Kaka And Keema, And Clever Monkeys
I recently find myself in Mumbai, India, a city I visit frequently. I’ve been visiting it since it was called Bombay, a bindas, badass city, where I, strangely, feel at home within the densely populated island, where nearly 22 million people live, packed tight, in relative harmony. Imagine, that this is more than the population of many countries. It is a melting pot of India, where I can meet people of every caste and religion of this great country. A country where shoes are priced at US$950 at some ‘brand’ outlets malls, and a union minister suggests that inhaling cow dung smell is a sure cure for respiratory ills, even cancer, and this makes headline news in a prominent news channel.
It was a redeye flight, so my eyes burn from lack of sleep. Not helping is a defiant case of sciatica in my right bum and leg that is killing me by the time I make it to the immigration counter. A dark, hefty Maharashtrian with a mustache resembling a massive caterpillar smiles at me, except the worm hides his teeth.
Good morning, he replies to my greeting perkily, and why are you visiting India?
Eh? That question catches me by surprise. This is the first time I have been asked this question visiting India since I acquired the OCI card years ago. I feel a sudden rash, reckless ire at the question. The OCI card he is looking at gives me the right to visit India anytime, so why the moot query? Perhaps the intense pain in my butt has me in a pissed, reckless mood?
I’ve come to visit my third wife, Sirjee. I impulsively and recklessly say and immediately regret it. The guy’s eyes narrow, and he tilts his head to one side as he considers my immaturity. I brace for denial to enter India. But he shakes his head after a while, and the worm on his lips stretches into a broad smile, his lips well hidden by the dense shrub.
You people, he says, shaking his head. He proceeds to process my entry and stamps my passport with much gusto. I flee towards the exit, the relief in me making me almost run – to hell with the pain in my butt.
Sarfaraz, the driver, is waiting at arrivals, and we go for breakfast. Just outside the airport, on a main road, are several grimy hole-in-the-wall cafes catering to any craving for food I may fancy. I’ve had some of the best keema-pav at Anwar Restaurant, a tiny dubious place with four wobbly tables that emit a sour odor of dank mildew. Sarfaraz, the able driver he is, negotiates an impossible parking spot, and we head to eat. It rained heavily last night, so the short walk is messy, with puddles of murky water making me tread carefully. Then, I see it, a neat, undisturbed pile of kaka, right in front of a man frying a batch of crispy-looking bajeeya. My mind recoils in repulsion, and my stomach heaves. Then I see the next pile, and another, and I hurriedly try to retreat, but Sarfaraz firmly propels me forward, and the moment passes. It feels surreal; I’m not a mile away from a vast, modern airport, on a main road, in the commercial capital of India, to see such shocking and vile filth. The keema does not taste as good as last time.
After ironing out the kinks of CAI’s latest housing project in India, the construction of an apartment complex for 64 homeless families with a modern 2-room home, I head to Dhaka, Bangladesh, with Aliakber Ratansi in tow. From Dhaka, it’s a short hop to Cox’s Bazaar, where CAI has been caring for 122 orphaned Rohingya refugees for the last seven years and providing about 40,000 people with potable water.
Apart from the current strife in the Middle East, I know no people more trampled or oppressed than the Rohingya refugees languishing in the squalor camps outside Cox’s Bazar. These hapless people live in a 15×10 foot home, 10 to 15 individuals in a shack. This open-plan hovel is a bedroom, living room, kitchen, and dining room. There is no power, running water, inbuilt toilets, bathrooms, or sewerage. The temperature in the hovel is never under 30ºC and tops at about 45ºC – 113ºF in peak summer. It’s incomprehensible how the womenfolk cook in them. The lanes outside become treacherous muddy swamps when it rains, and it pours nine months annually. Every visit to these people is a trauma that affects my temperament and appetite for days afterward.
It is impossible to remember the names of all the circa 950 orphans that CAI has under active care worldwide. But I remember almost all their faces over these years as they transitioned from mere children when they joined to their current adolescent years. I see varied emotions in the depth of every one of their eyes – hope, a yearning, and pain. They, too, want to be free, attain knowledge, and prosper on the other side of the equation…like the rest of us? No matter what I say to them, how much I encourage them to be their best and transfer my psychological strength to them, I can see they are unconvinced. They know that they have reached a dead-end. The host country mandates they cannot continue their education beyond grade five, gain employment beyond the enforced fences, open a bank account, travel, or own property…to be free. They were persecuted, abused, their womenfolk violated, maimed, and or killed. Yes, they are safe from persecution by governments, but they are no better than walking corpses.
The needs at the camps are too many for CAI to meet unilaterally, and I feel so utterly impotent listening to their pleas. From the lack of a safe sewerage system, insecure bamboo homes, and naked children frolicking among the filthy lanes in the squalor camp, the images from the short steamy hours of tour at Camp 4 and 8 burn into my psychological well-being throughout the stay in Cox’s Bazaar, back to Dhaka the next day and on to our Sirsi projects in UP, India via New Delhi.
Sirsi has a massive school and 160 homes for the homeless, all sponsored by CAI. I’m here for a compliance visit and to ensure the homes are being taken decent care of. This village setting has unique issues; clever monkeys are one – hordes of them. They discovered some loose screws in the iron guard that protects the sole air-conditioner. So, they unscrewed them, ripped out the compressor, and took off; the AC sits useless. It is the beginning of winter here, so the evenings are okay, but the peak temperature is 34ºC – 93ºF today, so it is steamy and humid in the room I’m keying this Blog in.
Please click here for images of squalor camps 4 and 8, the orphanage school, and the potable water system at Cox’s Bazar, all sponsored by worldwide donors of CAI, USA.