A Free Man: A True Story of Life and Death in Delhi

by Aman Sethi

  The parchi issued by the officer usually concerns the limited functionality of some aspect of his office. Perhaps his air conditioner has packed up—exhausted by the battle of maintaining a room temperature of twenty-three degrees in a forty-five degree summer; perhaps there is a crease in his double bed. Whatever the problem may be, it is expressed in an illegible scrawl that requires the PA to leave his desk and appear in person to ascertain the exact nature of the inconvenience. Once apprised of the situation, the PA then asks the clerk in charge of the storeroom to send a replacement. The most sought-after objects in the storeroom are, in order of popularity, chairs, jugs, air conditioners, rope, tables, and the occasional almirah.

  Rehaan’s job consists of replacing faulty parts with the repaired units. He is not required to fix anything—for that there is a separate department of electricians, technicians, and plumbers—he is merely expected to place objects adjacent to their point of installation. Normally, in the course of an eight-hour shift, for which he is paid hundred and fifty rupees a day, there seem to be enough offices with broken furniture, malfunctioning air conditioners, and missing almirahs to keep him busy.

  ‘One day we showed up at Sansad as usual, but instead of escorting us to the storeroom the guards took us to this other part of the complex.’ There, shimmering ever so slightly in Delhi’s omnipresent haze, stood a building that was never in the original layout and so should never have been built. ‘It was an illegal construction, an encroachment in the middle of Parliament—hidden away where no one could see it. They told us to empty it. It’s an order from the Supreme Court—no encroachment anywhere!’

  ‘So what are they building in its place?’

  ‘A pleasure garden,’ says Rehaan without a hint of irony. ‘Next we went to the old cash room and they told us to empty it out. You know what was in there?’

  ‘Cash?’

  ‘No, files. Mountains of files, piles of files, cupboards full of files, shelves weighed down by stacks of files wrapped in alternating bright red and dull green cloth. So many files that even the extra rooms built specially (and illegally) were filled to the brim. So many files that it finally took more than twenty trucks to cart them from Sansad to their new resting place in Lok Nayak Bhavan near Khan Market.’

  ‘So what was in these files?’

  ‘Everything about everything, Aman bhai. Records of every transaction ever made; of every square foot of land bought, sold or disputed; every suspect, accused, and victim; every murder, hanging, and encounter; north to south; east to west. Punjab, Sindh, Gujarat, Maratha. Sab kuch, Aman bhai—a record of everything from the number of cars in a department to the number of leaves of every Asoka tree in Lodi Gardens.’

  Rehaan pauses to roll a joint; all this talking has sobered him up. I smoke silently, marvelling at how this small world in Bara Tooti intersects with a much larger universe. No one in the press wrote about the demolition of an illegally constructed room in Parliament; I’m sure none of us even knew about it. But Rehaan was there, with his hammer and his beedis, and his small pouch of marijuana tucked away in his trousers. Smoking his joint, Rehaan spent a week transporting top-secret files that reporters like me would give an arm and leg to spend five minutes with.

  ‘Rehaan, can I come with you to Parliament one day?’

  ‘You, Aman bhai? Why?’

  ‘Just to see what palledari work is like.’

  ‘I can’t take you into Parliament, Aman bhai. The security is really strict. Plus, you don’t really have the body of a palledar.’

  That much, I concede, is true. As consolation, Rehaan offers to take me to a place that he promises me is as exciting as Parliament.

  •

  ‘Attention, all passengers. Passengers please note that Train Number 5708 Amrapalli Express from Amritsar to Katihar will be arriving shortly on Platform Number 3.’ It is 3:40 pm at Old Delhi Railway Station; I am here on the directions of Rehaan and have been instructed to look out for his supervisor: a short, bald, and portly man called Babulal.

  On first impression, I have to admit that Old Delhi Railway Station is scarcely as exciting as the Indian Parliament. On a scale of ten, I’d give it about two and a half for excitement, and only because the man standing next to me is arguing with a railway employee about the best way to transport a batch of live chickens. ‘Just wait till the train comes in, Aman Bhai,’ Rehaan says and slips away as he doesn’t want to be seen with a pesky journalist.

  At a distance, I can make out Babulal striding along Platform 3; he looks like an unlikely candidate for the post of the overlord of Old Delhi station. But like the truly accomplished, Babulal has risen to his position of prominence on the backs of those who have consistently underestimated him. He has never made the mistake of appearing either brilliant or ambitious; but, in his defence, his job has never required him to be.

  Babulal is the head foreman of one of Old Delhi Station’s bigger contractors—someone called ‘Anand sir’—and is responsible for moving more than a hundred tonnes of cargo a day. His job requires him to be steady, dependable, and relentless, and my sources at Bara Tooti insist that he possesses all three qualities in abundance.

  I walk up to him and introduce myself, but it is apparent that Babulal has absolutely no interest in either befriending me, or telling me about his life, work, or interests. Babulal, it appears, is a man of few interests.

  Rehaan has described railway work as perfectly attuned to the rhythms of the marketplace. The job is to load and unload goods trains as they roll through Old Delhi Railway Station. Workers can either work on a semi-permanent basis where they are paid three thousand five hundred rupees a month for a four-day week, or can choose to work on a dehadi basis for two hundred and fifty a day. Those working on contract are free to pick up dehadi elsewhere on their free days.

  As a professional journalist, I obviously cannot take anything Rehaan has told me for granted without corroboration from an independent source, and who better than Babulal? Precisely what sort of work is railway work? Is it a form of azadi or gulaami? Dehadi or permanent? Is Babulal a thekedar? Or does he work for one? Maybe he is some sort of subcontractor: a chotta thekedar. An abundance of questions, but given Babulal’s reticence, and the imminent arrival of the Amrapalli Express, I’m struggling to make some sort of headway when the announcement lady starts up again: ‘Attention, all passengers…’ Already delayed by almost an hour, the Amritsar–Katiyar Amrapalli Express is due in the next fifteen minutes.

  Eager to bring the train back on schedule, the announcement lady with the mechanical voice has decreed that the train will stop for only twenty minutes instead of the customary thirty.

  ‘Come along,’ Babulal says and hurries off down the platform. I switch on the recorder and give chase.

  He first walks up to the PCO booth under the staircase and hands over a crisp five-hundred-rupee note. ‘Give me the most tattered ten-rupee notes you can find.’

  He then strolls further along the platform to the slender steel girder from which hang several steel locks. ‘Harrison Seven Levers, Harrison Seven Levers,’ he mutters as he shoves his hands into the cavernous pockets of his cotton trousers and retrieves several crudely wrought keys, each capable of unlocking several different locks produced by the same manufacturer. He takes his time choosing the right lock, comparing shank lengths and the strength of the locking mechanism, and once satisfied, walks to the head of the platform where the train is expected to stop.

  As a man with a press card, I cannot be wished away, but I have been instructed to stand at a safe distance and well out of the way. The Amrapalli Express rumbles in at 1605 hours. The lady with the mechanical voice announces the arrival of the train, and Babulal’s team pounces upon it. I skulk behind a bunker of wooden crates, recorder in one hand, notebook and pen in the other.

  16:06 hours: Babulal leaps aboard even as the driver grinds the train to a halt. He wrenches open the lock with one of his many skeleton keys and throws his weight against the
sliding door.

  16:08 hours: Babulal is still struggling with the door. It seems to be blocked by boxes jammed against it from the inside. Seven mazdoors are wrestling with the handle, practically wrenching the door off its rails. I can see Rehaan hovering around at the back of the team, bouncing on his toes like a pro athlete about to take to the field.

  16:10 hours: The door is finally open. Chotta, a slender, wiry member of the team, had slipped through the tiny child-sized space between the door and its frame and moved the box pressed against the door channel. The door slides open all at once even as Chotta shouts out a warning. A four hundred kilogram crate bursts out of the train car and flies in my direction, bouncing off the platform with a dull thud followed by the sharp crackle of splintering wood. Fortunately I am some distance away.

  16:15 hours: Eleven more gunny-covered wooden crates have been flung out onto the platform and arranged in a neat grid. The team is running on schedule. Babulal is slowly returning to ground state; the vein on his forehead gradually subsides, the hand holding the beedi has stopped trembling. He pulls out a large pink delivery challan from his pocket and laboriously notes down the names and addresses scribbled across the crates in black permanent marker. The team scurries back down the platform and returns with a handcart piled high with identical gunny-wrapped crates with different markings. Loading begins.

  16:17: hours: The train is scheduled to leave in the next eight minutes. Loading progresses smoothly and on schedule. Floor space in the bogie contracts and expands rhythmically as the boxes are arranged in horizontal terraces that start from the corners and work their way inwards like an ascending staircase which requires that every successive box be raised only one level at a time. Babulal has finished filling out his delivery challan, and is already planning for the next delivery.

  16:20: hours: Panic! A large hairy man in a migraine pattern shirt rushes towards the bogie. He is shouting at the top of his voice. He is waving his hands excitedly. He is threatening to bugger Babulal and the entire team. He is Pramod, the head contractor Anand sir’s eldest son.

  16:21 hours: Pandemonium. Of the twelve unloaded crates, six—marked ‘SNC’ in green permanent marker—were meant for the onward journey. They should never have been unloaded. Babulal waves the delivery slip at Pramod, as if to indicate that this was not conveyed in the paperwork—but there is no time for arguments. The train will leave in four minutes.

  I can see why Rehaan is such an asset to the team. Everyone else relies on a combination of skill and physics to manoeuvre the boxes into place, daintily flipping hundred kilogram crates using their shoulders as fulcrums and their hips as pivots. Rehaan, meanwhile, is simply muscling his way through the carriage, lifting up boxes and flinging them aside with insouciance.

  16:22 hours: With three minutes to go, things are unravelling for Babulal’s team despite Rehaan’s heroics. Sensing the delay, the engine driver sidles up to Babulal. ‘The train shall leave immediately, Babulalji. It would be terrible if some of your cargo is left behind.’ Babulal reaches into his pocket for the bundle of tattered notes and hands the driver a handful.

  16:23 hours: Perched in their eyrie-like offices above the platforms, the high officials of the Indian Railways peer out at the chaos unfolding on Platform 3. The engine driver’s visit has not gone unnoticed. Package Babu ruffles his feathers, Signals Babu stretches out his wings, TT Babu smiles wickedly and one by one they prepare to wing down silently to Platform 3 where the Amrapalli Express lies beached with her engines heaving and her innards spilling out onto the platform.

  16:25 hours: ‘This train was scheduled to leave two minutes ago, Babulal. TT Babu will be very upset if it gets any later.’ Package Babu smiles even as he attempts to keep a straight face.

  ‘Sahib, it shall leave immediately. Just give me two minutes.’

  ‘But immediately is not in two minutes, Babulal. Immediately is right now.’

  ‘Sahib, you tell me what I should do.’

  Package Babu raises himself onto the balls of his feet and rocks back onto his heels; he continues this giddy motion even as he looks down at the pointy toes of his shoes. They are scuffed. Package Babu is not happy. Northern Railways has tasked him with ensuring that the train leaves the station on time, which it won’t. He also wants shiny-tipped shoes, which his aren’t. ‘I need new shoes,’ he remarks.

  ‘And TT Babu?’

  ‘I will handle TT Babu. His shoes are fine.’

  Babulal reaches into his pocket for more tattered notes; their raggedness is his silent protest.

  16:29 hours: The train is now officially late. Fortunately there is only one more crate to go. If they can make it by the twenty-fifth minute, they might be able to stave off TT Babu; he only comes down past the seven-minute mark. Package Babu’s walkie-talkie crackles. TT Babu is getting impatient.

  ‘Tell Babulal the price is rising.’

  ‘Don’t worry, TT sir. The train is leaving immediately. The train shall leave in one minute.’

  ‘Immediately is not in one minute. Immediately is right now.’

  16:30 hours: The bolt slides home with a bang. Babulal fits on his lock; his colleague at Katihar will have a skeleton key of his own. The faulty delivery has meant that the team has moved eight tonnes in twenty-five minutes. Package Babu barks out a command into his walkie-talkie. The engine driver blows his whistle. Signals Babu changes the lights from red to green. The Amrapalli Express pulls out of Old Delhi Railway Station, rolling smoothly on wheels greased by Babulal and his team.

  The team loads the six crates onto their modified wheelbarrows and wheels them off down the platform towards the godown. Rehaan waves to me as the mazdoors leave the platform. There is no hurry now; the Amrapalli is the last train of the day shift.

  •

  I can’t help but feel worried for Rehaan—not that he needs my concern. He seems too young, too full of hope to survive a place like Bara Tooti. I keep thinking of telling him to go home to his family, his goats, and his fighting bulbuls, but Rehaan seems to be enjoying the thrill of living in a city like Delhi and the occasional visit to the swimming pool of the Imperial Hotel.

  ‘Rehaan is a good boy, but he has it all wrong. There are easier ways to make money than to spend one’s time in the company of farm animals or working like a mule. Raising punji is the easy part. A man has to have a business-type brain.’ Ashraf and I are talking again, on the condition that certain topics are off-limits. ‘Look at Kalyani, she makes money night and day—even as she sleeps, money finds its way into her pockets. And look at us. This is what happens if you stay too long in Delhi.

  ‘When you first come here, there is a lot of hope, abhilasha. You think anything is possible. You have heard all the stories of people who have made it big in the city. Slowly, as time goes by, you start wondering what you are doing. One year, two years, three years, and you are still on the footpath. But people say, have faith, bharosa—something will happen. But slowly you realize, nothing will happen, and you can live the next five years just like the last three years, and everything will be the same. Wake up, work, eat, drink, sleep, and tomorrow it’s the same thing again.

  ‘So you start fantasizing about returning. You think of the lush green fields, the cool, pure water, the healthy food. You suddenly decide that you were wrong all along; there is money to be made in the village, especially for a man with your experience. But one morning you wake up to realize that living isn’t so much about success as it is about compromise—samjhauta. A samjhauta with life, where you stop wanting to be anything at all. After enough time in Delhi, you even stop dreaming—you could go crazy if you think about it too much.

  ‘This is a brutal city, Aman bhai. This is a city that eats you raw—kaccha chaba jati hai. For you, all this is research: a boy tries to sell his kidney, you write it down in your notebook. A man goes crazy somewhere between Delhi and Bombay, you store it in your recorder. But for other people, this is life. There are pimps lurking at every corner, wai
ting to spirit you away if you so much as talk to them. Behind Jama Masjid, there used to be an organ market—anyone could go and offer to sell anything. I’ve heard of people selling their eyes, kidneys, bits of their liver—practically anything. Once they get into Delhi, people see the roads, the crowds, the cars, the madness; people lose their balance in this city.

  ‘At Koria Pull near the railway station, young sixteen-, seventeen-, eighteen-year-old boys are sold like cattle to be worked on fields in Punjab. Do you know that?

  The boys will walk out of the train with nothing—just a bundle of clothes and a few beedis. A man will walk up to them, give them food and a place to sleep, and next morning he will say, “There is this theka in Noida, just get onto the truck.” You get onto the truck and that’s it—khatam! You wake up in Punjab and a sardarji puts you to work in his fields and that’s where you stay for the rest of your life.’

  ‘Doesn’t anyone run away?’

  ‘Lots of people try; but they have no money. No one in Punjab gives you any money—you get food and clothes and that’s it. Finally, how much can you run, Aman bhai?’

  7

  It takes a chat with Lalloo to make sense of Ashraf’s moody outburst. Two drinks down Ashraf can coldly describe the two of them as ‘medium-type friends’, but the truth is that Lalloo is Ashraf’s only friend in Delhi. Ashraf is articulate, witty, and occasionally brilliant; but after three days of drinking, it is Lalloo who finds ten rupees for him to buy tea, take a shit, and get back to work. It is Lalloo who pulls Ashraf back from confrontations with the police, arguments with Kaka, and fights with other mazdoors at the chowk.

  Ashraf maintains that he is a peaceful drunk, but that is largely due to Lalloo’s calming influence. Ashraf had introduced Lalloo to the safedi line and for that alone Lalloo will stand by Ashraf—till the day one of them vanished.

  ‘Because people vanish all the time, Aman bhai. One day they get onto a train or jump into the back of a truck and you never see them again; you never know what happened to them. Maybe they got lucky and became rich; maybe they went to jail and are still there; maybe they had an accident and died. But no one looks for them, because no one really misses them any more. It’s been ten years since Ashraf spoke to his mother, Aman bhai; he’s terrified there will be no one to look for him when he’s gone.’