home.
His two other surviving sisters – Janeb and Fatima (the fifth died shortly after birth) – married well. Their husbands run a stone-necklace business in Crawford Market. ‘They are quite rich and have a good lifestyle.’ Unfortunately for Babu (and his parents), paternal care passes through the male not female line. The daughters’ obligations lie with their husband’s parents now; a belated adoption via marriage.
‘I have many mouths to feed,’ the boy from the slum says as we draw up to the hut where he took his first breath. ‘That’s why I never miss my duties.’
It brings the notion of ‘enterprise’ into sharp relief. India’s young entrepreneurs strive and struggle to create that highly prized thing called ‘value’. Babu works every hour to keep his dependents from starving. Hundreds of millions of industrious Indians are just the same.
Stooping beneath the low door-frame, we enter his parents’ home. The air is oven-hot and sprinkled thick with a dust of powdered sugar. His father is sitting cross-legged on a small, elevated bed in front of the door. The bed’s positioning is intentional, providing its invalid occupant with a view of the children playing outside. They are his sole entertainment. A wooden bracket stands bolted just above the door, enabling him to reach up with the crab pincer of his left hand and lever himself upright. White-haired and rickets-thin, Babu’s father (with his son’s help) has attempted to spruce up his woebegone appearance with a smartly trimmed goatee. The old man’s eyes brighten a fraction on registering our arrival. I spot kindness in them, or would like to think I do. I have no way of checking, however, for it is the only gesture of recognition that I can discern. He remains looking forward as we pass.
Babu’s mother, Jamila, is also sitting cross-legged, but on the concrete floor. She is chopping cauliflower. Dressed in a pale blue cotton sari with faded pink flowers, she looks crumpled and battle-worn. It’s impossible to conceive of Babu’s emaciated mother as a child bride, presumably young and hopeful once upon a time. Her salt-and-pepper hair is tied back in a bun. Metal bracelets rattle softly from her stick-like wrists, a close-at-hand reminder of a far-off wedding. She is making papad, picking out Styrofoam-like curls of dhal rice from an old biscuit tin and tossing them into a hot frying pan. The dehydrated food hisses and spits as it hits the sizzling oil, filling the room with a curious smell of fried onions and burning plastic.
The visit proves a dispiriting experience. Jamila offers gap-toothed smiles, yet says nothing. Mr Shaikh merely sits and stares blankly. Babu tries his best to lighten the mood and make me feel at home. He directs me to the room’s only chair, sends off the ten-year-old Soyab (who, in the fluid way of Indian relations, is identified as both his sister’s son and his cousin’s brother) to buy some Thums Up, and generally sees off the silence with his own brand of repartee. The latter focuses mostly on his mother’s dwindling health and his father’s toilet problems.
Feeling suddenly depressed at the grimness of it all, I look around for a distraction. My gaze settles on the room’s only decoration. It comes in the shape of a poster depicting a milky-white, rosy-cheeked baby. ‘Smile and the world smiles with you,’ the caption reads. The fresh-faced image almost seems cruel in its candied, blueberry-pie optimism. Babu’s mother follows my eye. She turns to her son and mutters a short muffled sentence, her first and last. ‘My mother says she is happy,’ he translates back to me, ‘but she is sad in the heart because all her children have gone.’ Gulping back my drink, I ask Babu if we might be best to leave his mother to her cooking. I’m not sure how much more I can take.
We exit through the back. The Shaikh residence differs fromBabu’s in having two rooms. It is not the exception. The hut
His two other surviving sisters – Janeb and Fatima (the fifth died shortly after birth) – married well. Their husbands run a stone-necklace business in Crawford Market. ‘They are quite rich and have a good lifestyle.’ Unfortunately for Babu (and his parents), paternal care passes through the male not female line. The daughters’ obligations lie with their husband’s parents now; a belated adoption via marriage.
‘I have many mouths to feed,’ the boy from the slum says as we draw up to the hut where he took his first breath. ‘That’s why I never miss my duties.’
It brings the notion of ‘enterprise’ into sharp relief. India’s young entrepreneurs strive and struggle to create that highly prized thing called ‘value’. Babu works every hour to keep his dependents from starving. Hundreds of millions of industrious Indians are just the same.
Stooping beneath the low door-frame, we enter his parents’ home. The air is oven-hot and sprinkled thick with a dust of powdered sugar. His father is sitting cross-legged on a small, elevated bed in front of the door. The bed’s positioning is intentional, providing its invalid occupant with a view of the children playing outside. They are his sole entertainment. A wooden bracket stands bolted just above the door, enabling him to reach up with the crab pincer of his left hand and lever himself upright. White-haired and rickets-thin, Babu’s father (with his son’s help) has attempted to spruce up his woebegone appearance with a smartly trimmed goatee. The old man’s eyes brighten a fraction on registering our arrival. I spot kindness in them, or would like to think I do. I have no way of checking, however, for it is the only gesture of recognition that I can discern. He remains looking forward as we pass.
Babu’s mother, Jamila, is also sitting cross-legged, but on the concrete floor. She is chopping cauliflower. Dressed in a pale blue cotton sari with faded pink flowers, she looks crumpled and battle-worn. It’s impossible to conceive of Babu’s emaciated mother as a child bride, presumably young and hopeful once upon a time. Her salt-and-pepper hair is tied back in a bun. Metal bracelets rattle softly from her stick-like wrists, a close-at-hand reminder of a far-off wedding. She is making papad, picking out Styrofoam-like curls of dhal rice from an old biscuit tin and tossing them into a hot frying pan. The dehydrated food hisses and spits as it hits the sizzling oil, filling the room with a curious smell of fried onions and burning plastic.
The visit proves a dispiriting experience. Jamila offers gap-toothed smiles, yet says nothing. Mr Shaikh merely sits and stares blankly. Babu tries his best to lighten the mood and make me feel at home. He directs me to the room’s only chair, sends off the ten-year-old Soyab (who, in the fluid way of Indian relations, is identified as both his sister’s son and his cousin’s brother) to buy some Thums Up, and generally sees off the silence with his own brand of repartee. The latter focuses mostly on his mother’s dwindling health and his father’s toilet problems.
Feeling suddenly depressed at the grimness of it all, I look around for a distraction. My gaze settles on the room’s only decoration. It comes in the shape of a poster depicting a milky-white, rosy-cheeked baby. ‘Smile and the world smiles with you,’ the caption reads. The fresh-faced image almost seems cruel in its candied, blueberry-pie optimism. Babu’s mother follows my eye. She turns to her son and mutters a short muffled sentence, her first and last. ‘My mother says she is happy,’ he translates back to me, ‘but she is sad in the heart because all her children have gone.’ Gulping back my drink, I ask Babu if we might be best to leave his mother to her cooking. I’m not sure how much more I can take.
We exit through the back. The Shaikh residence differs fromBabu’s in having two rooms. It is not the exception. The hut
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