Skip to main content

Pushing Out The Poor

When I came to live in the suburbs of Secunderabad 6 years ago, the place used to have all the old world charms of a very small town. Traffic was scanty and people had loads of time. "My Family Cafe" was round the corner and there used to be an old waiter who I fondly called Kaka who used to work during the day and live in a small room nearby. Kaka vanished some two years ago. There used to be a cobbler who used to run his business out of a one room shop quite close to my apartment. The shop is now a Air conditioned beauty parlor. The cobbler too disappeared a year ago. So did the cycle repair shop, the tiffin outlet and the ladies tailor. 

The small suburb is now a congested city with bike showrooms and super markets. The rentals have gone up and so has the cost of just about everything. The cities do not sustain the poor anymore. The poor fight for survival and then they disappear. Its almost Kafkaesque!. I have survived, but the poorer in my community have disappeared. If this is growth, I am not sure who is growing. If this is development, I sure don't want to know the cost. 

Some days, I remember Kaka, other days, I miss the cobbler.

Comments

  1. This is a description of many places in the world. Thanks.
    Jerral

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Hush

You don't have to tell me. I just know. Its that little sniffle that comes through The unexplained pauses The slow responses I know when you call Just because you needed to cry.

Long Winter Chill

If I could do a Neruda, You would have smelt of summer roses And Autumn pine. There would have been sheer love Of the kind that causes our hearts to ache And loneliness bordering the divine. You would have had so many secrets Welling up as in a girly giggle And so few friends who would hear them all. I am no Neruda I can't paint you a Summer breeze Amidst this long winter chill.

That Fluttering of Broken Wings

If you were to cross the road and hurt your toe, I know that I will never know. As we go on to take different roads and move on across different shores, there is something that happens to our relationships. Something that estranges, disconnects, disintegrates. I know that you still think of me. I know this because I find myself thinking about you. And thoughts rarely get seeded on their own. It comes from you to I and from I to you until one of us is alive. Old relationships rarely die. Like broken winged moths, they hang around dark alleys of forgotten memory lanes. Ever so often, I can hear one of them flutter its wings. Not too close but never too far.