Being Homeless

Ever wondered how does it feel to be homeless? No, no…not in that existential sense of the term, where NRIs (Non-Resident Indians) lament being miles and miles away from their matra bhumi. The coinage actually should be fatherland. I am saying this with malice, lot of malice, as feminism is just an “ism” left in the hands of a few intellectuals to be practiced, according to their convenience. After all, masculinity is the order of the day. But, then again I love men.

When I take up the subject of homeless, I am talking about it in the real sense of the term. Being homeless, without a roof over your head in a big city like Bangalore, that too when you are a relatively new entrant, without any family or friend to bail you out of the crisis. And, yes, here you are a typical middle-class Indian woman, who generally thinks haazar times before checking into a hotel room alone, and, of course, with little money in hand. Then, it is no good.

Moreover, you cannot join the squatters on the narrow alleys of Brigade Road at night. You can find quite a sizable number of them, especially after 11pm, when the traffic wraps up its day in a narrowing tizzy. They are in all age groups, children, breastfeeding mothers, middle-aged lepers and in what not deformities, shaking your mental inertia sarcastically. The best thing is that in spite of their countless inabilities, they are open-hearted, generous and courteous, even welcoming a complete stranger into their fold. Guests matter a lot to them too.

But then, fear, that chilling maddening fear, what if they eat my fleshy body in moments of desperate hunger? After all, they are all hungry and naked souls.

The breastfeeding mother sitting in the corner of a pavement told me to be careful at night on Brigade Road. She confessed that her infant, too ,has stopped trusting her. In spite of his repeated attempts to find warm milk in her young breasts, all he tastes is disappointment, evident as he looks helplessly at his mother. Mild dose of blood can be always seen oozing out of her breasts, as the baby accidentally bites her flesh in the hope of food, but unfortunately his hunger gets aggravated.

The boy smirks at the taste of blood. He demands for milk, which his mother cannot afford. Throughout the day, she keeps her blouse unbuttoned in the hope that her infant finds some food in her. Thus her deep brown pair of breasts is always at the mercy of public viewing, scrutiny and at times squeezing too. A mother’s small, firm breasts hardly understand the meaning of any purdah system, Indian women since ages have followed without ever questioning it.

The chilling December wind slowly coagulates the blood, circling around her nipples due to non-stop suckling. It looks as if the nipples are wearing red rings chiseled out of blood around it. The little one looked nervous. He stared at me with his big rotund eyes, shining bright within the structure of his dust- washed face. He looked older than his self, much older. He who refuses to get down from the lap of his mother knows that poverty denies you the milk of your life too. A primitive right of having mother’s milk, as old as human existence goes.

Even after encountering such horror, I still could not muster up the courage to go back home, just 10 kms apart, which I left only in the morning, never to go back. Leaving your home can never be easy. It was not easy for me as well. But, when you pack your suitcase, and the rest of the inmates at your home make your existence look meaningless, you march ahead, to fill some sense into your senses, and find out what deeper meaning life holds for you.

So, you decide to sit on the pavement, next to a huge mall, mulling what tomorrow’s newspaper headlines would scream about. Dazzling with stars, the vast sky suddenly transforms into the figure of a roof over your head. Under the huge, unending roof, you feel a sense of pride for owning so much in a world, where you have been denied almost everything. Perhaps, this is the same sense of pride beggars and the homeless of Brigade Road flashes at you. They are the owner of the night sky. Tonight I share some space with them. I am honoured.

Morning takes it own time to wake up, before it becomes all bright and sunny. Suddenly, all that you saw and encountered the night before disappears. You find yourself cuddled in the bed with your loved one in your home. Doorbell rings the arrival of the newspaper. It carries the same old front page stories --- business merger of an IT giant with a well-known European behemoth, a Kannada starlet gets engaged, and prices of vegetables soaring.

The briefcase reads, bodies of a woman in her early 20s and an infant were found in the middle of Brigade Road by the police on late Monday night. The body of the baby boy was found next to the woman suspected to be his mother. Injury marks were found on the woman’s body and the baby’s mouth was smeared with blood. Both the bodies were taken to Bowring Hospital for further medical investigation. Police are awaiting the postmortem report to find the truth behind the deaths.