The Payesh and the Porridge story

Sudeshnaben? ('ben' is a colloquial way of addressing the women in Gujarat).  Tame j chho? (That’s you, right?)

Having stood across the counter for more than four hours at a stretch, attending to the stream of customers, the mention of my name by one amongst them made me take note of the source.  There he stood along with a young boy of not more than 8-9 years of age, beaming at me. I could not recognize him even by an iota. I asked him to give me a moment so that I could manage the crowd that has already assembled in front of my modest stall.

{I am at the Green Haat, an initiative of VIKSAT, my current work place.  Green Haat is a fair organized for a period of five days every year, as an effort towards launching an awareness drive on conserving environment, promoting the idea of how to reduce the carbon foot print of individuals. The Haat was organized in Ahmedabad Haat, a government sponsored establishment built much along the lines of the Dilli Haat in New Delhi to provide the ambiance of a traditional rural haat or village market, but not ignoring contemporary needs. In this Haat, me along with Muunidi, my eldest sister in law are hosting a stall wherein we are selling homemade delicacy from Bengal, The Bengali Kheer…. Payesh.

(Payesh is made by boiling and stirring the milk continuously till the volume reduces to almost half of the original volume. We planned to start in a small way, since so far we have prepared payesh only for domestic use, especially during the birthdays of the children, when payesh becomes a non negotiable sweetmeat in the bengalee homes. Having stripped off most of other rituals (after marrying into a Gujarati family), this is one activity that I cling on to, without fail, every year).}

That day was the last day of the five-day ‘Haat’ and my team-mate, Munnidi was taken sick and was at home. So, after finishing a submission in office, I reached my pavilion with my new assistant, my daughter, late in the evening.  The Haat continues all throughout the day till late in the night.  Usually, Munnidi managed the show in the afternoon till I joined her in the venue after my office.

Today being the last day, the focus of my micro-enterprise was twofold: recover the basic costs (No... we were not in profit even after selling payesh for five consecutive evenings, including one Sunday) and second was to finish the existing stock. I was focused on the work but someone calling me by name came as a pleasant surprise. Upon realizing that I am not able to recognize him, the young man introduced himself.

Him: “Hoon Pearl. Yaad awvyu? ” (I am Pearl. Could you remember?)  

Shaking my head, I expressed my poor recollection skills. Not dejected (as if he was expecting this dismissal), he started explaining in detail.

Him: Khodiyar Nagar?  

Me: Yes, I went there long time back. (I was working in the basti (slums) along the Sabarmati river of Ahmedabad, while associated with Sanchetana, an NGO. We were managing a small clinic cum resource center in the middle of the basti).

Him: I used to visit your center.

Me: (Still getting no-where)….Achcha? (Yeah?)

Him: (Still not feeling let down) I knew you will not recognize me. But I recognized you at a glance.

Me: (Apologetically) I have a poor memory. Sorry, I am still not recollecting you. It was 2001-02. Twelve years ago. I hardly remember anyone from the community.

Him: (Smiling) You should not. I was a kid at that time. Was studying in Class IX. Just like her. He said, while pointing at my daughter, who was standing by me, listening to the conversation while attending to the other customers.

Me: (Still unable to recollect but hugely relieved that my brain cells are not compromised) You were in Class IX? You must have been a kid! And now you have a son? You have grown up so much? (As if the Darwinian laws were not meant for him and time should have stuck in the beginning of this Millennium)

Him: I used to spend long hours in the Library that you had started in the health clinic.

Me: (Racking my brains, not recollecting yet but putting on my acting skills in fully active mode): Aha… So you are one of those with whom I prepared a play “Parrots and the Hunter”?

Him: No, I used to come and study in your library. That was the only place in my basti where I could concentrate, read and prepare for my exams.

Me: (Dumbfounded… speechless….) 

Him: Sudeshna ben, had it not been that little space, I would not have been able to finish higher studies. You had shown me the way.

Me: (Regaining my senses) Where do you stay?

Him: I stay in the same basti where you used to come every day. I finished high school, went to college and studied MA in Gujarati Literature. I am married and have one son and a daughter. My son speaks good English, Madam. (Urges his son to rattle some well versed rhymes taught in school, the son obliges).

Me: (Fighting back my tears) What do you do now?

Him: I wanted to be like you. I am working in an NGO in Ahmedabad that works towards creating inclusive societies by empowering urban and rural poor. We work in the slums of Rajasthan and Gujarat. I earn Rs. 11,000 per month.  But it is very less since I send my children to good schools.

Me: (Gaining control of me) I am so happy to meet you.  Please have some Payesh (Offered some payesh to him and his son)

Him: (After eating) Very tasty, Sudeshna ben. I want to take some for my daughter, she loves kheer.

I immediately packed some in a take-away container.

Him: But I will pay for this. Otherwise I will not accept.

Me: Okay.

He pays and departs. I am still left wondering and feeling a void within. I even forgot to take a picture together or share each other's cell numbers. I was shaken beyond words.
                                                                      ****

(After I had shifted to Gujarat from Barmer and before the birth of my first child, I had quit working. When my daughter was seven months old, I started searching for a job in Ahmedabad and landed myself with one in Sanchetana, a community health and research center, working in the urban slums of Ahmedabad. My posting was done in Khodiyar Nagar, a slum along the Sabarmati river of the city. It had roughly 2000 households.

We [I and my team of health workers (women identified and trained in Sanchetana as bare foot doctors)] were managing a clinic addressing issues ranging from worms to pneumonia to Tuberculosis to sexually transmitted diseases.  Initiating a library was certainly not my idea. It was a programme started to inculcate the habit of reading, to create a space within the busy and congested slum life for the youth and children so that they get a direction in life and spend time in a constructive manner. But we managed the library just like any other ‘activity’. The activity continued till the funds dried up.

We, meaning our breed of ‘social workers’ …. with a professional training in Social Work, often undertake activities in the name of development but mostly execute them to just ensure that the job has got done.  How many of us try to see the real impact that these well meaning but less known and less discussed activities have in the community at large? We should go back and look for the footprints that are long buried under the grime and neglect.

Currently, I am working in another NGO with superior infrastructure, surrounded by green luxuriant vegetation in the heart of the concrete city. I take pride in clicking the photos of the inetresting flora and fauna and posting them for others to ‘like’ and comment favourably.

That slum had nothing to offer to me as a work space other than a rented garage where we set up our clinic.  Every now and then the youth would turn their backs on us to pee on the wall facing the door.  Annu, our team mate, would give them a feast of words but they cared less. Every now and then, the yound men and boys would cluster in small circles to play cards. Every day in the morning, the street leading to our clinic would be welcoming me with fresh load of natural manure.  There were no toilets. Our clinic had one, specially made by the owner. I enjoyed my work in the slum, yet a part of me (the real, censored, hypocrite ‘me’) always desired to fly high…..to get associated with a better (read glamorous) and well paid work space…. that I can proudly flaunt to my friends and relatives and other associates.

I used to travel to the basti in local city buses and take a shuttle to the basti (slum).  My salary was measly and I curtailed the costs to the extent possible. I shared my travel space in the auto with three other women who were vegetable sellers, returning from the wholesale sabzi mandi held in Jamalpur everyday. Please do note that the time when I am reaching my work space, they are returning to their homes from work, at 10 in the morning. They have been working in the mandi since before day break, every day, braving adverse climatic conditions and rampant sexual abuse in the male dominated work station. I used to get head lice very often while I worked in the slums. Though I denied it out rightly, I must have detested this routine ordeal I subjected myself to. I also had dreams of riding to 'office' in personal vehicles and of a fat salary package…like any other ordinary mortal.

But this young man after so many years taught me that at least the work I was doing then was far more meaningful, had touched some lives (if not many) in some way that was more profound. I was much ahead then. Today while he flies high, where do I stand?)