EUNOIA

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. 

EUNOIA

HAUS KHAS DEER PARK

Every city has lungs. Large open green spaces that belong to the people and Delhi is no different. Not many stops on the Metro from the centre of New Delhi is Haus Khas Deer Park. Whilst it only muffles the honking horns of the busyness around it, the space opens and is relaxing.

Within the park are large enclosed pens filled with herds of spotted deer. Healthy specimens, wandering in search of edibles, they spectate in wait, as much as are observed. There are groups sitting on the bare ground soaking the sun which has managed to penetrate the upper layers this afternoon. Shallow is the heat but if located in one space, absorption occurs. Bucks are annoying toppled trees scraping the winter fuzz off their horns. They are aggressive in this pursuit, almost side by side, winning against their inanimate foe.

There are trees a plenty, of various kinds, all manicured to the same height within the enclosure. It looks as if well tendered by passionate horticulturists though the sheers are grinding teeth and the height set by the tallest deer. Peacock, resplendent with rich colour, and hens roam around finding treasure as they do. The light hits and vibrancy shines briefly until movement takes them from the source.

The ground is sandy and barren, obviously torn with hooves as they pace around the pens. Adjoining enclosures are opened allowing movement from one to the other. The ground within the park is hardened, though there are runs of green grass still evident away from the tree trunk. These are teased by the long stick brooms of the sweepers worrying away daily debris and any humus that might reach the ground. Small piles are created to later be set alight adding to the translucent light that shrouds Delhi.

Lovers, seated on cold steel benches, enact their ritual of closeness, obscured by their openness, occupy every available seat. Those beyond lovesickness are shrouded with shawls spread on the ground, and over them, either chatting or catching forty. All reside within a window of light. Along the pathway mothers with children gawk at the deer, mothers trying desperately to keep them distracted a little longer move to where a deer has wandered close to the fencing. In tow, respectfully withdrawn, the laden silent servant awaits the next decision, likely to produce a smorgasbord of snacks and drink on demand.

Among the trees there is a flurry of activity as squirrels jostle for food, investigating, unafraid of the presence of people. The crow's caw bellows to others around the park as if a conversation is occurring and the Indian minors peck around the grass. Willy wagtails are busy in and out of the lantana cover and a family of angry looking apostle birds hunt together. A puppy is worrying all and a crow makes a swoop which does not deter. Dogs a plenty are sunning selves laid prone rather than curled. A pink ringed neck lime green parrot is not camouflaged in the lantana as it seeks seed. A shrill cry and a dash of green, gone.

A park patron, draped in a deep pink and green flowered sari, wrapped in a dark green woollen shawl, performs her daily temple kindness. She carries a plastic bag filled with soft greens and stops to feed the deer who throng for a share. The plastic bag is reduced to a ball and hidden somewhere beneath the colour for tomorrow's visit. Her temple obeisance complete for the day, her walk continues.

A rustle in the hillock of lantana, different from the rest, reveals an urchin collecting twigs and small branches. She has a small bundle atop her head somehow managing not to disentangle and collapse into separateness. Another figure and a further follow with larger burdens. These urban tribals are collecting firewood for their daily needs, a chore which might take the better part of daylight hours, and this is happening within sanctuary. Another layer of pruning. The trees have not been decimated as they could. Somewhere a silent permission has been granted and some recompense paid. Collection over. In all five emerge, heads held high, balancing their heavy loads, in procession down the path and through the gates, out into the street.

EUNOIA

WASHING DAY

The usual radiant heat of the sun has abandoned the day again. The daily winter fight through the  cloud cover and smog is unresolved yet it is washing day.  On the pedestrian path outside a well patronised coffee and snacks establishment, just off Palika Bazaar park, a displaced family occupies space ; a charpoi ( a bed frame string with tape and multipurpose ) , chulha ( traditional wood burning small stove ) , a pot and bulging plastic bags are the meagre possession of the family along with some empty rice sacks, multi purpose, and blanket.

                

Several mangey dogs of good temper linger in the hope of scraps. They follow their tail around in circles as if looking for a soft and comfortable warm spot on the paving stones and tenderly curl themselves into a ball. Separated by a large tree near the entrance to the pedestrian underpass mum is crouched facing a step giving an earful to four small urchins crouched on it in front of her. They are dressed sparingly, less then one would expect for the temperature until the vision expands to the pedestrian railing adjoining the busy street. On the spiked iron posts hangs larger items of clothing. A coral reef of sari hangs over metres, shirts and trousers on others. This explains the ragamuffins. It is their turn.

It is bath and clothes washing day. I think it is as arbitrary a decision as any other day. Perhaps they have heard rain is on its way. Mum has in front of her a recycled building site bucket as well as a ten litre cooking oil wide mouthed container and another smaller one. A couple of cut plastic water bottles finish the laundry and washing space. A flat stone sits at an angle against the step and the clothes are whetted, scraped and bashed. Water is a premium. I cannot see any ready source which means it has travelled and will be used sparingly. Some detergent is being used. It is powerful, I know from experience as I soak my socks overnight and it always manages to bring out another layer of dye.

The children are patient. Obviously bath time is after the washing. They just niggle each other in their squat posture with a reproach every now and then. Each is responsible for hanging items of clothing along the lower section of the partition. The waste water slowly runs away towards holes in the hardened dirt around the tree. I have seen movement but until now did not realise this was a family of rats, their home under threat water damage. In the distance, crouched under a motorbike, I spy a ginger cat. It is on the hunt, though I do not think there is a lack of food as there are holes everywhere. The small squirrels scurry up and down the tree trunk along the limbs in what looks like a game of tag.

Washing process completed and clothes hanging, attention is now given to the urchins who are scoured with as much care as the clothes. The children use the nit comb on each other carefully searching for evidence to squash.

On the charpoi, what initially looked like cloth and a blanket stirs. Slowly but surely the structure unfolds and an older woman's face appears.  She has a small bundle snugly encased in her bosom. A little face pokes out, the smallest member of the family.