to you yesterday. You didn't hear me !", she welcomed me with a smile.
On foot one never misses. On a cycle I must have missed her call. I'm glad I don't have a car. One misses so much more on important things the faster one speeds. Like friends calling out. From a rickety wooden table.
She gave me what she had, flowers. Roses. Marigolds. Tulasi. Said to put it for the gods. A wreath of jasmine, and asked me to put it on. Right then. "You don't wear flowers.", She complained. I obediently tucked it into my plait.
I gave her what I had. Some hundreds in my purse. She can buy some essentials.
Thats how life was always supposed to be I think. Each giving the other what one can. And taking what one needs.
We complicated it.



(Another Day)
The flower vendors tentatively spread out their wares. Hoping against hope for some sales.
Lakshman Rekha is for those of us who can stock up. Not those who need to to earn each days meal that day.. Till their survival concerns are addressed, every strategy is doomed to fail.





Magyita c6,atomSpo 2rnsSohr0ged20h 
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These were all the flowers she had on her plastic sacking on the footpath. Two muzham.
She was the only one on the footpath today. Near her was a man with a cart of withered vegetables. Maybe her husband. His one arm was in a shabby plaster cast. I wondered where he could have gone to for medical care. In these times.
The main vegetable mandi in Chennai is closed. Corona scare. All the flower vendors and vegetable vendors have again been derailed again. The disappear so quietly. Careful to not disturb our sleeping consciences.
I bought what she had. Gave her what I had, it should see her thro a couple of days. I was glad I had stepped out on this street. I was on my way to the tailor. To give him all my sarees to stitch falls into. Helplessly creating work in times of no work.
I never am able to look them in the eyes anymore. Our guilt, our collective guilt, is crushing. At having driven them to the edge of survival, and off the cliff.
We need to step out.
The people surviving on the edge are out there. They have nothing to live on for another two weeks. 3rd May is a lifetime away ...
The flower sellers are there. Hoping hopelessly. Buy what you wish to. But pay enough to cover all their needs.
The peanut vendors are out. With their carts. And very little wares. They probably have no money to buy more. Buy it up. And pay what you think their living expenses will be.
The beggers are there. But very few people to give them anything.
Wear your slippers. And go out. For essentials. Their essentials.
Yes, we all have our essentials in our homes, rice, dal, oil.
They don't.






When I stopped by at 8:30 pm to buy two cubit lengths of jasmine flowers, and gave a 100/- note, the old lady shook her had and said she has no change.
She said no flowers had been bought today, and she was waiting for me to come. But she has paid the bus ticket to the flower market, she has bought flowers, and managed to sell just two cubits out of maybe twenty. The rest will fade away by morning.
Dreams fade and lives fade quietly, very quietly. In this land.



stJunSepn hol2nrcssorer0d 
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Revathi. The young woman I used to buy flowers from daily. Who in these harsh times used to insist on giving an extra length, and cut it in half. For me and my daughter to wear rightaway. I am used to the simple and easy generosity of the poor. And have learnt to take in humility.
She is as beautiful as the jasmine and roses she sells.
I had asked her about the impending lockdown, she said she hoped it would not happen.
I asked her what her husband does. I knew him. He used to be with the flowers somedays. A short greying man with a pleasant smile. She said, 'Nothing'. I asked her if he drank. Her hand flew to her mouth in shock. She said he never touched a drop. She said he had no bad habits, "Even tea he drinks only these days, under my pressure." She said he was going as an assistant to a painter for awhile, then as an assistant to a shopkeeper.. But his fingers are very short. He was born that way. He fumbles And so she said nobody keeps him in any job very long. .
So together they tie and sell flowers. A few cubits in these days.
I don't know where they are today. It is lockdown, I went out. None of the flower vendors were allowed out.
In a short time they will fade away. From our memories. And our fickle consciences.

JurtunenSpSo nsorcc1eS3hds 
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Revathi. The young woman with the beauty that seems to be part of those who handle these beautiful flowers.
She called out to me from the shaky wooden table on the footpath beside which she stands. And as she packed the three cubits for me, she said happily, "I have strung these flowers. See how closely I have strung them."
She told me that the merchants bring the flowers from the main market beyond Koyambedu to the colonies. That all the men and women go there and buy flowers, which they then string together and sell along the roadsides.
These are times for us to buy. Daily.
Indiscriminately.
It is a matter of survival.


Into these flower garlands are woven hopes. Seek them out.
Walk down the streets. Buy what the street vendors have, and give what you think that need to sustain themselves and their families. There needs to be no correlation between the two. The vendors apologize, as they take wht you press on them, promise to give extra flowers on another day. Just smile, bow, and move on.
The flower vendors have very few flowers. To buy the wares needs investment of some hundreds. The women don't have that.
And yet they do what they can to try to earn that days food for the children at home. In honest hard working ways.
Further down there are beggers. Sitting in the hot sun. Seeking that days sustenance. Serve them.
Each if us needs to be out these days. Curfew or no curfew.
The country has failed its simplest people. The government has failed.



Step out. Never mind what the phone caller tune says.
All the flower sellers will call and ask you to buy their wares.
Buy as much as your heart and conscience dictates. They have few buyers.
Do your Karma. Let your Karma protect you. That is the Indian way.

THE TAILORS

Aparna Krishnan
Last many days I have been searching for the phone number of the roadside tailors near our home. His sewing machine is under the tree wrapped firmly in yellow tarpaulin, in a vain hope that the parts won't rust in a month of disuse. But they are sure to rust, in this sharp seaside breeze. Overhauling the machine will cost money, in times when money will be scarce.
He's in the past stitched a couple of salwar kameez for my daughter, but we never exchanged numbers. Have been rueing that. Today my daughter went close to the wall near his sewing machine in the hope that he would have written him phone number there. And she was right. Bhasa Tailor was written and a phone number. I discovered his name only today. That how class barriers operate in a city.
I called him up. Asked if he could do some stitching for me at his home. He couldn't, his shop is under the tree.
I requested him to please come, that I just wanted to give him something to take.  He sounded uncertin
The flower sellers, the beggers, the rag pickers, the cycle shop man under the tree, the plumber. They were easier to locate.
But now it has become imperative to reach out further, as far as possible. All whom we don't have numbers of.
All the simpler people can't work from home. Thats our privilege. They have no work. No savings. Rent to pay, essentials to buy.
All of us have our work defined for us next many days to come.
Aparna Krishnan
The hardworking roadside tailor. He called me now.
The first time I reached out to him, two weeks ago, he answered politely. Saying, thank you, but no thank you. He asked me to help others, and that he could manage for now. Firm, dignified, polite.
Respecting his self respect, saluting his self respect, I withdrew. Feeling smaller for having reduced him by asking .
He called me up just now. Defeated. "Madam, can you help ? The lockdown has been extended again. Things have become very hard. Can I send you my account details. Any help you can give."
I will transfer what will take his family thro the month.
But the thought of what it would have cost for him to ask is soul destroying. What are we reducing the strong hard working people if our land to ? Beggers.
But a quiet rage is building up. In me. In all of us. I hope. That rage that can reduce everything to ashes.


MdoayruetsS 4,poan 2020fsmomnltred 
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The tailor called me now. "Amma, one shop is open in the mornings for a few hours. I can get falls for your sarees. You said you would give some sarees for falls to be stitched."
I had mentioned that the other day when I was trying to think what work I could give him.
None of my sarees have falls. Somehow I never get around to that. Tomorrow onwards all my sarees will have falls. I will give all my sarees to him for stitching falls.
I am going to be better turned out in Corona times !
He said no one else has given him work. He said softly, "What to do, people are scared of coming out."
My few orders cannot sustain him.
Anyone in Adyar, Besent Nagar area, please approach him. He is only seeking work. Happy to give directions.

Aravind Ramanaidu
Is he a master who can take measurements and cut and stitch madam 
  • Aparna Krishnan
    Aravind Ramaswamy
     yes Arvind. 30 years experience he said. But I gave sample kurtas and he's stitched well.
    I can message his number, you can talk to him. 
  • Aravind Ramanaidu
    Madam if he is interested I don’t want to give him work in the place he is ,I will elevate him and give a job in my organisation where it’s for masters and tailors




MteaeSoyofp oln2ofsaa5,e oh2rled02d0 
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Went with 5 sarees to the small store that sells buttons and ribbons. The young lady there matched the falls and gave them to me, and taking those I cycled to the tailor. In his tiny metal cabin under the tree. He gave me a smile of welcome.
Five saree falls, and I can give him 500/-.He is happy for the work. Some sustenance.
On the way back passed another tailor. A middle aged man. Must be having a family to support. No cabin. Sitting under a tree. On a rickety machine. No work.
I stopped. Asked him if I can give him work ? He straightened up, and gave a eager yes. I said I would come tomorrow. I have to create work. My sarees are are all done.
Meantime I had 500/- in my purse and gave it to him. People take things in simplicity these days. We have. They don't. We give. Thats all.
Grieved. At the times we are facing. The desperation. That a large section has been pushed to.

July 20 
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Bhasa tailor came and handed over my sarees that he stitched falls onto. None of my sarees had falls. Now all gave falls. I gave no more sarees to give him. All possible salwar kameez for our daughter has also been stitched.
I will buy some cloth and get dresses stitched for my parents maid who has two daughters.
After that I have nothing more.
Bhasa tailor has his machine under the pongamia tree. He ties up his machine in tarpaulin to protect it at night. He use to work in a small shop opposite, which was demolished to make way for a gated apartment.
"There is no work at all." He said quietly. "The people are all scared to come out."
He has a small child, and aged parents to support.
This is for the information of all scaremongers. Assured of their own meals. Destroying the lives of the defenceless. With irresponsible posts.


Jntmuly S1pon4fSncus,eog rah2e0te20dr 
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Maybe this is the time to take a sankalpam. A resolve.
To henceforth only buy handloom fabric, and get our clothes stitched by local tailors.
Bhasa tailor came to collect material for a dance saree set for my daughter. First, he was profuse in gratitude for a sum I had credited into his account last month. Saying that he was then totally broke. That painful gratitude it is so hard to face. Then he came to the present. Again gratitude for the stitching work.
And in a low voice, the words I have got so painfully used to. "There is just no work. I really don't know what to do." As usual, more to himself than to me ...
He has a foot pedal machine under a tree. Open to the elements. He used to work in a tiny shop ten years ago. Till those shops were razed to build a gated apartment. And he moved to under the pongamia tree opposite that glittering apartment complex.
The glitter in my country is fake.
July 22 
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I have been meeting many small vendors down the days. Since lockdown times. Just walking around
One of the nearby tailors I searched for after seeing his machine under the tree tied up with tarpaulin for many days.
I found out his number. When I called asked him if he needed any help he politely refused, saying he could manage and we could assist someone else.
His dignity was intact. He was a hard working man used to earning sustenance.
Two weeks later he called. Saying things were very very difficult. I took his account details and made a transfer.
He had children and elderly parents to feed. He had to barter his dignity. It was a cruel moment. For both of us.
I have since then tried to give him some work. He takes my work, saying that this is the only work he has and that he does not know how to manage. If I pay extra he takes it quietly.
To have reduced a man of complete dignity and confidence into becoming a seeker is the greatest violence one can do. The times are such.
This is also another reminder to all NGOs which post pictures of donees saying 'they agreed'. It is unethical. They are people of dignity. Pushed to a corner where they have little choice. But 'to agree'.
Give. But give in silence and vanish. The times are cruel.



SJtSpuoncltyhtcso r10Sedh 
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The tailor under the tamarind tree on 6th Cross Street. A middle aged greying man. A man with family responsibilities




I went with what little stitching work I could put together. He was sitting silently.
I asked him if people were coming.
"I don't know what to do at all. Yesterday after a long time a women gave me this to stitch. Since morning Im siply sitting.
If I earn 200/- 300/- a day I can manage. But there is nothing.
People are scared to come out."
He spoke quietly. More to himself.
Hes a handicapped man, simply trying to earn an honest living.
The burden of stepping out and hearing these stories daily is getting too heavy. Hunger is stalking the streets.

Those in Adyar Besent Nagar who want to give him work, please connect. He stitches beautifully.

Aparna Krishnan
April 14 at 1:27 PM
The tailor who used to stitch for me once.
This is his shop ... look carefully under the spacious canopy, by the side if the silent road. That tin box.
I have no idea where he is. I am not able to find out.
The poor of this land go away so silently in times of hardships. Suffering their burdens in silence.
   









The tailor under the tree. Comes every day to his little shop, the small 4 feet by 4 feet tin box. And sits. In hope. In silence. In stillness. Daily.
My wanderings have some fortunate endings sometimes. I discovered he was open one such day.
When I went home, my daughter pulled out all the cloth bits we had and I took it to him to stitch into kurtas. He took the work gratefully.
And asked me to tell whoever I could. That he was there. "People may not know I am here these days, thats why", he explained his request to me.
The burden of facing simple people, seeking work, obviously at the end of their staying power. Gets too much to bear. As days go by.
May 1 
Writing each story is painful. And yet, the stories are real. And theyask to be told.
Govindarajan, the tailor, was sitting in his small tin cubicle. With the kurta stitched. Waiting for me.


"You see, I sit in this small bylane. So no one knows I'm here, waiting to stitch. Even in lockdown.
I have been here under this tree for 20 years. Before that for 10 years I was on the main road. But twice the corporation vehicle came. They told me to get out of my shop. Flattened my shop, and took away the mangled metal. In 1990 it cost me 10,000/- to fabricate it. The next one cost me 35,000/-. Both I lost.
I moved away from the main road. It is safer here. Though people cannot see me. And customers are fewer.
Even here the corporation people come and harass. Say the footpaths are not meant for livlihoods. That I should leave.
How much space am I taking ? How am I a hindrance ? And where can I go to ?
A few years ago the High court gave a notice. See, I've stuck it on my door. That we can work in our sheds. Still they come and harass.
And now in Corona things have become much harder. There is no work."
I listened in silence. Facing the entire burden of my privilege. In the face of people pushed to the utter edge of survival.
Whom does the footpath belong to if not to Govindarajan ? To the wealthier citizens who take their pet dogs out for evening walks ?? Who decides ???
I am glad my daughter's birthday kurta,was stitched here. I will post a picture of her in it a few days later. Tomorrow I will bring whatever cloth at home can be stitched.
Anyone in Adyar, Besent Nagar area who can get anything stitched, happy to give you directions  

Aparna Krishnan
The tailor on 6th Cross Road, Besent Nagar. I took his permission to take his picture.


He waits daily for the non existent customer. Please go.
I go to give what I can. He stitched falls for my sarees which have never seen a fall. The 500/- note I gave him today was the best note spent. I promised to bringg more sarees tomorrow.
As we talk, more stories come out. They emerge slowly. The people of our land don't complain. They only seek work. Humbly.
He's handicapped. Only today he showed me his foot. Club foot. With that he has been pedalling his machine for 30 years. Yes it pains he said when I asked.
He cannot fix a motor because he has no shop, just this tin box.
His eyes trouble him too. One eye has had cataract surgery. It cost him 25000/-. The other eye is totally fogged. He cannot afford the money for another operation. I asked him about the free cataract camps. He said some cases are successful. There are cases of people losing their eyes. And that the risk is too much.
Threading the needle is getting hard.
He is waiting for work. Thro Corona. He stitched kurtas nicely for my daughter. He's stitching the falls on my sarees.
Happy to give his number to anyone who would like to give him work.



July 25 
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This is why I go out daily.
Down all the lanes and bylanes. Damning all the phone warnings to 'Stay Safe At Home.'
This is Ravi. I took his picture with his permission. To post.



He has a rickety machine on a rickety table. And wife and children at home to support. He keeps stitching the same piece of black cloth over and over again. Maybe to look busy.
No one gives him work. Because they are scared of Corona.
I have no more clothes to give to stitch. I just gave him some money.
Step out. Damn fear. Embrace humanity.




The saddest picture.

The wooden table chained to the tree. Today.

Hari Tailor would sit there patiently. Waiting for the non existant customer. Day after day.

Someday even hope dies. Finally.

Down the roads. Passed Hari tailor. Sitting on his rickety stool.His table was free of cloth. Just his old sewing machine on the cracked table.
He looked up as I slowed down. Smiled. A dull smile.
"No, no one gives anything to stitch. They are scared of Corona", he said when I asked.
"No, my wife has not been called back for housework. They are scared of Corona."
"No, she is not paid anything. Only if she works, will she be paid ..."
I did not have the courage to ask how they eat. I handed over to him what I had. And got onto my cycle.
Friends. Step out. Help.
Hunger will kill faster than Corona can.


  • Abraham Thomas
    Aparna Krishnan those prerecorded phone messages before each outgoing call saying “stay at home”
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    • 52w
  • Abraham Thomas
    Aparna Krishnan people are going hysterical about contact, touch and trust
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  • Aparna Krishnan
    Abraham Thomas part of the scam. To build terror. So people dance to every tune. Starting from compulsory vaccine. To complete centralisation of power. And much more.
    Yes the hysteria of the upper class is strange. The poorer people are going about life and livlihood on the streets. They are not all dropping dead as far as I can see.
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    • 52w
  • Abraham Thomas
    Aparna Krishnan true. I’m observing things I need to voice out. Sad selfish rich. They will be miserable how ever we try putting sense
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    • 52w
  • Aparna Krishnan
    Abraham Thomas their insecurities are out in the open. And their utter selfishness yes. Ashamed of my class, yes.

Step out. With a mask if needed. But step out.
The people surviving on the edge are out there. They have nothing to live on for another two weeks. 3rd May is a lifetime away ...
The flower sellers are there. Hoping hopelessly. Buy what you wish to. But pay enough to cover all their needs.
The peanut vendors are out. With their carts. And very little wares. They probably have no money to buy more. Buy it up. And pay what you think their living expenses will be.
The beggers are there. But very few people to give them anything.
Wear your slippers. And go out. For essentials. Their essentials.
Yes, we all have our essentials in our homes, rice, dal, oil.
They don't.



Purchases.
A heap of coconut, and another heap of flowers.
Did I need to buy them ? Yes.
Did I need them ? No.
There are questions out there needing to be answered. Questions of livlihoods and lives.
What little or more we buy each day, sustains another thro one more day.
mAutShpgodgunsnemsuortf 6ed 
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Livelihoods are reappearing on the streets. I don't know if the earlier lockdown days when one did not see them were more painful.
Or if these are.
An old man. He has invested on a few coconuts. And spreading them on a worn out plastic gunny by the roadside, he waits.
He offers 5 for 100/-. What will he make ? He will he survive?
He took the extra amount I gave him blankly. I think he has gone beyond all struggles. All emotions.
My house is full of coconuts now. He needed to sell them.
Sometimes I think I will stop writing these tortured stories. And then again I do. Maybe in the hope that it may make one other person step out. Not 'Stay Safe'. And share in small ways in the survival battle people are waging. Out there.







He sells 5 coconuts for 100/-

I don't know what profit he will be making. I have no courage to ask him. To face the raw facts.Or to indulge in a conversation when I have nothing concrete to offer in turn.

I brought coconuts which i didnt need. Filled my bag, and my cycle carrier. And paid him extra asking him to keep it for expenses. He insisted on giving me extra coconuts. He would not take a no.

This is the self respect and greatness that I face daily. And stand humbled before.

And grieved. 

The walks down the streets are getting more and more difficult to face. More people are having to beg. The lame man who only used to smile as a friend, today put his hand out before my daughter. Asking.
The lady selling chains and earrings had put up her stall. We bought chains, and handed over the amount she would have needed for her expenses. She was overwhelmed with gratitude, and I had the face the shame of a lady older that me bowing her head to me. She said whole day she has had no sales.
When there was no lockdown, all beach goers would come by and there were brisk sales. Those seem such happy times looking back.
The rag picker at the dustbin, peerin in. I handed over some money. Again I faced the shame of undererved gratitude.
From our privilege anything we do is a gesture which only reminds us how much we are needed to do, and how much we fail.
Things are getting worse with passing days.
Step out daily. Buy some flowers that you dont need. Only see what people need to sell. Only that matters. I have so much jasmine that my home smells like a temple these days.
But Universal Basic Income, to be credited into each account by the government, is the only way to address this massive crumbling down of lives.



Another day. Another humble citizen. With a small budget. Trying to earn an honest living.
Bought ten packets of warm salted roasted groundnuts
And brought home with it a sense of sorrow. Of pain.




A young hunchbacked lady stays near the Pamban Sivan temple. She has never ever begged. She used to be doing many chores, sweeping, carrying things. I have seen her many times.
Today she was at the road corner. Putting out her hand to ask. Hesitently. She has obviously never asked before, and the hand would come forward to ask and immediately fall down. I did not have my purse with me. I could not give her anything. This is one of those situations where giving is as destructive as non giving.
We are breaking down people, brick by brick.
And we all stand destroyed today. Those of us who have too much. Morally. And those who have too little. In every way.


One young man, dragging himself around as his legs were non functional, used to sit daily at the street corner. With a cheerful smile for all. He never begged. My husband would sometimes get him a cup of tea. Or give him some money as to a friend. Many others were also friends with him similarly. He would spread out a newspaper on the pavement and read it. I would watch him, his attitude, his ready smile, in awe. From far.
By his very being, by his simple friendship with all, by his cheer, he taught everyone lessons too deep to be articulated.
My daughter told me that yesterday that he was holding out his hand. Asking passers by. She said she was too surprised to react immediately.
To me that is the post marking the end. Of humanity.
When dignity goes, everything goes.
Step out friends. Daily. Buy whatever people are selling. They need to sell to survive. Doesn't matter if you need it or not.
Give. And give again. As deeply as you can. As a friend. Before they are reduced to begging
People take in simplicity, when you give in simplicity. These days.
Don't worry about Covid. The gods will protect you. Your karma alone can protect you, or destroy you. Nothing else can.

Jguolresyh 28dge 
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Beggers are increasing. Hunger is increasing.
One middle aged lady put out her hand and took the money, and started weeping. "I have never taken money. I used to do vyaparam. I had a cart. Now I have no other way. My son also has no work ..."

THE STREETS


lAtrprSpil 2h,uodns ho2rotge0cc20glhd 
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Yesterday late evening as I was walking down the bylanes with biscuit packets looking for hungry street dogs, I passed a ragpicker. Peering deep into the empty dustbin. For discarded plastic to sell. This was the saddest sight I saw in a day of sad sights unlimited. I gave him what money I had with a quiet, "Please use it for your needs.". He took it as simply, looking up at me, "Thank you medem."
There are many posts these days rejoicing that there is less pollution, less plastic, that birds are singing, that rivers are flowing.
While we rejoice, let us never forget. That there is also the ragpicker, searching for discarded plastic to sell. To whom we are answerable.There are daily wage people at the highly polluting tanning shops. Whom we have to answer to.
It is a complex web we have woven. And as we untangle it, if we do, we need to answer each of these friends too. And make sure that sustenance is assured.
It's not only about birds and bees and fish.



Along with other street vendors trying to come back to combat hunger, the ragpicker was also there. In his patched black shirt.

From the almost empty trash bins he had collected a few plastic coca cola bottles, into the big sack over his shoulder. And walked to the next trash can.
Reaching there, he first carefully laid out a piece of old newspaper and from a small tin, placed a heap of yellow colored rice on it for the two dogs that stay near the trash bin. Then he peered into the trash bin. There was nothing and he moved on.
Went out. Fed the street gods (dogs), bought some flowers from a forlorn lady walking down empty streets. Saw the man peering into the trash bins, as empty as the roads. Will remember to step out with my purse tomorrow.
Just made a small round with my daughter. To pick up all the biscuits we could for the street dogs. From whichever shop was open.
Silent roads. Shuttered shops. Just hungry dogs, sniffing at everything. Even the crows are hungry, fluttering everywhere. The trash bins are empty. No food at all. For any living being.
The tea pushcart vendor, the old man, was sitting at the crossing. On a stone. Fondling the street dog which was his faithful companion during the day, sitting under his pushcart. Maybe he had come to see it.
His own earnings have become zero. Overnight. How he could be sustaining himself, one doesn't know. And yet he brought something for the dog.
Further down. The cycle repair man on the footpath was sitting on his wooden box under the neem tree The box which is his shop. In this lockdown there is obviously no customer, no earnings. He was just sitting there. The familiar daily routine maybe brought him there.
What could I ask him. I handed over some money, requesting him to use it for his expenses. He took it in simplicity, with the same ease that he would give to someone in greater need.
A begger sitting silent. With no one to give him anything. Took what I gave silently.
We bought the biscuits. And fed the dogs on the way back.
The curfew has to be broken daily. To do this simple round. Very little, too little, and yet necessary. To do that very little.
Things are harsh. And promise to get harsher. People have no reserves to fall back on. Like we do.

Sujatha Rajendran
Yes. The crows are very hungry, just few of them would come when I keep rice everyday, but today to my surprise more than thirty flocked, I had to keep extra, for I didn't want to disappoint them.



MtaSyp 1ouhdnsofu4,csr ufhfe2020dfh 
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This is the cycle shop on the corner. The shop is the blue box. Decorated with images of Subramanya Swami and Ganesha.
I was glad to see the cycle mechanic back today after so many weeks. I have kept looking for him since lockdown. I have been wanting to hand over money to him.
He cannot be earning more than to sustain that day. His rents for the days of lockdown must be pending. And God alone knows the other details. I do not have the mental strength to take it all in.
In such times what one gives in humility is accepted in simplicity.
Step out, reach out. Every day. Times are harder than we in our privilege can even imagine.
And my cycle now has the pedal that was lost all these weeks. He made my day 😀


The cycle shops are open in the lockdown. In the permitted 6-2 period. The shops are the small painted boxes under the trees on the footpath. With the cycle mechanic sitting before them. But not a single customer.
At one the owner was sitting vacantly, and when I stopped to get air filled into full tyres, he did it will cheerful alacrity. He said these are Bad Times. He blamed no one. I gave him some money to see him through the next few days.
At the next, the owner was busy overhauling a cycle. I asked him, pleasantly surprised, if there was work these days. He informed me he was repairing his own cycle. He also put some air in my cycle. I was able to pay him for that and some more.



JSulonpeooms nsro1rre7da 
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Humble livlihoods. Simple lives.
This is his shop. The blue wooden box. With the two god images on the lid. And the agarbatti lit before them, the incense curling up.
I went to him today. For air for my cycle. And to meet him before the lockdown. To hand over a small sum to help him tide over the next two weeks.
"What will people like me do ?", he asked me, about the lockdown. As he also oiled the cycle for me, with care.
What answer can I give him ?
These are hot days when day after day I return with a bagful of things I did not need. From whoever is selling whatever on the footpath. It gives a chance to buy, to connect, and an opportunity to give them what may help them sustain thro difficult times.
... And yet I wonder if these are the days when I am actually buying the most essential things I have ever bought. That which sustains another.
#ReachOutTimez
Unlock. Step out. Help.



I took my cycle to him for air today. And a chance to give him something. His name is Selvam. It means wealth in Tamil. This is his worldly possessions. The tin box is his shop.
I usually don't ask much. It feels audacious to ask from my position of plenty. And cruel. To people living on the brink. But today I asked him where he lived, and regretted asking. He said it's hard to answer. And after some time said he sleeps here under the tree, and if it rains on a shop step.
In these times, clients are few and far between. He said.
I listened in silence.


There is an old man with a pushcart at the corner. He sells biscuits, sweets and other items in glass jars. He also roasts groundnuts on sand. He has a custom of neighbouring watchmen and other assorted people.
I have occasionally stopped to buy a 15/- paper cone of hot salted groundnuts from him. Eating from a paper cone, and of seeking the last single groundnut at the end of the cone takes one back to childhood joys.
Through the lockdown days his cart stayed shut. I have waited to see him. Yesterday he was sitting on the granite stone next to his cart. Tentatively opening his cart.
I stopped for roasted groundnuts. There were none he said. He had a sparse spread. Bought on a minimum budget.
I gave him some money, given simply, taken si upmply.
He said, "People are scared, no one comes out. They walk fast if they come out, they do not stop to see. To talk.
This is a fever, cough, cold. It comes, and then people get well. Every year some people die. Only that many are dying.
The government has stepped up fear. People think they will die. They have even stopped the maids from coming home.
People have no work, no food."
Fight the fear friends. Celebrate life. Not death. Allow the groundnut vendors our custom. Step out.


Wear two masks if you want to. Wear ten if you want to.
But stop trading in terror games. And terror statistics. And shutting people at home. In this manufactured fear



This cycle repair man has a family to sustain. I was his only customer that day.
These labourers need to work that day to feed their family that day.
The man selling sets of three coconuts for 50/- is waiting in the sparse road. I bought 15. Anyone who wants coconuts can come home. I have a feeling I'll be collecting many more thro the days.
All of us who have the luxury of food stocks at home.
Need to remember these faces. May they haunt us day and night.


tJSulonpeooms nsro1rre6da 
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The thought of the next lockdown two days away in Chennai feels heavy, very heavy.
The people have just started picking up the threads of their lives, rudely torn apart by a sereis of lockdowns.
The tea sellers carts are out. The cart vendors with plastic toys are also coming out. The roadside tailors are stitching small peices of cloth, trying to look busy and waiting for clients. The ironing stalls are open. The men and women who can only invest 50/- are buying some jasmine and weaving it together, sitting on the footpaths.
No one helped them through hard days. They expected no help. Now that they are struggling to stand on their own feet, again they are being tripped down.
How many times can a person gather courage to raise himself again ?
The tiny shop I go to to recharge my cell phone. "Our business is finished fully now. With whose permission are they declaring another lockout. Whom did they ask ? This is not America. We survive on daily earnings ... "
I can only stand in silence, shamed at the way my country is treating its most defenceless.
Friends, the next two days, reach out. Walk the roads. Give generously what your heart tells you to to whomever you can. What you think a family needs to live on for 2 weeks.
They will all be dealing with hunger through the next lockdown. The government has withdrawn the meagre support it was giving thro Amma Canteens.
Mamatha Rai, Prabha Krishnan and 40 others
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JSulonpeooms nsro1rre7da 
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Humble livlihoods. Simple lives.
This is his shop. The blue wooden box. With the two god images on the lid. And the agarbatti lit before them, the incense curling up.
I went to him today. For air for my cycle. And to meet him before the lockdown. To hand over a small sum to help him tide over the next two weeks.
"What will people like me do ?", he asked me, about the lockdown. As he also oiled the cycle for me, with care.
What answer can I give him ?







Damn Fear/ Fearmongers
Stand with Kamarajar. Celebrate Life, not Death.
Cycling down the road I passed this cart. And turned back. And he welcomed me with a cheerful smile, that this was the boni.
He apologized for the packet of rice and samber on his cart, saying he had got his food in the hotel, that he hadnt eaten last night. When i asked why he said there was a fight at home with his wife and she didnt cook. He said all that is now solved happily and shes cooking a nice meal, but he had to come with the cart.
And as was preparing this wonderful mix, he introduced me to his family. His name is Kamarajar. Four daughters, the youngest is Manimekalai. When I told him it was a beautiful name, he beamed and told he had selected her name. He pulled out his small phone book and showd me his picture with his wife and Manimekalai.
He told me the names of all his children and grandchildren with pride.
He told me he used to sell this on the cart on the beach, and his wife used to on another cart. That life was good and business was good.
But now the beach is closed. Becuse of Corona.
His tone grew sombre. That now things were very difficult. They started selling vegetables. But everyone is selling vegetables. There were only losses. So now today he took out his cart, and is selling this.
The elite will stay locked in their fears. Destroying themselves and others.
I am hoping the poor buy this deliciousness and sustain him and themselves.
I got a lot. Ate it all. Pure heaven ! Got more for home.




tAdngfrSuuhpguonsostlrredm 11 
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And life on the streets begins. For better or for worse.
These trinkets. She sells them for a pittance.
What did she buy them for ? What will she make ? Will it sustsin her and her two small grand daughters. Who live on the street with her.
It needs a stronger person than I to ask these questions ... to which I have no answers.
I bought chains I can never wear. I bought enough pins for a lifetime. I bought plastic stuff I wont use.
Knowing that I was desperately trying to address my own problems. Not hers.

Went to the organic shop for getting the weeks vegetables. Its raining. To balance the umbrella and cycle is a bit of a spin, especially when one has to negotiate the potholes and overflowing drains sometimes. But all in a days work.
In the rain, on the roadside, the begger was standing. When He can stand and wait, the least I can do is to stop the cycle and balancing it and the umbrella, pull out some money.
I asked him why he did not get into the shade, and he pointed to the money in silence. From privilege one only asks inane questions. Which is why I usually dont talk much. I just do what I can and go away.
There were more beggers. When all livlihoods are killed by lockdowns and scaremongers, begging is the only livlihood. Respect it.
At the shop, it was mostly delivery boys. Buyers had not come out in this rain. The beggers are one reason I come out. To do my own works.
The truth is outside. One duties are outside.
Each of us who had enough to eat at home, need to face those who dont. They are all outside.
Dont 'Stay Safe At Home'.

Aparna Krishnan
April 18 at 1:22 PM
A begger on the hot footpath. Feet tied up with peices of cloth. Waving at cars too securely airtight to be able to see him, going too fast to slow down for someone like him.
Even my cycle sailed many feet ahead before the rather worn out brakes halted it. And I walked back to him.
... remembering some narratives I have heard from different sources. Like, " They are lazy and easy going. They would rather sit and ask for charity than work.", "Don't give beggers, it encourages such practices."
...And wondered again if those narrators really thought it was an easy choice. To sit on a hot treeless footpath under the unforgiving sun. And hold ones hand out to people. People who do not have the humility to see you. For just that day's meal ...
... And how easily the narrators advise to not give something. To ease that days hunger.
... And marvelled at the arrogance and ignorance privilege bestows.


Tired or not, we simply need to wear our slippers, wear our mask and walk around these days. If we are part of a organized group, thats best maybe. Otherwise if like I do, we simply contribute to those groups, we still need to do our own work. However little.
Vendors, flower sellers, cycle shop repair men. They are all out, seeking what work comes their way. For that days food. They are willing to accept a helping hand, offered humbly. The customers are too few these days.
The temple is closed. But the bhikshudus (called begger in English) are there. Seeking alms.
There is, I have come to realise, nothing wrong in living on alms. We all live on alms. The farmers alms. We are too arrogant to face it. And in the meantime we create a riot. Racing in AC cars, maybe racing abroad, living unsustainable lives, consuming way beyond our share of the eartgs resources. Tearing the earth.
The bhikshudu lives quietly, taking very little. What comes his way that day. In humility. Teaching us all a lesson. If we have the ability to listen.
Today they were sitting outside the closed temple doors, holding their hands out to fast moving cars.
Fast moving cars cannot stop for beggers. I was glad I don't have a fast moving car. My cycle is old, a little rusty, but it stops everywhere. Easily.
A cycle is a kind vehicle. Its demands are simple, and it adapts easily to every call and need.


A friend of mine was in quarantine. He transferred money to me. Asking me to reach out to vendors on streets and give them a helping hand. On his behalf As well. As he could not, being in quarantine.
He will definitely not want his name mentioned, so I am not doing that. I am myself not doing anything much, just being an instrument for him.
I am documenting this just to table possibilities. And ways. To reach out. Personally. Or thro friends. Or family.

I'm not a very gregarious person. It takes me some time to get to easy conversations. I look with awe at people who immediately get into back slapping familiarity on day 1. And in the context of doing our bit in these very difficult Corona times also it plays up.
Why I am saying this here is just this. It may help another friend seeking to help and hesitating to take the first step. To know that we all face this same difficulty. And need to move on despite it.
When I want to reach out to all the street vendors around me, to see if can lend a hand, it's not exactly easy for me.
The ones whom I know well is simple. The man who repairs my cycle. The lady I buy flowers from. They are old friends, and give and take is easy.
The others. Well, I go on the first day to just buy a few lengths of flowers, or some groundnuts. I make some small conversation. I go the next day, again hesitate to offer help. Though I know they are struggling. The paucity of wares in their small small square of sacking is testimony that. As also the absence of customers.
Day three I hand over some money and essentials, saying I understand how hard the times are, and this could help with some essential purchases. Please.
... hoping that it is seen and accepted in the spirit I mean.
Hard working people, with a dignity that enables them to struggle against all odds. I feel very small even offering such help. Yet I need to.
But most of the times, it is accepted in the same simplicity with which the so called poor always help another in greater need.
... Difficult times. For the so called giver, and the so called receiver. Yet we need to go through the act.

(Another day)
I walked down the darkening streets with my bag of biscuits. Blue packets of glucose biscuits.The 5/- a packet kind. For the street dogs.
I passed the pushcarts on the sidewalks, tied down with yellow tarpaulin and rope. Carts with glass bangles under the tarpaulin. Carts with plastic wares under the tarpaulin. Carts with slippers under the tarpaulin.
The roads were quiet, the birds were chirping. It was still. In the fast approaching darkness.
I see posts describing the beauty of nature in these lockdown times.
And as I read them I see the carts. And the nameless faces behind the carts. Which have no more daily earnings.
I see the face of that man with his earrings spread on a small plastic sheet, that day before the lockdown. I bought 15 pairs of earrings that evening. Not knowing what else to do. Helplessly.
And the next day the lockdown began. The man has disappeared. As the poor politely do. Without troubling us. Or our sleeping conscience.
And the quiet, peaceful roads suddenly start looking menacing. Not beautiful.

THE DOGS

The street dogs in my area are all starving, and sniffing at each stone and leaf on the deserted roads. At looking hopefully at each passer by, and following them wagging their tails.
The tea shop owners, and other vendors and also the walkers made up an ecosystem that supported them. With kindness.
They are all lost now. What can we do ? I will go daily and feed a few, but more than that ?


We had just sat down for reading today's chapter of Bhagavad Geeta after lighting the evening lamp.Then the rain suddenly stopped.
I got up telling my daughter, "Need to get the biscuits to the dogs on the main road. They might come out on the road with the rain stopping. Dog is more important than God now"
She clarified, "Dog is God."
... that stage is a step in the path of true religiousness. From the Ekaroopa darshanam, where God is a God figure. To the Vishwaroopa darshanam. Where God exists in all of creation. It proceeds to Aham Brahmasmi. Where God and self merge.


Humble, almost insignificant lives go on. Through larger narratives.
Small stories. Yet none the less essential.
A morning trip for a bagful of ordinary glucose biscuits. The young woman at the desk obviously wondering why I buy up the stock alternate days. My silent prayer that she won't ask. The prayer to date is answered.
The cycle basket overflowing with these packets. And I trying to look as if the cycle I am pedalling and the basket and the contents are not mine. As I see curious eyes rest on them. Wondering.
But for the daily evening walk with my daughter. We need these.
The street dogs that live near the closed shops on the main road are very hungry these days. They were being fed by some people in the initial lockdown days. But as days drag on, the people seem to have stopped coming. Or maybe they are going and feeding dogs elsewhere.
The dogs wait in anticipation in the evening for these cheapest of biscuits. They wait politely as I spin in a circle placing a handful before each if them. One has teeth that stick out like fangs and a mauled face. The first day I was scared to approach it. But now I don't think about it. It needs the food. The rest is in God's hands. I do not think it will bite. It only looks ferocious because of its damaged features. I think.
One sick dog with a moth eaten skin, and badly deformed legs moves away in fear if the other dogs approach. Or if I approach. So I follow it. Placing a few biscuits. Stepping back. Then stepping ahead with a few more.
Hoping the while the homeless poor on the footpath don't find my feeding the dogs atrocious. Around the same time packed meals come for them in a cart. But yesterday as I was feeding a few dogs, one of the ladies on the footpath called out to me, "See he's waiting patiently behind you.", and yes yes another dog was there behind me silently waiting. The lady and I smiled at each other happily.
Thats how friends happen in life. Thro shared concerns. Shared aches. Shared efforts. ... and I opened another biscuit pack for that dog.

The most meaningful thing I do in the day is the evening walk, breaking curfew, to the market street to feed the dogs. With shops closed their food supply has stopped.
The dogs wait for the cycle basket full of biscuits. I like to think they also wait for me.
They stand patiently in their places, ladies and gentlemen. None comes running to snatch what I place for another. Not one barks to draw attention to itself.
That dignity, that simplicity. That makes receiving a far greater act than the giving.
The dog with protruding fang like teeth that my daughter ran from the first day is a gentle soul. He just looks like that. His look is worse than his bite.
At the end of the road there are some youth. Cart vendors, auto drivers. Out of work. They come and help me with the biscuits. They were the ones who lovingly sustained this community of dogs. Now that they are themselves seeking food, they would be are to feed them less than usual. So they also welcome my cycle.
They call to the dogs. Mole, Karuppusamy ... They go down to narrow lane to call another lady who will miss the party. They place the biscuits respectfully before the dogs in a clean dusted part of the road. They feed them by hand.
I stand humbled. Watching.
Learning again that the art of giving is greater than the act of giving.


Jimmy. And Monica.
Today I got officially introduced to two of my friends. As I reached with the biscuits, the families living on the footpath called out to them. 'Vaa Monica. Buscuit vandhiditchu.'". And Monica came at a dignified pace.
Jimmy was also asked to come. He I was told had a lot of 'gauravam'. Self respect. He would take only from some, and if it was given in the proper manner. So when he started eating the biscuits I felt honoured. More so when the young girl on the footpath, now a friend since the last few days, told me approvingly, "Nee gauravathoda kudikirai.". 'You give respectfully.'
If I have learnt that lesson, I am grateful. That is how a village gives. To each person in need. To each person who asks. With humility, with completeness, with gratitude. Grateful for the opportunity to give.
This was one of the first lessons my village, a so called poor village, of landless agricultural PaalaGuttaPalle Dalitwada taught me. Not in words. But in daily living. In being.


The dog with fangs, and with the heart of a kitten, walked down as I reached on my cycle with biscuits. It was dusk. He sniffed my saree all around. Establishing connection first. Saying his welcome.Then he started on his biscuits.
I think slowly the trust has got established. It happens with regularity, with commitment. As between humans, so with animals, and with humans and animals.
The unlikeliest friendships last a lifetime, after ups and downs. Relationships that seemed to be forever end as one side breaks deal. Changes. Moves on.
So also with animals. Relationships needs nurturing. Regularity. Faith.
Monica and Jimmy were there eager for their biscuits. Waiting politely. A little away. I placed their biscuits down carefully on the footpath.
Then the young woman Shanti (name changed) waved out to me with her broad smile as she got the other dog down. The dog with gauravam. With dignity. Who would never rush. Who would wait to be invited. Today also he stood till I invited him. Then graciously started eating. As I stood by grateful.
I then asked Shanti if her food had come. An organisation was giving the street dwellers lunch and dinner. She nodded vigorously.
...and in simplicity asked me back, " And yours came ?".
... And the reality that I was evading hit. Like a slap. Her world as a pavement dweller. Mine enconsed in my privilege. Where daily meals for myself, and to share with another, have never been an issue.
... Bonded over a common concern for the dogs. Bonded through her greatness is not harbouring resentment again me for the disparity. Bonded through her simple friendliness.
... And yet. An unforgivable disparity. For which I can only hang my head. In shame. That we have permitted it. And that we live it.
... One country. Yet two universes. That we inhabit.
... Hers and mine. Unbridgeable ...


I reached after dusk today. With the biscuits. The lady living on the footpath called out with a voice full of concern and relief, "Thank God you have come. Today the person who brings their food daily has not come.".
When we cohabit a space we become one. That sharing of space is essential. The men and women on the footpath and the dogs are all a family, a community. Caring for each other.
And that non sharing is the tragedy of modernity. The so called rich and the so called poor live in different universes. Schools, hospitals, neighborhoods, shops ... all different. And there is no more any sharing, any understanding.
Without shared lived experiences, there can be no understanding. There can only be chasms. Deeper and deeper.
The dogs were all hungry. And yet maintained etiquette. Each waiting for me to put their share before them. Not barking. Not pushing into another's share. And eating with gravity. And at a steady pace.
The community on the footpath is like my village. Friendly, warm, sharing, dignified. And inclusive.
They have accepted me with ease for which kindness I am deeply grateful. A lady from the another world, on a cycle, in a cotton saree, with a daily load of inexpensive biscuits for their dog friends. Taken at face value, with simplicity, grace. And warmth.



When we go and buy a muzham a flowers, the young woman, with her pleasant smile and tired eyes says " 30/-".
They never seek anything more. Neither a ear. Nor a fairer price. Unless one seeks to listen deeper, and asks to lend a hand.
She told me.
She goes with a truck on vendors at 10 pm. Reaches the market by midnight. The vegetable vendors spend hours collecting their wares.She collects her wares and waits. By dawn they are back.
Lockdown time, there is no transport, she feels grateful for this opportunity. To try to earn.
"When do you sleep ?"
"Afternoon I sleep for sometime."
... do we even know the stories our neighborhood has ... And if we do not, why have we chosen not to know ? Because the pain in the stories is too much ? Or because after knowing, we need to act ?


Nondi. Lame. The name of the dog I need to seek out on the footpath to place before it it's food. He is lame and old and also has a skin issue. But he wags his tail. In welcome. Sammy and Brownie come running to greet me. And wait for their food.
Friendship can be acknowledged in so many ways. Simple to complex. And rejected in an equally many number of ways. Between humans and animals. As between humans.The nuances are so delicate.
The footpath dwellers told me his name today, Nondi, The Lame One. The names of the others they told me on other days. The men and women on the footpath are also now friends. They are happy that I feed their friends, the dogs. Their own food comes in a van around the same time.
A daily ritual, at dusk. Predictable. Dependable. Rituals build up friendships. Tentatively, brick by brick.
Monica, Sammy, Seenu, Karuppan, Brownie, Mole, Karupusamy. And Nondi. And some more whose names I still don't know. I will wait to get properly introduced.
Everything has a pace. To extend a hand. For the hand to be accepted. For the engagement to get closer. It's many notes being played. Till sometimes, once in many attempts, the perfect note is struck. And that is as close to heaven as the human can aspire for.
Monica, Seenu, Brownie, Mole and the others, all walk down the road as my cycle turns the corner in the fading light. Some walk more briskly, some at a slower gait befitting their age. A welcome. An affirmation.
Tomorrow I may request them for a photo. And if they permit, I will post it. A photo of my new found four legged friends.

My daughter told me that the main road was cordoned off and asked how we could reach the dogs on the street. My heart sank. The ten dogs there. Waiting ...
Just many fistfulls of biscuits. Nothing much. But the eagerness with which they wait, the completeness with which they demolish their share. Their walking down when I'm distant on the horizon, their patient waiting for their share ...
An important anchor to the day, to oneself.
I had lately started thinking that I was going as a sense of duty, rather tired by days end sometimes.
It took me the possibility that I could not go, seen them, do what I could for them, to understand how much they had begun to matter.
The road was not cordoned off, the pilgrimage was made. Monica, Jimmy, Molle, Karupusamy, Fangi, ...
As with dogs, so with humans. We need to (nearly) lose somebody to understand how much they mattered ...

On the footpath today, the old lady who lives there said, nodding her head gently, "Good you are feeding these dogs daily. They are voiceless creatures.".
I know from my own village, how the poorest from their own very small portion, will always give away a share to the animals around them.
And tht we who give a small portion of our surplus can never measure upto them who give away from their own needs. On that final day of reckoning.

The utter lightness, delicateness of sensitivity.
Again it was past dusk today by the time I reached the main road. As I bent down and gave handfuls of biscuits to the dogs that came down as they saw my cycle, a little boy came running down from the footpath. A year old baby, completely unclothed , in keeping with the hot day, with a headful of tight curls. And a wide smile
He also demanded his share from me holding out a podgy hand. I gave him what his tight fist could hold. His grandmother followed him and tried telling him it was dog biscuits. His young father explained to her, in case I felt bad, that I filled the tin with freshly opened packets daily.
The grandmother smiled at me, nodded, let it be. But after I moved on, after she thought i was out if earshot, she prised open the baby's fist and took away the biscuits and gave them to the dogs. And gave him something she had in the folds of her saree instead.
She had waited for me to go so that I would not feel bad.
I was deeply grateful for her thoughtfulness.
That care, that sensitivity. The dignity they have, and that they also offer to the person before them.
This is true culture.
That I see in my village, and that I also see in the footpath dwellers here.


Total lockdown. Was worried about the street dogs. I tied the mask, and walked down with my bag. A little apprehensive, but deciding to accost the police, before they accosted me. I went to the big uniformed man on the chair at the street crossing and asked him if I could feed the dogs. He nodded vigorously, "Of course, of course. The dogs need food." Allaying all my doubts with his bluff goodness.
So that was solved that simply, and I went down. And the dogs from the other end of the street came at a canter.
There is no happier state of being than this daily moment. Of feeling welcomed thus.
The lady on the footpath also welcomed me with a smile. She had put away a part of her lunch wrapped in the paper. She showed me, for the dogs. She said she had also given them some biscuits.
She said. "Food comes for us, we are ok. The dogs, voiceless creatures. We need to do what we can." Am immensely grateful to know her. I draw my own strength from her and others like her. When concerns are shared, all other manmade walls of class and social walls dissolve. In a oneness.

The young watchman, as I was feeding the dogs was talking. "It's so sad to see the dogs hungry. Daya aati hai. Kya karoon. What can I do. They come and ask me. I have nothing with me to give. No food.
Earlier I used to daily buy food for 40/- from.Amma canteen. I used to get a lot. It was enough for me and the dogs. Now as it's free they give very limited quantity. And the queue is so long that I cannot stand again and get food."
He's from Bihar, Nalanda District, he told me. A young man, needed to go back as his wife is pregnant, but the lockdown happened a couple of days before.
"Food is now very difficult for us all from our villages. It's not money. Where can we get our food ? No Street vendors with food anywhere. All my people in Chennai are facing hunger."
... a man who out of his small salary, was buying food daily for street dogs. Is today facing hunger. I said I would get him food daily. Thats the least I can do for someone who has done so much for the dogs. Invisibly. Unselfconsciously. Simply.
We need to put on our slippers, and step out. The stories are there. Waiting to be heard. Waiting to reach thro our closed eyes and hearts. With their simple honesty.

With total lockdown the street dogs were hungrier than ever.
While I was figuratively wringing my hands and wondering however I could cook in such bulk and try to take it down, my daughter asked me to contact Dinesh Baba aka @SocialPrani of Insta. As they would have the infrastructure to do it in a better and more structured manner.
I called up, and the details were noted. I was promised that these dogs would be taken care of from the night round.
Today morning itself I got a video asking if these were the dogs ! Such a joy to see Karuppan, Browni, Nondi, Seenu ... And to see them eating. I will make my contribution to this splendid work. Other friends may also if they wish to allow wider reach to such work.
You do a great job guys ! 


The footpath. The daily companiable evening time with the dogs, sharing some food.
And the usual friendly enquiry to the elderly lady there, " Your meals have come ?"
"Innuku May Day ma. Nalla saapaadu vandidu. ...", She assured me with her usual pleasent smile. ... today is May Day, we got very good food.
As always, she seeks to reassure me.
Not a roof on her head, the footpath for a bed, uncertainty for a companion. And yet always a smile. Always concern for the hungry dogs, sharing her meals with them. Telling me, "We have a voice, they have none. Keep coming ma."
What are the wellsprings of contentment ?
Where does infinite generosity arise from in the heart ?
That courage to share the very small portion that is all that one has ?
This has been my most fundamental search down the years. In my village. In the footpaths in cities.


Meet my friends 😀
They accepted my request for a photoshoot today.
Browni, Karuppan, Oosi, Sami, Nondi, Monica, Molle, Seenu. The street dwellers and they are a community. The lady there told me that of her food, she daily keeps some for them.
Thats how relationships happen. How communities happen. Through giving, sharing, including, and celebrating it all. There is no other way.








This is a Labrador. Now a street dog, stays with the others on the street. Abandoned by some owner presumably. For reasons best known to them.
It's life must have moved overnight from comfort to the streets. From good food to what comes her way.
Life can be so hard, so unpredictable, so unforgiving.
Look at her eyes ...



Meet Seenu, Nondi, Oosi. Friends.
The others are further down.
Now there is someone else giving them food, last two days. I need not go. And yet I do.
Just to meet up ! And with some biscuits in a cover. And a mask. And the cycle. At dusk.
... thats when friendships mature. When the giving, taking, needing pass. And it's essentially a mutual joy in meeting.
... with animals as with humans.
... And only after that do shared paths begin ...





STORIES
Aparna Krishnan
9 hrs
Lockdown is teaching me the infinite value of things whose infinite value I had forgotten.My one and only safety pin today. Made of steel. From iron mined by miners from the depths of the earth.Which I used to buy casually from the footpath vendors, and use and lose.Is today more precious than all the precious gems. Protected and cherished.
A vendor called out as I came out of the post office. This is not the time one can turn away from any voice. Any begger. Any roadside salesman.
He had apples. Bananas. Custard apples. I filled my bag with his goodies.
He was saying, as he weighed, "By this time I usually sell all my wares. These days I wait and wait.
Everyone goes to the bigger airconditioned shops. They pay whatever is asked there. Fewer and few people cone to us."
Please buy only from street vendors. Times are very hard. It is a matter of survival.


A man pushing a cart witha few guavas. I went past him, then stopped, and came pushing the cycle back.




He didnt even have slippers.
I bought half a kg. Gave him what money I had. People take quietly these days without looking up. Even if one gives more. They just touch the money to their forehead. Boni maybe. The first sale of the day. Maybe the last.
It is so bleak these days. Everybody is hopelessly trying to survive on the streets.
I wonder why I post these stories. Will it change the narrative? No. Better people than I are failing, and everyday it's a new assault on tne poor everyday.
Is it going to make more people step out trying to address the crisis. Maybe not. The phone tells everyone to 'Stay in, say safe.'
Maybe because these humble truths seem to me the most important truths today.
The old man without slippers. Pushing a cart with a few raw guavas.
It was past 6:30 in the evening.
The road was empty, and the cart was returning. With trays of chopped tomatoes, cabbage, chillies, coriander and a large bowl of boiled peanuts.



He was headed back.
He said this was his first sale. Boni. That there is no customer today.
I asked him what about all the peanuts, vegetables. He said he would have to throw them away.
I had nothing to say.
Friends. The crisis is not over. People are desperate. But quietly so.
Step out. Buy what you can. Give what you can.



We live in a mental asylum.

Where pervesity is normalized.

Where some of us have all we need and some more.

And others struggle like this.




This roadside tailor has no customers. Hes now trying to stitch masks of scraps of cloth and sell them at throwaway prices.



No auto driver bargains anymore. They are desperate for rides, and are willing to go for any price. They do not want to lose the stray customer.
When one pays more, their eyes widen in surprise and gratitude. It looks like no one understands and makes simple gestures of help.
I have started taking autos to places I used to walk and cycle to otherwise. Those who have cars, would do well to leave them locked and go for autos.
Autos are very safe. Its closed spaces, closed vehicles one needs to worry about.


An old man pushing a cycle. With a few balloons. Seeking to sell them. Down narrow streets in the afternoon.
I went behind and gave him something to sustain him for a few days.
But I know it means nothing.
The situation is desperate.




The blind 'begger' on the pavement took the note I handed, uttering a blessing. And asking "where were you all these days amma ?".
And as I started my cycle, the tea boy came on his cycle giving a cup of tea to the blind man. The blind man then gave him the note I had handed and took ten Tiger biscuit packets. And asked the boy to distribute them to the street dogs on the street. "As the tea cart is not still here, the dogs aren't getting their biscuits from the customers."
I am well used to this unthinking and immeasurable generosity of the poor. And yet each time I lower my head.
Never forget. Whom we consider as a receiver is possibly a far far greater giver than us ...

CLASS TALES
Aparna Krishn
11 hrs
Waiting in a que. Two women discussing animatedly about how the 'educated' people are 'disciplined' as opposed to the 'padipu illada vanga'.
They looked at me for approval. I disapproved.
Made two more enemies today. I like my class less and less as days go by ...
I see this all the time.
Stepped out today to buy few urgent groceries and went to the near by Nilgiris store on ECR, Chennai. My car was the last to be parked in the parking lot and as I was getting out of my car, I saw a young lady holding a small baby standing under the hot sun. She didn’t ask for money but from the look of it, I could understand that she is standing there to get some help. Sweating in the hot sun, her eyes was trying to communicate a lot of things for those who paid attention. There was a long queue to get into the store and every few minutes, I would look back and this lady would be standing there staring at the people in the long line. Right next to the parked cars there were few transgenders seeking help from the customers who were coming out of the store with their huge shopping bags. While many were chased away by their drivers/owners and some by the security guards, very few managed to get some monetary help. Thanks to Covid, one can understand the panic and it was very evident in the way the money was handed over…in many case it was like throwing money at them.
I finished my purchase quickly and was heading towards my car and didn’t see the lady who was standing there all along. With some cash in my hand, I was looking for her but couldn’t locate her. I asked the security guard about this lady and he just showed his hand towards the main road. What I saw and I heard, I will never forget in my life. Amongst the transgender group, there was this one particular sister who took this girl and tells her in a loud voice “ Don’t stand under the hot sun with your baby like this. It will do more harm to you and your baby. You are not used to this job”. She then thrusts some money into her hands which could easily be a couple of hundreds and tells her…Go home. Don’t stand here…this is not the place for you. When I offered some money, the transgender sister promptly collected it and gave it to this girl and again said…Go home.
I asked this sister if she knew who it was and she says “ No sir, I don’t know who she is. I am seeing her only today. She has been standing in that corner and does not know how to ask money. She has been simply standing there with that poor child. That’s why I gave her some money from our collection and told her to go home”. I stood there in astonishment as if I saw God in front me and this sister was so casual and continued “There is no work sir, even people who want to give money are scared of this disease and try moving as fast as they could”. Just then, she noticed a customer coming out of the shop and she just disappeared in a flash and in the next moment she was near the customer’s car seeking money.
During these Covid times, we have been working with two NGO’s who work exclusively for transgenders in Chennai and even before I left the place, I had requested them to collect more details about this group of people and have given the location where they can be found. We at Maatram will look at providing some structured help to this group of people. I came home reflecting on the incident and shared the story with my son and my wife. I am not sure how many of us will do what this transgender sister did today when we are in a crisis – Its indeed a big lesson learnt and she is a giver by all means.


I find myself taking autos more these days. To places where I would usually go by bus.
I ususlly cycle where I can. I enjoy it.
Longer distances were usually by buses. It was also cheaper and also made environmental sense.
But now the human sense comes above all else. The auto drivers desperately need rides. As is the situation of all small businesses.
People's survival comes first. Environment next. In my book.
But that we have crafted a world where it is this cause of human survival versus that cause of environment speaks volumes about the human mind and how its ingenuity has been (mis)directed



A stitch in time ... Lessons learnt the hard way.
The nut on the pedal had dropped. The pedal was dangling. And everyday I postponed going to get the nut replaced. Managing.
There was always a tomorrow.
But then tne lockdown happened. And there was no tomorrow.
So now I am needing to cycle on a pedal without a pedal. Till the cycle marts open.
😑
(Any guesses on what's in the sqareish bag on the cycle carrier ?)



I'm not a very gregarious person. It takes me some time to get to easy conversations. I look with awe at people who immediately get into back slapping familiarity on day 1. And in the context of doing our bit in these very difficult Corona times also it plays up.
Why I am saying this here is just this. It may help another friend seeking to help and hesitating to take the first step. To know that we all face this same difficulty. And need to move on despite it.
When I want to reach out to all the street vendors around me, to see if can lend a hand, it's not exactly easy for me.
The ones whom I know well is simple. The man who repairs my cycle. The lady I buy flowers from. They are old friends, and give and take is easy.
The others. Well, I go on the first day to just buy a few lengths of flowers, or some groundnuts. I make some small conversation. I go the next day, again hesitate to offer help. Though I know they are struggling. The paucity of wares in their small small square of sacking is testimony that. As also the absence of customers.
Day three I hand over some money and essentials, saying I understand how hard the times are, and this could help with some essential purchases. Please.
... hoping that it is seen and accepted in the spirit I mean.
Hard working people, with a dignity that enables them to struggle against all odds. I feel very small even offering such help. Yet I need to.
But most of the times, it is accepted in the same simplicity with which the so called poor always help another in greater need.
... Difficult times. For the so called giver, and the so called receiver. Yet we need to go through the act.



Heavy rains at night.
Nice cool weather for us who have a roof on our heads.
The pavement dwellings would be swept off. In this total lockdown no one can go there to see, except with a pass. In the community there, there is a young couple with two small children. The older, a very small child with black curls and a devastating smile. Yesterday again he put out his podgy hand saying 'Biscuits', and claimed some. He has an even cuter infant brother. Both very dark, with very tight black curls, both very beautiful.
For the children to get soaked in the rains, to get a cold, is to invite Corona.
We have crafted a world where one man's food is another man's poison.
The rich and the poor live in different worlds, that contradict each other.



Every evening. Under the streetlight. Hazy. To those speeding by. In faster and faster cars. In the pursuit of happiness.
Invisible men and women. Humble citizens of this land. Trying to eke out a simple living. In the muted lights.
The street has 5 flower sellers. In the last weeks more have come. With either a rickety table. Or a price of cloth on the street. And a plastic cover of jasmine buds. Weaving them together. Hoping to sell.
As livelihoods are under attrition. One has to try. To survive.




atfSJopalurnoenshro n14rle,me h20d20n 
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The ragpicker is back at his work, as are all other people, post lockdown.
Yesterday as he was collecting at the local bin I requested him to come home as I had some cardboard cartons and other things. I handed it over to him, and gave him a few hundreds for his immediate expenses.
What was shocking was his disbelief and out of proportion gratitude.
So in a colony of well off people, even this token giving is not common.
The utter poverty of the rich appalls. Again and again.

3 Comments

  • Rani Sasikumar
    Please ask him to be careful about the masks he picks as part of the garbage.. people are not disposing carefully and causing issues for them who handle waste.
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    • 1y
    • Aparna Krishnan
      Ragpickers are dealing with poisoned ihings all the time. They are a reflection of the poison in each one of us. That they exist, and that we allow them to exist, is a reflection of our own moral decay. Corona is possibly the smallest of the dangers they face day to day.



JudmtShcaprnonea 20s,c 2oargh02a0etda 
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The cycle shops are open in the lockdown. In the permitted 6-2 period. The shops are the small painted boxes under the trees on the footpath. With the cycle mechanic sitting before them. But not a single customer.
At one the owner was sitting vacantly, and when I stopped to get air filled into full tyres, he did it will cheerful alacrity. He said these are Bad Times. He blamed no one. I gave him some money to see him through the next few days.
At the next, the owner was busy overhauling a cycle. I asked him, pleasantly surprised, if there was work these days. He informed me he was repairing his own cycle. He also put some air in my cycle. I was able to pay him for that and some more.
These are dire times. For those with no reserves. Step out. Fight the fear



ttJSpcoSulnrcy 7a,iso 2nugi0r2r0etd 
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Stepping out is the most hurtful act these days. After weeks of lockdown ended yesterday.
All the roadside tailors have unwrapped their tailoring machines and are sitting patiently waiting for the customer who does not come.
The begger took the note I gave him, "Where were you all these days Amma ?"
Kick the fear. Step out. Let's the gods protect you as you do what you should.

atfSJopalurnoenshro n14rle,me h20d20n 
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It seems that the well off Chennai people want a lockdown.
I have a question.
In the previous lockdown how many walked the roads daily, seeking out how to help those surviving on daily earnings ?
How many seeked roadside tailors and gave them whatever work they could. How many seeked out beggers to give them sustenence ? How many bought what they could from those people desperate enough to brave lockdown to sell flowers or whatever else they could. How many seeked out the phone numbers of the ironing men to see if they could transfer something to them to last these days of lockdown.
Very few to my knowlege. Most were having a stayation vaction at home, and working from home. Oblivious to the travails of those who need to earn that days bread by working.
Gradually today the poor have crept out and have started trying to rebuild their lives. Stitching, weaving flowers, picking and selling waste.
We have failed the test of our humanity. If we are not prepared to help them, let us at least not wish on them hunger and destitution through another lockdown to save our precious privileged skins.
Allow them their struggles in peace. And let us stay at home if we wish to. Thats all we have the right to. 🙏















Shyamala Sanyal
There is a little dargah near my house , painted green. In it lives a Babaji dressed in saffron . Once or twice a year I send him mithai for Diwali and Dussehra.
He walks past my gate to the shops .
Yesterday I asked him how he was doing during Corona.
He said he's been eating chapati with curry leaf chutney . No oil , no vegetables
I quickly came home and packed vegetables , biscuits , toast etc and sent it across with some cash .
It took me a month and a half to register that he might be without resources .

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