Halaat Bau Kharaab Che…
I try to go for maghribein salaat at the Khoja mosque whenever I am in Dar. It is a chance for me to recite salaat jamia and also meet a few acquaintances. I happen to bump into a distant cousin I haven’t met in quite some time, so I’m happy to see him. But before I can salutate him, he looks up, realizes it’s me, frowns, and quips:
Aree Kisukaali, halaat bau kharaab che, paisa nathi – Loosely translated – My financial situation is bad, I don’t have money.
Asking for funds from him is not remotely on my mind, but that’s okay, I’m not offended. Listening to these asinine remarks from the unschooled is part of my role with CAI. Yet, I see him with his extended family at an upscale restaurant the following evening. Things must be rough indeed.
A Kick In the Nuts
I’m in Mumbai, India, on my way to inspect several homes in Sirsi, UP, that CAI donors have sponsored for the homeless. Sarfaraz, the driver, takes me to Bhindi Bazaar so I can shop for an inexpensive cover for my new cellphone. It’s mid-morning, and the summer heat and humidity are building up. The omnipresent reek of sewer greets me as I navigate the filthy lanes full of litter towards the shops, my eyes on the lookout for predictable dog and goat poo-poo that I want to avoid stepping on at all costs. Dogs are part of the background all over India, and because it’ll be Eid soon, all the shanty lanes across the country will have wandering goats feeding on litter and pooping non-stop.
Sarfaraz’s young friend sells me a decent-looking glass protector and case for Rs. 300 (about US$4), which will eventually retail for at least ten times the price in the malls. While he preps my purchase, I study my surroundings. A pot-bellied man does a brisk job of selling fried pakoras topped with a fiery green chutney from a makeshift cart not too far away. The aroma of the pakora mixes with that of the sewer and fills the alley with shifting smells, and my belly rumbles in response, since I haven’t had breakfast yet. I’m about to ask Sarfaraz if it’s safe for me to order some when the guy frying the stuff stops shifting the pakora balls around in the bubbling cooking oil, pulls out a dubious-looking hanky, and vehemently blows his nose, then admires the harvest, his expression looking seemingly satisfied. He then wipes his face, lips, and fingers with the same rag and parks it away in his pant pocket. My hunger pains disappear in an instant, and I look away.
At the end of another alley, a hefty teenager attired like a wannabe Bollywood actor creeps up on an unsuspecting animal feeding on leaves from a nearby shrub, raises a booted foot, and viciously kicks the poor goat in its ample hanging crown jewels. The poor animal lets out a pained howl and hobbles away in agony while the teenager and his two other friends hoot away in cruel laughter. Several of the business owners shout at them and want to trash them for their brutality, but they have nimble feet and are gone in seconds. The urge to run after them and malign their testes is strong, but the entire Bhindi Bazaar is a massive chawl that will be no match for me.
The Homeless Widow
CAI has constructed over 1,500 homes for the homeless and destitute across India since 1996. Preference is given to widows with young children and single women. So, I am here in Sirsi to lay the ground for another 100 homes planned for 2025/2026.
Sirsi is located in Uttar Pradesh, approximately a five-hour drive from Delhi, a journey that can be frustrating and maddening. The vetting process of gifting a home is tedious and requires stamina and strong compassion that very few individuals possess. One such individual is Aliakber Ratansi (AKR), someone I’ve known for over 27 years. He visits every applicant in the filth, stench, and overcrowded alleyways – I am accompanying him today.
It’s 45°C (113°F), and my energy is already sapped; I can feel the onset of a head cold. The widow lives deep in a maze of ragged alleys, where open nullahs of excrement line both sides; the air is vile with the stench of the sewer. I control my instinct to barf as I follow AKR to the new home. The house CAI has built for her is 230 square feet and accommodates nine individuals – the widow, her three children, three brothers, and a sister. It has two tiny, tiled rooms, a tiled floor, a washroom with water supply, and a small kitchen. That’s it. The entire family sleeps on the floor. Her dwelling before CAI constructed this house was a dilapidated hovel with a dirt floor, a tin roof that leaked and flooded it for months, and a communal washroom about 300 meters away.
The widow is overwhelmed by the home and continues to pray for the donors, us, and everything else under the sky nonstop. In a few years, when her eldest daughter reaches marriageable age, the rishtey she’ll get will depend on the house she lives in. Sad, but a reality, nevertheless. These are the moments I live for: seeing someone’s life, especially that of a vulnerable woman, transformed.
Thank you, Lord.