THE AMPHITHEATRE

Opposite the Connaught Place Police Station, a newer multi-storey facade structure which is angularly embellished with stone exuding little warmth, is a small amphitheatre. In contrast, this structure, is made of red cut stone blocks and brick. It is open with borrowed archeologically dated  emple statues, as decoration, placed either side of the staircases leading to the top. The amphitheatre is not tall and designed, most likely, for intimate public performance and display. 

It must have served this designed life at some stage but I suspect not for some time. The back, which faces the Police Precinct, is a urinal by the telltale stains and malicificent ammonic odour stinging the nostrils. 

The staircases are equally stained. A pool of water sits at the bottom step slowly seeping through the blocks of stone. A small garden flourishes on either side of the amphitheatre with trimmed and topiaried shrubs growing in compounded soil. They must be finding nourishment within as there is no sign of compost, fertiliser or the like around or atop. The dirt has been swept clean by a sweepers brush broom.

This belies the top platform of the theatre which has now become home to the displaced and homeless. Carefully organised are an arrangement of differently sized recycled plastic containers perform various household needs. A plastic sheet half covers plastic bags filled with belongings and another is on the stone pavement. A figure is asleep covered by a tartan pattern blanket, greens and reds half under a three wheeler disability bike. This bike is operated by hand rather than foot pedals, with two rear wheels and one front, similar to the cycle rickshaws. Overhead is a well worn green plastic canopy offering some cover atop I'll proportioned tall upright stakes secured with torn saris to the framework.

How this transport arrived at the top is be a mystery. Much effort was expounded by a few to achieve this. The vehicle is strewn with clothing, airing or drying. Further towards the stairs are two women, grooming, with a telltale hunch, one over the other, nit picking. This is the scourge of the homeless. Two figures, one draped in maroon and the other an aqua shawl, occupy minimal space in this cold external temporary abode. 

Water has been draining down the stairs from the kitchen arrangement at the top. A small wood burning stove still glowers with a small pot beside and some cups. Various sized clear plastic drinking water bottles are repurposed and filled with murky looking water.

It is unclear how many family members reside in this space but, odds on, they are out making money in whatever form they are able. Someone must stay and guard the open home and its’ possessions from the stake claimers, the monkeys and the rubbish pickers. The police station attendants pay no heed. The shopkeepers are tolerant. There is not much that can happen. They might only have a few days before they are herded up in trucks and further displaced, outside the city precincts. Republic Day is approaching. The visual clearing happens every now and then yet the homeless return, in time, and reclaim public space and vie for a living central address.