BALI & BADSHA


One Monday morning I enter the Byculla compound, turn the corner and find Bali, Hassan and Selwan Raju vigorously applying Lifebuoy soap to a thin, whimpering boy I don't remember seeing before. Kumar, "Father" to the street boys, watches on like a schoolmaster, encouraging, scolding, teaching.
“Where did you pick him up from?
Kumar says he used to be with the Sadak Chhaps. But “he ran away from here. He's staying in Churchgate.”
The boy's name is Kishore. He's been hanging out near the big downtown railway station called Churchgate. Kishore shivers with fear and embarrassment. Scabies isn't a very pretty sight. Kishore's arms and legs, probably every part of his body, are covered by huge, pussing sores.
“What causes scabies?”
Kumar says it’s all-too-common. “This is a very mild case. Because they eat meat a lot, and they don't take bath your body becomes very hot. All beef, meat, they eat, becomes very hot.”
“So, he gets boils and they get infected? What are you going to treat him with?”
Kumar says they’ve taken him to the Doctor, who gave him injections, tablets and ointment. When they’ve finished washing Kishore they’ll apply the latter. .
“And how long will the treatment last?”
“Just one week, then he’ll be cured.”
Some of the fast food joints round Churchgate are infamous for their lack of hygiene. They serve hot, spicy chicken and mutton. It's very cheap. It hits the spot when you're really hungry. Just don't ask too many questions about how it was stored and prepared. Kishore knew he was sick. He came here last night. The boys took him to Nair Hospital first-thing this morning.
Washing Kishore is a three-boy operation. Raju lathers on the soap. Hassan dries the sore, and Bali dabs on Benzol Benzoate - a disinfectant, and then smothers the sore with gram flour. Apparently, this really dries it out.
Kumar says he used to all this himself, but now the boys can do it even if he’s not here. This is the first time I've seen Bali act like a grown up. I'm pleasantly surprised. I didn’t think anymore about this until a few days later.
Irfan the carpenter built some lockers on either side of the door to the office. And here’s Bali, head almost inside his locker, doing something rather secretive.
“What are you doing, Bali? You're writing?”
“January, February, March, April.”
Bali is laboriously copying letters, big fat round letters from a children's first reader - the sort of thing a five or six year old would have - anyway, Bali's copying the names of the months, in English, into an exercise book.
“Bali, you're learning to write! The months of the year!”
“I'm trying but I can't get it.”
I ask Kumar: “Is anybody teaching him? Or is he just picking this up on his own?”
“On his own.”
A year ago, Bali would probably have been curled up asleep under some burlap in the corner, or making a nuisance of himself. Now, here he is, trying to teach himself to read and write. Kumar is very proud. Bali is slowly beginning the transition away from the street, but at his own pace and in his own way.
But Kumar's explanation seems a bit too pat. I know teenagers can change. Thank God they do! But literally overnight? Bali? Raju? Hassan? All together? So sudden?
It just doesn't ring true. There has to be something else.
And there is. Or rather, there are - two "something elses" - Ashok Lal and Badsha.

Until a few months ago, Ashok Lal was the Chief Ration Officer for the city. Jockin and Sunder Burra had gone to see him. They'd always wanted to get ration cards for the Street Kids. Now, remember, to get a ration card, which entitles you to subsidised staple foodstuffs, like rice or cooking oil, you have to be able to prove you have a fixed residence.
The Mahila Milan pavement dwellers have now got them, after a gargantuan struggle, because they could point to their huts, to the fact they hold regular jobs, their kids go to school. But the street kids would seem to be a tougher case to argue. In E Ward in Byculla, Jockin's always gotten nowhere. So, when he and Sunder asked the question "Will you issue ration cards to the street boys?" - it was really just to test the waters, out of habit, not with any sense this was a demand that might be taken seriously.
Ashok Lal, a common-sense sort of man, looked up across his desk and said "Yes, why not? Seems sensible." And it was done, just like that!
Now, Enter the second new factor in the equation - Badsha the cook.
You'll usually find Badsha, just outside the office, sitting on his haunches, with a pile of vegetables spread out on the jute matting in front of him. That, or stirring huge cooking pots over a kerosene stove. Or directing operations. This afternoon it's Kuldip and Bali peeling potatoes. Badshah means King in Hindi, and Badshah lives up to his name. He leads such a busy life he's not sure if he can fit an interview in.
The litany goes on, and on and on. So many duties, so little time, what with buying the food, preparing the food, cooking the food. It's hard for me to get a word in edgeways.
Badsha's now in his late twenties. He's an ex-Sadak Chhap, sort of. He was a street kid before Sadak Chhap ever existed. Came here and worked in the Byculla market, then as a cook in a restaurant. He got bored and one of the kids brought him over a few months ago. He's been here ever since. Factor X, the missing element that's made Ashok Lal's decision a momentous turning point in the lives of Bali and the rest.
Before Badsha and the ration cards, a street boy would typically spend seventy to eighty Rupees a week eating out at a cheap hotel. The food's often dirty. Kshore, the boy with scabies, can tell you all about that. When Kumar heard what Ashok Lal had said he thought why don’t they use the ration cards to cook for the boys here? Instead of having them spend over the odds in cheap restaurants outside.
“Jockin said it wi.ll be better because that same money they're going to spend out. They'll not get a good food, clean and all. So, instead of going there we'll start here in itself. So, we started cooking.”
“Getting a permanent ration card: how important psychologically has it been for the boys?” Badshah pauses from his cutting: “Until now it’s never happened that a Sadak Chhap got a ration card. When we got a ration card we were very happy to see that at least someone is thinking about us. ...At least somebody thought that even we are human beings, and they have given us this special card. It made us very happy. It’s altered how we think of ourselves.”
“Now we can get rations from the shop. We have water here. Lots of boys who earn money from their work. So when they asked me if I would like to cook for them I said Yes.
Good, clean food and plenty of it. The results are clearly visible. A lot of the boys look a lot healthier and a lot bigger. Teenagers need a lot of food especially Nawaz, Jackie and Selwan Raju. Even Kumar admits they’re looking healthier and stronger.
They really all have grown like weeds. Badsha's beams at me, very, very proud of it all. Irfan’s built them all lockers to keep their belongings. The difference is quite extraordinary. Jockin's given them free soap to wash with.
“Before Badsha started cooking for them, we used to dump all the masalas and potatoes, everything in one, and we used to cook and give it to them. But now they are getting very clean and good food..as much as you want you eat. But you have to pay.” And everyone does pay.
“Three things we are giving them. Now, they can sleep well. And the food. Food we can't give them this thing free. And water. They can get. Soap we are giving.
Sitting next to me, peeling spuds and listening in is Bali
“Bali, I've noticed a big change in you this time from when I was last here. You seem to have grown up a great deal, be much more responsable. And I noticed frequently that you're spending a lot of time trying to learn and read and write. And I wondered if this was a consequence of the fact that now, the Sadak Chhaps, there's much more a sense of community that's come about through getting this ration card.”
“Now I feel better. When I got ration card, I felt like that I'm in my own home only. I'm with my family. I don't feel like going from here. Always, I want to stay here!
It's eight. Time to find a taxi and get back home. I can usually get one on the corner of Jhula Maidan. Hamida waves hello from her hut.
“Where were you since morning?”
Hamida lives in the hut right next to the compound railings. Ever since she met my daughter she's wanted me to come and take a meal and talk. I'm both flattered and touched. But it's late, I'm tired, so we agree to fix a time tomorrow. And Bali has gone to look for a taxi for me. Wonders will never cease!
A sad postscript. A few months later, Badsha knifed a fellow Sadak Chhap. He's now serving time for manslaughter in Pune jail.

Essay
Episodes 1 - 4
Episodes 5 - 8
Episodes 9 - 12
Episodes 13 - 16
Episodes 17 - 20
Episodes 21 - 24
Episodes 25 - 28
Episodes 29 - 32
Episodes 33 - 35

Main Episode List
Cast of Characters
Credits
MP 3

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