Smaller denominations

AT first glance it was a somewhat comical story. A group of a hundred beggars was on a dharna outside the Deputy Commissioner's offices in Giridih. They were rattling their begging bowls and shouting slogans that they would not like to receive alms. They told the Commissioner that he should either issue instructions to good Samaritans that they give alms in coins of larger denominations, or tell the local shopkeepers that they must accept 10 and 20 paise coins. The shopkeepers, they said, had told them, when they (the beggars) went to them to buy their meagre rations in the evening, that the banks would not accept the coins and so they would not either. The Deputy Commissioner checked with the banks and told the beggars that it was not true and that there was no ban on accepting small change.

Obsessed as we are with mega-dreams of mega bucks and globalised exchanges, how many of us have, of late, thought of small change and smaller matters that still go on to become questions of life and death among the poor and the marginalised in our country?

Given the innate convolutions of global money and the e- revolution, the way the urban educated (read the privileged and the rich) think about the poor, is bound to be convoluted. Generally, it is believed that the richer people become, the easier it will be, theoretically, for them to share it with those who have been left behind. But in practice, the richer people become in developing nations, at least, the less they wish to stay in touch with the realities of life at the bottom of the ladder. The more they are excited about their own prospects, the less concerned they become about the lack of prospects in someone else's life. Poverty does not lead them to search their souls. It only makes them angry. This is nothing new. Family elders can recount dozens of stories about the lavish lives led by our princes and zamindars in the early 20th Century, while the poor were dying of plague, cholera or famine right outside their gates, like flies. And how when the Maharaja's Sawari came out of the palace gates, the bodies were whisked away and heaped elsewhere.

Today, India has left the Hindu rate of growth behind. Assisted by an indulgent Government, the software industry is raking in billions of dollars. It is striking how much less talk there is in our pink dailies about the problems in the Public Distribution System. If there is news about rollback it does not involve the PDS, only the ICE. Two decades ago, when the country was economically much more uncertain, there was a greater desire to see how disparities could be removed. Today, there is a marked social and imaginative divide between the policy makers who represent the interests of prosperous urban India, and those may have voted them in but are largely left out.

Periodically, high society feels vaguely bad about the poor, but to them they live some place else, usually in illegal jhuggis. And even though the rich are quick to find loopholes in various tax laws for themselves, they do not wish the poor to break housing laws and live close to their houses as squatters. For them, charity begins with vague charitable institutions, which can be contacted by mail. It does not begin at home.

One such category of the forgotten is prostitutes, whom we have recently begun to refer to as "sex-workers" who must be given legal status. Don't we smudge the ugly outlines of their lives and lump them conveniently with the safe and invisible mass of other casual labourers who earn their daily living through work that gives them dignity if not equal wages?

This columnist recently met a group of ageing sex-workers in Calcutta. They have been hired by various non-government organisations to spread awareness about HIV/AIDS among other fellow sex-workers in red-light areas of the city. "We know we are marked women, Ma," Hashi, one of them, said. "The Rakkhos (demon) is going to enter all of us one day or another. We may refuse five customers who refuse to use condoms, but the sixth we will have to take on days when we have no money for the evening meal. It is not that we do not know about unsafe sex. But the fire in the belly has to be satisfied, doesn't it. There is too much competition from young housewives who moonlight in our areas as 'flying sex-workers'. By the time we open our shops in the evening, most customers have been satisfied and we are left haggling with rickshaw pullers and head-loaders who know nothing about AIDS and HIV and do not wish to practise safe sex."

How about medical help?

"We go to the local Haturey (quack) doctor for minor health problems and some real doctors for big ones. "The real ones have also increased their fees with the times, Ma. They charge Rs. 35 for one visit. Then there are the sulpha medicines that cost so much money. With our kind of work we have to see the doctor at least twice a month. We have no regular hours, no times for meals. If we are eating our first meal and a customer comes, we quickly leave the rice uneaten, wash hands and take him in. Who knows when we will get another one? All of us suffer from white discharge, flatulence and a lack of blood.

Tonics? Do not make us laugh. None of us have husbands. If we had, would we be here? But what we have are children and relatives asking for money each time they visit us. To them the Sonagachhi is paved with gold!" Razia spat as she spoke.

"Government hospitals are for the rich only," Poonti from Orissa added. "When the doctors and nurses see us, they make a face as if we are bringing them death. They poke needles into our arms like a lance. They think we are not human but animals."

"Have you seen any cases of full blown AIDS?"

The twenty odd women exchange glances. "Yes Ma," Hashi says sadly, "first our music teacher's husband died. He was such a good man too. We took care of him when no one else would. Didi, his wife, still teaches us. We got her checked again and again. She is safe."

"Then there was that girl ...," Sunaina reminds them. "Yes yes," says Hashi. "Her husband was (HIV) positive, picked it up from Mumbai. He infected her, then left her with her parents and ran away. The villagers told them all to leave, so someone contacted us. We brought her and admitted her to hospital. The doctors asked us to take care of her. Poor thing. We all took turns to sit by her bedside and when she died we women bought polythene, wrapped her body and cremated her at Neemtolla. We visit her mother sometimes. She loves us very much and welcomes us like daughters. I will never forget what you did for my daughter," she tells us.

A few years ago, whenever we heard about the exploitation of prostitutes, we started discussing preventive laws. But the current politics of wealth and poverty is seemingly about wealth alone. So we talk more of "safe sex" for customers and routine (legally) mandatory check-ups for HIV/AIDS for, "sex-workers" so that "normal" people may not get it. Ten odd years ago when Rajiv Gandhi's Government released the National Perspective Plan for women; and Shramshakti, the report on women in the informal sector, we talked about making invisible women workers visible, about amending and strengthening the laws against immoral trafficking. SITA (Suppression of Immoral Traffic Act) was born replacing the older PITA (Prevention of Immoral Trafficking Act).

With all the advances in communication technology, it is striking how much less serious discussion there is today, about the world of the really poor and the marginalised.

In the media, among non-government organisations, what is happening is partly a logical, policy driven reaction. AIDS and poverty are a definite threat to the subcontinent, especially to women. The most attractive solution to this - a certain blueprint of globalised and growing market economy - is being applied. The people who do not fit into it, such as the beggars of Giridih or the middle aged prostitutes of Sonagachhi, are left out. The migration of the old people and rural workers to cities are problems for which the new economy has no immediate solution. When policy makers and specialists in the areas do talk about solutions, they talk analytically and long term: working women's hostels, special boarding schools for children of "sex workers", development of work skills, shifts in the labour market, adjustments in the PDS schemes.

And Hashi, Razia and Poonti worry about the next meal.

Prosperous India is not hostile to its poor and the marginalised. It constantly stages fashion shows, marathons and demonstrations to collect funds for eradicating AIDS, for opening schools for street children and closing down massage parlours. But it does not want to live next to the poor. Their sight depresses and angers it. It is willing to read articles and novels about them, but it just does not want to see their haunting forms limp across to its cars and gates when the street light is turned inconveniently red.

MRINAL PANDE

The author writes in Hindi and

English and is a freelance journalist.

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