If you've read any of my earlier posts, you'll know that I debate often. Having said that, I can safely say that from a logical, legal, constitutional or even moral standpoint, the "Sons of the Soil" debate as it exists in Maharashtra is pretty one-sided, at best. But I also know that for the people involved on either side of such movements, the matter is not one that lies in the rationality of the mind, but in the passion of the heart.
Not really being affected by the movement myself, my views on it were rather academic for a long time. One late Friday evening however, I got a closer look at one of those more directly affected by it.
"Your meter's not working." I told him soon after we'd left. Gauging by his reaction, this wasn't the first time this had happened.
"Oh it's gone off again, tch tch. Never mind, I'll restart it, that should set it straight."
"No thanks, I'd rather not travel in a rick with a faulty meter. Drop me at the gate, I'll pay you minimum till there" was my response.
"Arey nahin nahin. I'll take you sir, I will, just pay me whatever you see fit. Whatever your marzi is" he replied, reluctant to let go of a long distance customer.
"No, you'll create a fuss about it when we get there, I'd much rather avoid that, just drop me at the gate please."
"Theek hai sahib, but you can pay me whatever you want, seriously. The thing is I'm going that way myself, so if you don't come with me, there'll be an empty rickshaw travelling that way sir, where's the sense in that" he said, hardselling his ride. His eagerness was understandable. Since his meter was off key, he was unlikely to find anyone to ride in his rickshaw . He didn't want to let go of the one possible customer.
"Ok, I'll pay you a hundred and ten" I told him, rationalising that it was difficult enough to find autos headed that far and that it was silly to let go of this one.
"Sir, bas ek sau das? (Just a hundred and ten?) It's really far sir, hundred and ten won't even make my fuel cost." he argued.
"What? I travel this route everyday and it rarely goes over hundred-hundred and five. I'm paying you on the higher side. Besides, didn't you just say any rate would be good with you? Screw it, this is exactly the kind of fuss I didn't want to get into, drop me at the gate."
"No no sir, no, I'll take you, don't worry about it. Whatever rate you say is fine."
There was a moment's silence before he started again.
"But don't you think hundred and ten is a bit low sir?"
"Drop me at the gate!" I replied, determined to end this.
"No no sir, it's ok, relax. Aap toh naraaz ho gaye (You're getting angry unnecessarily)" he said with a twinkle.
The ride was long and potentially boring. Thankfully, he started to make conversation. He was chatty too, as you might have gauged by now. He told me plenty about himself soon enough.
His name was Shiva. Not his real name, his real name was longer and much more tedious. He was called Shiva by his friends because of his devotion to Lord Shiva. Hailing from U.P., he was a proper bhaiyya and made no attempt to hide it. Said he couldn't even if he wanted to.
To quote him verbatim, "Bhaiyyon ko toh koi bhi pehchan sakta hai sir, ismein kya chhupaein (Anyone can recognise a bhaiyya sir, now what is the point in trying to hide it)"
Like so many other Bhaiyyas, he lived here without his family. His wife and younger brother were back in a village near Aligarh while he lived and earned for them here. Soon, however, I found out something I hadn't expected.
"Sir I want my brother and my wife to be educated. Which is why I'm here, so that they have enough money for their fees and sustenance. If my brother becomes padha likha, then he won't have to become a rickshaw-wala like me sir, and my wife can be a teacher......and then I can go back to farming in my village." That was his plan in a nutshell.
"Waise toh I'm also twelfth pass, but a twelfth pass in U.P. can't make enough money to educate his family sahib, you know that" he added as he deftly cut ahead of an SUV.
There was a little silence before he spoke again. "Saab, you're from itna badaa college, people who graduate from your college must be getting twenty thousand a month aaram sey right?"
I looked at the guy as he said this. I'd spoken to auto drivers before and I knew that those who owned their own rickshaws (the ones in white) made no more than Rs. 400 a day. Those who didn't (the ones wearing the brown uniforms, like Shiva) earned about half of that. And now this man who toiled about twelve hours a day for that kind of money was asking me a question. An uncomfortable question. He was asking me if people from my college started off by earning about twenty thousand a month for sitting in an air-conditioned office and crunching numbers. What could I say? I didn't have the heart to tell him the truth. I couldn't. I couldn't tell him that virtually everyone earned a lot more. No one, in fact settled for that less. What could I say? The unfairness of life was staring at me through the rear-view mirror of that rickshaw, with a questioning smile upon its face, waiting for my answer.
So I lied. "Yes," I told him, "they get twenty thousand."
He seemed satisfied. "When my brother makes it here, he'll also be just like you sahib. They'll pay him twenty thousand sahib, twenty thousand!"
He fell silent again, lost in thought it seemed. Then he pulled out his cellphone and looked at me, "Sir, can you speak to my brother for a minute. It will be really nice if someone who has been to college can give him some advice. If you don't mind sir, he will really like it."
Rather awkward about speaking to his brother so arbitrarily, yet recognising that he really wanted me to, I had a two minute conversation with Shiva's younger brother. Somewhat relieved when it was over, I handed the phone back to him and assured him that his kid brother would do well.
The ride was over soon after and he did ultimately convince me to pay him a little more than a hundred and ten. Thinking about it all later that night, I couldn't help but think there was something remarkably noble about what the man was doing. Living so far away from home and family, saving up every penny so he could educate them and give them a better future. A less than educated man who knew the value of education, even for women. Working day and night in the heat, dust and smoke to support his people.
In a city that becomes more and more about oneself and the selfish quest for personal luxuries, Shiva is different and his goals more noble. This gentle bear of a man, with his pants falling a little short of his heels and his brown shirt a little tight across the tummy, he goes about his business like a silent old-fashioned hero, stoic and determined. He works hard, puts his family before himself and prays for a better tomorrow. Is there more that constitutes a real man?
Sadly, it is people like Shiva who are being beaten up on the streets everyday and threatened with worse if they don't leave the city. I don't know if Shiva is crowding the city or if he's stealing jobs, or even if he should be allowed to. I do know, however, that his presence bathes the city in a gentle, more benevolent light. And for the life of me, I can't think of a single soil that would not be proud to have him as her son.
