RAGPICKING on MALABAR HILL

"Do you think the old man'll be able to keep up? We could get him a taxi when he gets tired."

"Nah! We'll leave him at the chai stall on Naipansea Road. Old men are such a pain!"

It's 5.30 in the morning on Breach Candy in Bombay. Nawaz and Jackie Chain are reconsidering the wisdom of their offer, the previous day, to take me rag-picking with them on Malabar Hill. As a precaution they've asked Shekhar to come along, just in case I need emergency assistance.

They've got a nerve! Here I am, the constitution of an ox and a body to match, raring to go. And these two street kids are acting like old men, eyes still drugged with sleep, lethargic limbs, a pair of old jute sacks slung over their backs.

I hand over my offering, some of Kavita's hits of yesteryear on worn-out cassettes, plus an unwanted videotape. Jackie's eyes show a flicker of life. This is Premium stuff, what the street calls "hard plastic" worth ten Rupees a kilo. My offering's accepted with a grunt. Words are at a premium at this hour. The cassettes are transferred into the sacks. We set off up the road.

The gutter's where the wealth is on Breach Candy. Just past every ice-cream parlor, Nawaz and Jackie find plastic spoons and cartons, tossed away only a few hours ago. But this is "Soft Plastic", maximum eight Rupees a kilo. A start, but not the bonanza we're all hoping for.

We cross the road and head down Naipansea Road. Nawaz asks Shekhar if he really thinks I can keep up. To a fifteen year-old anywhere, not just on the streets of Bombay, anyone over forty and thinning on top already has one foot in the geriatric ward.

Nawaz and Jackie are an odd-couple. Nawaz is tall and rangy. I've known him for several months. Yet I don't really know him at all. I do know he's originally from Bangalore, that he ran away from home after striking a school teacher. That he never talks about his family. In fact, most street kids don't. They've usually suffered, quite literally, at the hands of their families. That's why they left. That's why they're street kids here in Bombay.

Nawaz always seems slightly apart from the rest. He's got his share of street-smarts, all right. He's also one of the few who's sniffed paint. And there's an inner melancholy in his eyes, as if he's carrying round some terrible inner sadness.

He was caught once by the Remand Home Police, ended up in the Chiller Room in Donghri. One of the boys there told him that first-time offenders were often sacrificed to propitiate the gods when a new skyscraper or bridge was about to be inaugurated.

"They strap you down in the footings, then pour concrete over you." It scared the shit out of Nawaz. So he ran away back to freedom, and life on the street.

Now, I think he feels stupid because he's almost seventeen and can't read or write, and feels he never will.

Jackie, or Prakash to give him his correct name, is the complete opposite. Bubbly, extrovert. He always takes me pretty much at face value. I doubt he dwells too much on the past, or worries much about the future.

We trudge on, heavy trucks brushing us back against the curb. Halfway up Naipansea Road, there's a small municipal rubbish dump. Jackie says the BMC refuse men usually leave some stuff behind for the boys, in return for a bit of Backsheesh. But Jackie and Nawaz are presently short on funds', so that option's out for now.

Anyway, this little fiefdom's been taken over by two eleven-year-olds: Tameshwa and Baban. All four used to work together, argued and split up. Now they're friendly, but rivals. Rag-picking, after all, is very territorial. None of this is written down, mind you. But everyone knows who has picking rights on which street. Pick up someone else's trash and there'll be a fight. Trash is status, power, and money for these boys.

Street kid equivalents of High Fives all round. I am pointed out as a curiosity, my stamina discussed and debated yet again. Then, we're off again. On the other side of the road they come across a prize, pizza left over from a late night snack in the apartments where Bittu and Madhu live. But to get at it, Nawaz and Jackie have to squelch through piles of rotting, slimy garbage. Doesn't seem to fate them in the slightest.

There's a short but incredibly steep lane that goes from Naipansea up to Ridge Road, which runs along the spine of Malabar Hill. It's so steep and windy that just about every car or Taxi I've ever been in has to change down into first gear at the second bend.

Jackie and Nawaz used to sleep in the parking lot of one of the high-rise apartment buildings on this road. They had a nice little arrangement going. They got an exclusive on the rubbish in return for Rs 5 backsheesh payable to the night-watchman. But some of the residents complained to the police. They said the presence of the boys was lowering the tone of the compound. Exit street kids.

At the top of the hill we have a choice: left, to the Hanging Gardens and several more kilos of ice-cream cartons; or right, and more houses and apartments, and Hobson's Choice. The boys, surprised I'm still there after the climb, head right.

On the roadside we find some plastic garbage bags. Paper, lots of paper, more plastic, and metal soda cans. Jackie gets excited for the first time this morning, and it's still only six o'clock. Jackie's heavy into metal. It's his specialty. He rattles off prices and types of metal for my benefit.

So far, apart from Babhan and Tameshwar, we haven't seen anyone other rag-pickers. Mind you, it's still dark and we've exactly been looking. But they're there all right. There must be several hundred street kids, and not a few adults - mostly women - scavenging the streets and apartments in this part of town. Each has his or her specialty. It's like your neighborhood recycling bins, only the sorting is done for you while you're still fast asleep. And nothing, of course, ever just gets dumped.

For a start, where would you dump it? There's no room in Bombay. As my Sarwar, who comes from Lancashire says, "there's money in them thar muck." So, all this muck gets scavenged, sorted, recycled in those parts of the city where proper folks don't go alone at night!

Now, we're heading down a short residential street behind the Malabar Mill Telephone Exchange. To me, this looks highly unpromising. But the boys are moving fast, with a sense of purpose. They head down the lane without a moment's hesitation.

It's a bit like watching two bloodhounds roaming through the neighborhood, sniffing out the best spots to do a bit of leg-lifting.

In front of us sits a fancy house set behind heavy wrought-iron gates. To the right is what I mistakenly assume is a square guardhouse.

Wrong! We've struck gold! Not literally, of course, but at least several sack full of good hard plastic and metal.

Because it isn't a guardhouse at all. It's a private, rich man's rubbish tip. In the roof there's a large manhole cover. In a shot, Nawaz and Jackie clamber up and now, I come into my own. Nawaz says wealthy Arabs live here. But they won't shoe the boys away if they see my white skin. I hasten to add that age lends authority, old age even more authority. A flicker of a smile creases Nawat's face. By common decree, I'm promoted to Bodyguard, on the spot.

"The richer they are, the more they throw away." Jackie's becoming quite chatty. "One boy found a gold Rolex watch in one of these private dustbins."

"I don't think we'll find one here." Nawaz mutters, always the optimist.

"Yea, but there's good stuff here, Nawaz" and they go to it with gusto. They whip through the paper, looking for the better grades of plastic and metal. No point in carrying B grade stuff back down the hill.

The sacks are soon stuffed full. Nawaz admits they're lucky to have gotten here first. This house empties its rubbish in the middle of the morning. That means this stuff's lain around for almost twenty four hours undisturbed.

The boys finally climb out. Time to tamp down the sacks, make some room for another meal of trash. You never know what you may find on the way back down.

As we head back we stop to wrestle out some mineral water bottles from the railings of the Chief Minister's bungalow. And what do you think we find, staring us straight in the face? Two of the fattest, middle-class rats I've ever come across, feasting on the remains of papaya and bananas.

Rats - fat rats at that - in the gutter outside the Chief Minister's residence. What a photo! What a headline!

Down to the chai stall, where a madman buzzes round me, until I point a microphone directly at home and warn him it's The Evil Eye. He leaves us in peace.

Back on Naipansea Road, we run into Tameshwa and Baban again. Since they first saw me a question's been forming in their busy minds:

"What do you do in your country with scrap? Do you collect it, like we do?

"No, we put it in big holes in the ground. Or else, we burn it.

"Why do you burn it?"

"Because we don't have people like you who go round collecting it."

"Can I come to your country to collect all this trash? We can hire a boat, bring it back here and sell it in Dharavi. Hey, Baban, we'll be millionaires. And there'll be enough for you -Nawaz, and for you too Prakash. We'll all be rich! When we come?"

There follows a short seminar on visas and the workings of the US Immigration Service, and why they just aren't in the habit of granting work visas to Bombay street kids to come and clean up streets full of litter.

Especially not to eleven year-old boys who go round beating up old folks. For in the hour since we first met, Tameshwa - all four foot six of him - has beaten up some "Old Man."

"So how old was this man?"

"Very, very old man! Age round forty."

Baban says the man was on Brown Sugar, tried to steal their plastic, so they beat him up and he's run away.

We say our good-byes, swear undying brotherhood and go our different ways.

Three hours later, our haul neatly sorted into little piles - plastic, glass, metal we head off to Grant Road, in search of Chintu, who usually buys their stuff from them.

Chintu's gone to see the moneylender. His assistant weighs the different piles. The boys are a bit annoyed. They figured they had at least twelve kilos. The scales say eight, maybe nine. And they can't get their money until Chintu's back. Maybe he'll be a bit more generous?

I buy them chai opposite. We share bidis. (cheap Indian cigarettes) Do our sums.

And then Chintu returns. We cross the lane. The boys proudly display me off as the new piece of Junk they've collected.

"This man looks really old. But he walked everywhere we did. It's amazing.

"Yes, doesn't he look old? Remarkable he can still do it. We should take him out again. He brings us good luck. And have you heard about all the rubbish they throw away in his country? Oh boy, Chintu, we're hoping to be rich, all of us, rich, rich, rich!"

The boys are too impatient to haggle for long with the more experienced Chintu. They settle for Twenty Six Rupees for their morning's work.

We head back up Suklaji Street, Jackie sees a hundred Rupee note sticking out of the pocket of my kurta; stuffs it back, warns me: "You shouldn't let people see your money. Some boy will take advantage of you. Be more careful in future!"

A few months ago, he'd have taken it and I'd have been none the wiser. Of such things are the most unlikely friendships made.

 

 

 

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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