Grounds caused a stir in
the bustees. The blue-and-white logo flying in the vicinity of the mud huts was an even more magical emblem than the trident
of the god Vishnu, creator of all things. To Eduardo Muñoz, that flag constituted a considerable victory. He had managed to
persuade the New Delhi authorities that Union Carbide should no longer have to rely on an Indian intermediary to formulate
its Sevin concentrate. It would be able to operate openly, under its own name. In New Delhi, as elsewhere in the world, international
big business invariably found its own ways and means.
As soon as the construction site opened, several tharagars laid siege to Belram Mukkadam’s teahouse. Carbide needed a workforce.
Candidates came running and soon the drink stall became a veritable job recruitment center. Among the tharagars, Ratna Nadar
recognized the man who had recruited him in Mudilapa to double the railway tracks. Ratna would have liked to have given him
a piece of his mind, let him know just how bitter and angry he was, shout out that the poor were sick of having others grow
fat from the sweat of their labor. But this was not the moment. He might have the undreamed of opportunity to work for the
American multinational.
“I pay twenty rupees a day,” the tharagar announced, exhaling the smoke from his bidi. “And I supply a helmet and cover-all,
and one piece of soap a week, too.”
It was a small fortune for men used to feeding their families on less than four rupees a day. In gratitude, they bowed to
wipe the dust from their benefactor’s sandals. Among them was the former leper, Ganga Ram. This would be the first job he
had managed to land since leaving the wing for contagious diseases at Hamidia Hospital.
The next day at six o’clock, led by Mukkadam, all the candidates presented themselves at the gateway to the building site.
The tharagar was there to check each worker’s employment document. When it came to Ganga Ram’s turn, he shook his head.
“Sorry, friend, but Carbide doesn’t take lepers,” he declared, pointing to the two stumps of finger that were awkwardly gripping
the sheet of paper.
Ganga Ram foraged in the waist of his lunghi for the certificate to show that he was cured. “Look, look, it says there, I’m
cured!” he implored, thrusting the paper under the tharagar’s nose.
The latter was inflexible. For Ganga Ram the opportunity to don one of Carbide’s coveralls would have to remain a dream.
That evening, those who had been fortunate enough to receive the blue linen uniform took it home with them. On the way, they
presented it to the god Jagannath whose image presided over a small niche at the corner of the alleyway. Sheela, Padmini’s
mother, laid her husband’s clothing at the deity’s feet, placing a chapati and some marigold petals sprinkled with sugar water
beside it.
A few days later, Belram Mukkadam’s chief informant brought a piece of news that restored the hopes of Ganga Ram and all the
others who had not been hired.
“This building site is just the thin end of the wedge,” announced Rahul, the legless cripple. “Soon, sahibs will be arriving
from America to build other factories and they’re going to pay wages higher than even Ganesh * could imagine.”
Rahul was one of the most popular characters in Orya Bustee. He traveled at ground level on a wheeled plank, which he propelled
with all the dexterity of a Formula 1 driver. With his fingers covered in rings, his long, dark hair carefully caught up in
a bun, his glass bead necklaces and his shirts with gaudy, geometric patterns, Rahul introduced a note of cheeky elegance
to the place. He was always abreast of any news, the slightest whisper of gossip. He was the Kali Grounds’ newspaper, radio
and magazine. His attractive looks, his smile and his generous disposition had earned him the nickname
“Kali Parade Ka Swarga dut”
—“the Angel of Kali Parade.”
That
the bustees. The blue-and-white logo flying in the vicinity of the mud huts was an even more magical emblem than the trident
of the god Vishnu, creator of all things. To Eduardo Muñoz, that flag constituted a considerable victory. He had managed to
persuade the New Delhi authorities that Union Carbide should no longer have to rely on an Indian intermediary to formulate
its Sevin concentrate. It would be able to operate openly, under its own name. In New Delhi, as elsewhere in the world, international
big business invariably found its own ways and means.
As soon as the construction site opened, several tharagars laid siege to Belram Mukkadam’s teahouse. Carbide needed a workforce.
Candidates came running and soon the drink stall became a veritable job recruitment center. Among the tharagars, Ratna Nadar
recognized the man who had recruited him in Mudilapa to double the railway tracks. Ratna would have liked to have given him
a piece of his mind, let him know just how bitter and angry he was, shout out that the poor were sick of having others grow
fat from the sweat of their labor. But this was not the moment. He might have the undreamed of opportunity to work for the
American multinational.
“I pay twenty rupees a day,” the tharagar announced, exhaling the smoke from his bidi. “And I supply a helmet and cover-all,
and one piece of soap a week, too.”
It was a small fortune for men used to feeding their families on less than four rupees a day. In gratitude, they bowed to
wipe the dust from their benefactor’s sandals. Among them was the former leper, Ganga Ram. This would be the first job he
had managed to land since leaving the wing for contagious diseases at Hamidia Hospital.
The next day at six o’clock, led by Mukkadam, all the candidates presented themselves at the gateway to the building site.
The tharagar was there to check each worker’s employment document. When it came to Ganga Ram’s turn, he shook his head.
“Sorry, friend, but Carbide doesn’t take lepers,” he declared, pointing to the two stumps of finger that were awkwardly gripping
the sheet of paper.
Ganga Ram foraged in the waist of his lunghi for the certificate to show that he was cured. “Look, look, it says there, I’m
cured!” he implored, thrusting the paper under the tharagar’s nose.
The latter was inflexible. For Ganga Ram the opportunity to don one of Carbide’s coveralls would have to remain a dream.
That evening, those who had been fortunate enough to receive the blue linen uniform took it home with them. On the way, they
presented it to the god Jagannath whose image presided over a small niche at the corner of the alleyway. Sheela, Padmini’s
mother, laid her husband’s clothing at the deity’s feet, placing a chapati and some marigold petals sprinkled with sugar water
beside it.
A few days later, Belram Mukkadam’s chief informant brought a piece of news that restored the hopes of Ganga Ram and all the
others who had not been hired.
“This building site is just the thin end of the wedge,” announced Rahul, the legless cripple. “Soon, sahibs will be arriving
from America to build other factories and they’re going to pay wages higher than even Ganesh * could imagine.”
Rahul was one of the most popular characters in Orya Bustee. He traveled at ground level on a wheeled plank, which he propelled
with all the dexterity of a Formula 1 driver. With his fingers covered in rings, his long, dark hair carefully caught up in
a bun, his glass bead necklaces and his shirts with gaudy, geometric patterns, Rahul introduced a note of cheeky elegance
to the place. He was always abreast of any news, the slightest whisper of gossip. He was the Kali Grounds’ newspaper, radio
and magazine. His attractive looks, his smile and his generous disposition had earned him the nickname
“Kali Parade Ka Swarga dut”
—“the Angel of Kali Parade.”
That
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