Invisible: The drunkard near Yelahanka Liquor shop

Today, I saw him standing beside the liquor store again, begging for assistance. He's the same alcoholic whom most of us in this part of Yelahanka encounter daily but usually disregards. He's a frail, dark, and short man clad in dirty clothes, constantly present in this area from early morning to evening. When I first met him five or six years ago, I took pity on him. I would frequently offer him a few rupees until the day I realised he was spending all the money he collected on alcohol. That's when I stopped giving him money. Despite my decision, he continued to pester me over the years. During this period, I also created many drawings and paintings of him. As an artistic obligation, I would compensate him for his liquor money. As the years passed, his alcoholism appeared to take a severe toll on him, evident in the deterioration of his physical health.

Today, just a few minutes ago, I reencountered him, standing by the liquor shop and begging. He appeared as though he hadn't eaten since yesterday morning. Apart from battling his liquor addiction, the lockdown also affected him. After approximately five years of seeing him on the streets, I decided to speak to him in my rudimentary Kannada to inquire about his food situation. He confirmed my suspicion that he hadn't eaten since yesterday morning. I gave him a little extra money and watched from a distance to see how he'd use it. Predictably, he entered the nearby liquor shop.

In a sudden epiphany, it became a transformative moment in my life. All these years, I had viewed him with disdain for being an alcoholic and for squandering his life. However, I realised that I had been drinking from a well of contempt for his life. I consumed my judgments and remained deluded about his life and its virtues. In an instant, the world changed for me permanently.

In truth, everyone in this world is like my alcoholic friend, ensuring that every opportunity they get is used to seek their own intoxicating pleasures. Some drink in art, others in philosophy, politics, power, money, success, education, morality, religious belief, hatred, contempt, ethics, social standing, farming, work, family, love, celebration, and so on. We are intoxicated by our beliefs and make-believe systems, perpetually trapped in our hallucinations. None of us differs from my alcoholic friend as we embark on our self-absorbed journeys, with some deeming themselves superior and others inferior based on our convoluted societal arguments. 

The drunkard became my teacher.

(posted on fb during covid)

Invisibles : Mrs Mary Lobbo, the Aunty at La Bella

 

If you have any connection to institutions like NID, IIM, or CEPT in Ahmedabad and have a taste for non-vegetarian cuisine, chances are you're already acquainted with the renowned food establishment, La Bella. The term "La Bella" translates to "Beauty" in both Italian and Portuguese.

Mrs. Mary Lobo, a familiar name in the media, is inseparable from this unassuming little eatery. Her journey began when she followed her husband, Mr. Lobo, from Goa to this small shop, originally owned by her husband's business partner. She assumed control of the business after her husband's business partner died. 

Unfortunately, Mrs. Lobo endured a tragic loss when her only son disappeared at a very young age. In his cherished memory, she embarked on a mission to provide affordable, quality food to students of his age. Her delicious Goan curries, prepared with love and a motherly touch, soon made her a beloved figure among the student population who had flocked to Ahmedabad from various corners of India to enroll in the prestigious IIM, NID, and CEPT, in search of a budget-friendly non-vegetarian eatery. Along the way, she embraced "Rajendran Pillai," affectionately known as "Anna" by her customers, as her own son, who lent a hand in the kitchen. Mrs Lobo never served food for money.

My last visit to La Bella was with  artist Sudharshan Shetty, during my CEPT days when he served on our board of studies and was my thesis guide. While Sudharshan often appeared quite serious among acquaintances, on this particular day, he found smiling as Mrs. Lobo served his meal.  Given the years that had passed since he left the city, it was no surprise that Mrs. Lobo failed to recognize him.

As usual, the bill for both of us barely exceeded a hundred rupees, but Sudharshan paid her a significant sum, which she tried to return. They bid farewell with broad smiles. That day Anna was not there at Labella, she and one of her worker was only available there.

A couple of years ago, Mrs. Lobo passed away, I don't know the fate of La Bella now. 

Invisible : Razak Bhai, the canvas shop owner from Panch Kua, Ahmedabad, who found peace in Allah thala ka marzi"

Razak Bahi, poster colour on paper

 My encounter with Razak Bhai took place in the Paanch Kua area of Ahmedabad back in 2003. I was a newcomer to the city, and was on a look out for  a piece of thick canvas cloth. My search led me to his modest shop in Panch Kua. Paanch Kua boasted several canvas stores, but Razak Bhai's establishment was notably smaller. Contrasting with the typical exuberance of Gujarati salespeople, he briefly glanced up from his reading when I entered, then returned to his holy book. It was evident that he was engrossed in his reading. I perused his limited selection of canvas fabrics and asked him to cut a few meters for me. Without making eye contact, he promptly rose and cut the fabric. I paused to inquire about the price, and he gazed at my face for a moment before uttering, "Saat rupia bhai... kaatoon?"

This marked my introduction to Razak Bhai, and our friendship commenced, lasting for the next three years until 2006 when he departed from Ahmedabad, returning to his village near Surat. Our friendship didn't have its inception that very day; instead, it  began on a Friday in the following weeks. I revisited his shop on a Friday afternoon after an interval of about two weeks. Despite the shop being open, Razak Bhai was nowhere in sight. I patiently waited for nearly half an hour, enjoying a coconut milkshake, a Paanch Kua specialty. When he returned after his Friday Namaz, I politely inquire about the security of his shop and the possibility of theft. For the first time, a smile graced his face as he asked, "Aap ne kyon nahi liay bhai? (Why didn't you take something then?)" I responded that I don't steal.

"Bhai, bhaakhi log aap ke tharah naheen hein kya?; aap kyon aise soch they hein? (Brother, everyone is like you only no; why don't you start thinking about others like that?)" he remarked.

I had no answer, and he continued, "Jho Allah thala apne nazeeb mein likha hein, woh hee hamare paas raheka. Jithna bhi tala dalo, baakhi sab woh apne se ley key hee raheka (What is written in one's destiny by the Almighty is what will remain with us. No matter how much you lock it away, everything else, He will take back from you)."

This exchange was a profound introduction to his philosophy, and it paved the way for a deep and enduring friendship between us.

Razak Bhai had been thriving before the 2002 riots, having a wonderful family and a thriving textile business. Tragically, the riots took away both his family and business. He had two children and a successful textile business. When the riots erupted, he happened to be in South India to collect payments. When he returned after two days of turmoil, he found that everything had been destroyed—his family and his business.

During this period, I was engaged in documenting the stories of the children affected by the riots, both the accused and the victims. I made numerous attempts to discuss the impact of the riots on his life, but he consistently deflected these questions with a recurring line: "Sab Allah ka marzi hein bhai, hum kon hota hein isab pooch ne keliye? (Everything is God's will, who am I to question it?)"

He was a deeply religious man, and despite his philosophical outlook and unwavering faith in his God, there was a pervasive air of sorrow about him. In 2006, as his makeshift shop structure was replaced by a new construction, he parted his ways from the town, returning to his village near Surat. Before departing, he gifted me a roll of canvas, which still remains unopened in my studio. Every time I contemplate opening it, Razak Bhai's smiling countenance comes to mind. As he used to say, "Allah thala ka Marzi", there must be something waiting to happen in that canvas, and  its time is not yet come. 

Invisibles: Bomman, the Adivasi forest guard

If you're journeying from Kerala to Karnataka through the Bandipur region, chances are you've encountered Bomman. Bomman served as an Adivasi forest watch, a guardian aiding the forest department in safeguarding wildlife from poachers. The forest department regularly employs members of the Adivasi community as forest guards, entrusting them with a range of responsibilities, including preserving forests, testing electric fencing, digging trenches, monitoring tourist activities at forest tourism spots and waterfalls, reporting on illegal wood trade, and more. Bomman most likely fulfilled one of these roles. Although I personally haven't had the chance to meet Bomman, my time spent working in Wayanad has acquainted me with many individuals from these communities.

In the vicinity of forested areas, the local populace, particularly farmers, has a contentious relationship with animals, particularly wild boars, deer, bison, and monkeys. Farmers are often adversely affected by these creatures, with their greatest concerns revolving around elephants and tigers. Sightings of these animals become significant events, requiring substantial efforts from the forest department to alleviate the local fears. Despite apprehensions regarding the severe consequences imposed by the forest department for harming animals, the routine hunting of wild boars, bison, deer, and smaller animals is commonplace among the forest-dwelling people. Tragically, many animals meet their end caught in unregulated electric fencing that the community disposes of clandestinely. In these matters, there is a notable lack of trust, even among neighbors. The legal penalties for such actions are severe, and people are understandably apprehensive, especially when it comes to forest animals, including their primary adversaries—the mischievous macaque monkeys.

In contrast to the concerns of farmers and settlers living near the forest, the Adivasis do not share the same anxieties about these animals. They often reside without the security of electric fencing and regularly hunt birds and animals, often without the knowledge of the forest department. Moreover, they have a designated period of three days to one week when they are legally permitted to hunt specific species, particularly wild boars. Despite this hunting, they possess a deep affection for these animals and their forest environment. They exhibit respect and reverence for their natural habitat. Conversations with members of these communities often yield captivating stories of their encounters with animals, which, unlike the experiences of the farmers and settlers near the forest, they don't consider conflicts but rather cherish as unique natural adventures.

While these encounters typically do not lead to fatalities, occasionally, individuals like Bomman face unfortunate accidents. Bomman, in the course of his duty to protect animals from poachers, tragically lost his life to an elephant. The government acknowledged his sacrifice by granting his family a sum of 15 lakh rupees, although such instances are infrequent. More commonly, members of these communities lose their lives due to the actions of mining operators, the illegal timber trade, poachers, and alcohol brought into their communities by outsiders. In contrast to the rest of the Indian communities, which grapple with the challenges of population growth, the Adivasi communities are confronting the pressing issues of diminishing numbers and the erosion of their cultural heritage.

Bomman, stands as a poignant symbol of this intricate coexistence between Adivasi communities and the wildlife-rich forests they inhabit.

Bomman, oil on laminated paper board.

invisible: Krishna, the sub inspector who want avenge his father's death

Krishna, my next-door neighbor in the studio I used to frequent, was a young 22-year-old from North Karnataka who had relocated to Bangalore to prepare for a police selection examination. Every time I arrived at my studio, I'd find him in the midst of drying his clothes. He'd flash a smile, a typical Kannadiga greeting, "oota ayitha," often exchanged between acquaintances.

For nearly two years, he had been diligently attempting the Staff Selection Commission examination, with little success. Even the one he managed to pass had an unfortunate twist of fate, as it got canceled. He seldom ventured outside, and occasionally, a couple of friends would visit him in his one-room setup. His girlfriend, who worked in a private bank, was the only constant presence in his life. She would arrive daily, cook, launder his clothes, and depart. She was a young, charming lady and quite chatty. She'd occasionally drop by my studio to check out my ongoing paintings. Their families were supportive of their relationship since they had been friends from childhood.

Back in his hometown, Krishna's family owned a vast thirty-acre coconut and mango farm, tended to by his mother and younger brother. Krishna, an electronics engineer with top honors, had tragically lost his father due to a land dispute. His family was unable to bring the perpetrators to justice, as they evaded conviction in court due to a lack of evidence and legal technicalities. That day, I witnessed the resolute side of Krishna, a stark contrast to his usual cheerful demeanor. It was then that I understood his unwavering determination to become a police officer.

He asked me, "Sir, don't you think that once I become a police officer, I can put them behind bars?"

I was at a loss for words, feeling like I was witnessing a real-life movie script unfolding before me. I remained silent, and he continued, "Come what may, sir. I will become a police officer and ensure they are imprisoned."

I wished him success. Nearly two years later, after an absence of about two weeks from my studio, I returned to find Krishna had moved out. I learned that he had been selected to the Border Security Force (BSF), rather than the Karnataka police.

I couldn't help but hope that Krishna, despite not joining the Karnataka police, would eventually bring the perpetrators of his father's death to justice. Though I knew it was just wishful thinking, I couldn't help but hold onto that hope.

Invisibles : Cobbler of Yelahanka

In every city across India, the chances of stumbling upon an image of Gandhi may be quite rare, but you'll find images of Ambedkar at every corner, in various sizes and forms. Such is the power of Ambedkar and the assertive Bahujan identity in Indian society today, claiming its space in the public domain. Interestingly, hardly any of these Ambedkar images are gifts from the government celebrating the father of our constitution. Most of them are the result of individuals occupying public spaces, making their assertive presence felt.

This was my perception of Ambedkar images until I met my cobbler friend on the "Upanagara Bus Stand" road in Yelahanka. Yelahanka's New Town had three cobbler cabins—two of them at Mother Dairy Circle and one near Upanagara Bus Stand. With the arrival of the new Savarkar flyover and subsequent road widening, the cobbler sheds at Mother Dairy Circle were relocated to an interior road. What's interesting about all these cobbler cabins is that they're painted blue and adorned with images of Ambedkar—one on the outside wall and another as a printout inside. Like many iconographic representations, whether painted or sculpted, except for the blue suit, red tie, round face, and Ambedkar's signature glasses, these images often bear little resemblance to his original portraits. Today, regardless of how distorted these images may be, anyone in India can instantly recognize Ambedkar from this iconic representation.

I believe I met our cobbler friend around 2012. I visited him to have the zipper on my laptop bag replaced. As usual, the Ambedkar images, both outside and inside the cabin, looked somewhat unrefined. I asked him why he didn't display a photograph instead. Suddenly, he became very serious and asked me, 'What's wrong with the image?' With a smile on my face, I politely explained that the painting didn't resemble Ambedkar closely. His response was swift and enigmatic, 'The image doesn't change Ambedkar.' What he meant was that the representations don't alter Ambedkar. To me, as an artist, this answer carried profound philosophical weight, something that the history of art has taken a long time to teach us. In twentieth-century art, post-Dada and conceptual artists had to engage in extensive deliberation to arrive at such profound philosophies. Yet, here was our friend, sitting by the roadside, effortlessly conveying such profound concepts without any fanfare. As he continued to mend my bag, I sat in his blue cabin, wondering why it is often such a challenge for the educated to grasp profound philosophies in such simple ways, the way ordinary people understand them.

Even though I never found a definitive answer to that question, after our first interaction, I made it a point to bring all my repair work to him and spend time in conversation. I often treated him to a couple of coffees as a token of my appreciation for his company. After the first lockdown, when I visited him for a shoe repair, he shared the difficulties the pandemic had brought into his life. Our conversations would usually revolve around local politics and various issues in Yelahanka. During this lockdown, while cleaning my house, I unearthed two old backpacks in need of repair. I plan to visit him soon for our customary conversation and a couple of coffees, provided the current COVID-19 protocols allow us such a luxury." 

Invisibles: Ramees, the butcher from MS Palaya

Ramees, originally from Kollam, Kerala, was employed at a butcher shop in MS Palaya when I first crossed paths with him in my early days in Bengaluru. In those times, I was an avid cyclist, and occasionally, on Sundays, I would purchase mutton or beef from his shop. Ramees was a passionate and outspoken young man with strong Muslim beliefs, often pushing the boundaries of reason in his conversations, occasionally making me uncomfortable. Nevertheless, our interactions would extend into lengthy discussions, primarily because he had very few customers.

Despite having only completed his pre-degree education, Ramees understood the Muslim world surprisingly well, particularly the ongoing events in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Palestine. In this regard, he exemplified the quintessential Malayali with a deep interest in global affairs. In contrast, he never entertained inquiries about his family and also he refrained from inquiring about mine—an uncommon trait among Malayalees known for their tradition of first discussing hometowns and family backgrounds.

The last time I ventured to his shop, around 2013, I discovered it had shuttered. The neighbouring shop owner informed me that Ramees had landed in jail for some petty crime. Unlike Yelahanka, the MS Palaya neighbourhood is yet to develop much, yet numerous old shops made way for newer ones, including Ramees's.

Although I never met him again after 2013, whenever I pass by where his shop once stood, I find myself searching the crowd for a glimpse of Ramees. His distinctive blue shop and matching round-collared banian shirt always left a lasting impression.

Invisible : The sleeping Tamilian, Yelahanka

 

It was a winter morning. Packed in a sweater and warmer jacket, I was busy clearing the cheques to be sent to Bank on my desk. Every day, routinely we had to clear a minimum of thirty to fifty lanks worth of cheques before eleven before Government offices and courts begin to work. Along with financial services, the company also functioned as a northern region headquarters with all the burden of liaison and public relations works. Situated in the middle of Delhi in Connaught Place, the office also attracted a lot of bureaucrats, public personalities, retired defence officials and others, thanks to my boss. On that day, while I was digging deep into office files, cheques and others, it was also a time a software update was being carried out in the office, a frail and thin four feet high old man wearing only a dothi and black torn backpack walked into our office. It was only a couple of months since I've joined the office. He walked in and went straight to my boss without asking permission from the receptionist. A very snobbish person, Rao usually didn't interact with anyone whom he considers are not dressed well, highly polished in behaviour and rich. In about five minutes, he called me to introduce this old man to me. Rao seemed very respectful of this old man and the room was filled with a smell of camphor and vibhoothi. He introduced me to him as Krishna Bhagwan and as I sat next to him, he opened his torn backpack and started taking notes from his bag and from his clothes. There were almost three and a half lakhs on the table. Our accountant took almost half an hour to straighten the notes and count them. He was a Sadhu just returned from his trip to Nepal. Rao was helping him to invest or rather safe keep his money. He had more than eight lakhs of rupee investment with the company in violation of all banking rules. As he was always on a move, he had no acceptable identity or address proof to open any financial deals. Kindly remember this was in 1996 when ITC MD's 8 lakhs salary was a piece of big news. Interestingly, he didn't even have a name; the name Krishna Rao was a gift from my boss. When he bought an additional three and a half lakhs, Rao got a little scared and wanted to sort out the mess before it becomes a serious issue. The story of this Sadhu was the whole year he would roam around the Himalayas and other Hindu religious places and whatever earning he makes, he would come and invest with Rao. He was introduced to Rao by a former cabinet secretary. A beggar looking Krishna Bhagawan, as a Sadhu in fact had very high-level socio-political contacts. Out of three and a half lakhs rupees, two lakh was a gift from Nepal royalty. To make things worse, the day he came to our office was part of his moun vrath month (month of abstaining from talking). Keeping aside all our other works, myself and one of my assistant had to scan through all his bag to find some identification for him. There were a lot of papers in his bag along with some small gold and silver idols. Although most of the papers were religious looking texts, finally we found an old torn family photo of an army man from the pile of paper. Also, an identity card of a soldier from the Indian army- of one Selvaraj, from Tirunelveli district of Tamil Nadu. Despite our persisted probing, he remained aloof and refused to respond to our questions. He sat there patiently looking at our work without any response. The only time he had shown some reaction was when we touched his gold and silver idols. He immediately took them to the washroom to wash them before tying them to his dhoti. At the end of the day, as he was a devotee of Udipi Sri Krishna, we've made a settlement with him to invest in God's name and Udipi Sri Krishna became a depositor in our company. Over the next three years, he came to our office with some more money and once he took back around six or seven lakhs to gift it to VHP's Ram Janam Bhoomi temple. As I moved on from that company, I also moved on from the Krishna Baghawan story. I saw a similar person in Yelahanka when I reached here ten years back. After reaching Yelahanka, as I had not many friends and have nothing else to do, every Sunday I used to roam around Yelahanaka and nearby places on my Cycle. In one of those wandering moments, I met him on the roadside. I found him sleeping on the pavement with his head resting on a worn-out green backpack. There are some food carts around the place and he was sleeping a little far from them. Day 1, I saw him in that position, day 2; same, day 3, day 4 and finally after four months. Anytime and all the time, you will find him sleeping there. After four months, one day I bought a little food for him from the food cart and gave him. Without lifting his body, he took it, kept it near him and without any change of expression went back to his sleep.

After this routine continued for a few days, the food cart person reluctantly told me "sir, why do you buy food for him, he has money, he buys it from me anyway". Somehow suddenly he resonated our Krishna Bhagawan at the back of my mind. I took my drawing book, went up to him and asked his permission to draw him in my limited Kannada. As a strange coincidence, he replied to me in Tamil! over the next many months, I did a lot of drawings of him. Later on, when my family joined me and became busy with work and home, the frequency of my meeting came down drastically. Occasionally when I pass through that place, I would go there to say hello to him. In the last 9 years, I had never seen him in any other position than sleeping one on his bag on the pavement and still, he was able to manage his life and food!. Even as we interacted many times over the years and had exchanged food and some profile sketches, we never actually had any conversation other than a hello here and there. I don't know his name and neither did he ask mine. I don't know his whereabouts but on the first day itself on our first interaction, he knew I am not a Kannadiga and thereafter I knew he was a Tamilian. After the first lockdown when I went to check about him and I found him missing. I never saw him after that. Like Krishna Bhagawan in Delhi, this nameless Tamilian went missing from my life without entering into it. Of course, there are a few drawings here and thee and images here and there

Invisibles: Milkman from Yelahanka

 In 2011, when I shifted to Bengaluru (Bangalore back then) to join the college where I work, I was unsure about the place I was joining, so I did not bring my family with me. My parents were getting old, my sister, and my wife's brother live here, which were some of the reasons that led me to decide to shift to this place. In fact, I never thought I would ever be living in this city, as it brought back painful memories of my late younger brother. Secondly, all that I had associated with this city so far was the uninterrupted river of traffic - slow, tiresome, and making you feel sick if you ever got caught up in the traffic.

Over the years, living in different cities and traveling throughout the length and breadth of this country had taught me many things about Indian cities, or perhaps all cities. Like the architectural student's favorite book, Italo Calvino's 'Invisible Cities,' there are millions of cities inside every city - the one that is visible, one that is hidden, and the one that needs to be endlessly discovered. Although, thanks to the mindless traffic jams, I have never been at ease in this city. Yelahanka gave me a comfort zone in this young city and its hype. In whatever possible way available to me, I avoided going to the city side of Bengaluru. Also, by the time I reached Bengaluru, I was able to move on from the fad and the importance of the art world socializing. When I came to Yelahanka, a retired men's colony or a sleepy suburb, it was a wonderful place with very few activities. By seven in the evening, the place used to retreat into its cocoons. This old man in a cabin-sized room selling Nandini milk was one of the inhabitants here. His shop was a six-foot by three-foot room. At the entrance, one would always find the blue empty plastic boxes stacked one over the other, blocking the passage. Apart from that, a tall wooden shelf also had its way into that small room, separating the buyer from the seller. Usually, in the morning hours, his son managed the show, and around 9, his father and mother used to take over his place. They both were very soft-spoken. After spending three years at NID, Ahmedabad, I had one resolve in my life, which was to integrate myself among the locals rather than with my colleagues. I learned my first few Gujarati words only after I left NID. So, over a period, we started having small conversations. Actually, it all began with a very interesting incident. In our college, I was the first one to go to the college on a bicycle every day (Later on, although I stopped cycling after an accident, cycling has almost become a cult in our college for many reasons). Our friend was excited to see me on a cycle near his shop. He ended up telling me his story - the story of old-world Bengaluru, a nostalgia many Bengalurians would share. He was working in BEL and would travel around the city on his bicycle. Furthermore, he narrated to me how he used to carry his "tiffin" on his cycle to the factory, took his children to school, and even had family outings on his cycle on Sundays. Curiously, he could recall the license number of his cycle, something that used to exist in our country. He had many fond memories of small food joints that defined Bangalore but no longer exist. As he was narrating his story, which I understood partially thanks to my proficiency in Kannada, his wife would make many comments and jokes that would irritate him. Like all other young couples in their late 70s and 80s, their arguments were very interesting to watch. They would argue about the correctness of some facts, people, and incidents about Bangalore, which only they knew better and had been lost forever. As men always get carried away with their narratives, their women would jump into the conversation to correct them by teasing or accusing them of lying. Whenever I walked in, he would emerge from behind the tall wooden desk with a blue Nandini milk packet. He knew I bought four blue packets and one orange packet of milk. After moving my house to a little farther place, I started getting milk delivered to my door. The frequency of meeting them decreased to our occasional chats. Then came Covid. For months, I could not go there due to the lockdowns in place. These days, whenever I pass that place, I don't see him there anymore. Like all other young men in their late 70s and 80s, he is probably also hiding from the invisible enemy. Probably."

Invisibles: Ram Yadav, Plant setter, Yelahanka

 

When it comes to telling one's whereabouts, one can easily recognize a person from the north of India - whether they are from the city or from the village. If they are from cities or, in other words, are economically affluent, they would respond to your question by saying 'mein Raipur se hoon' kind. But if they are from the village, they would respond differently. They will say 'mein so-and-so village se hoon, jilla so-and-so.' While city dwellers will take pride in their city address, villagers seem to take pride in their Jilla or district. You will not find that identification as a strange behavior until you reach south India, where one will seldom identify oneself with a district other than their village. Perhaps that is the reason I first noticed Ram Yadav, a salesman of garden plants, on pushcarts. He did not add his district with his village name. Although I had never heard that village name before, my experience from Bengaluru told me that he had to be from the Aligarh district. Like all migrations have stories to tell, the stories of village migrations to this city also have their own particular story to tell. The security services are dominated by people from upper Assam or upper UP or Nepal. Plumbing jobs and the plywood industry are handled by people from Odisha, carpentry and tile laying by people from Bengal, electrical jobs by Andhrites, household jobs by Andhrites, Biharis, and then Kannadigas, jewelry work by Rajasthanis and Bengalis, and so on and so forth. In that unwritten order, farm/farmhouse work is often carried out by people from Azamgarh or Aligarh. I was correct in assuming that Ram Yadav was from the Aligarh district.

If you are from Yelahanka, chances are that you wouldn't have missed Ram Yadav by any chance, as he would be strolling around the fourth and fifth phases with his pushcart filled with garden pots and plants the whole day. Slightly dark with golden brownish hair, he always used to wear a red-brown round neck banian and knee-length folded blue jeans. I met him next to my campus in the fourth phase. I took four plants from his cart, asking the prices of each one separately, and returned the fourth one before asking him the final price. He was quoting exorbitant prices for those plants and was almost correct in his calculation, but when I returned one plant, he became confused and told me a completely wrong figure. That is when I realized the trick of his exorbitant price - he knew addition, but subtraction was difficult for him. So he would quote slightly higher prices, and in case he had to do subtraction and made mistakes, people would bring down the price and correct him anyway. I had a hearty laugh at his smart way of operation and joked with him about his subtraction. Although he joined me in my laughter, he stopped me from telling anyone about it. He told me, 'sir chaar thak pade hein, pet ka sawaal hein. Kisi ko bol na nahin' (I have studied only up to the 4th standard, it is a matter of hunger). I did not break the promise to him and continued my purchase from him. Although I did not buy many plants from him as most of the plants these boys bring are grown under the shade with heavy fertilizer application, he always brought good manure, and he became my regular supplier. Like all these kids from the village, he was a hero material, having the usual curious fashion sense. One day I gave him a duplicate Rayban-looking shade and a cap. He was thrilled to receive them, and the next day I saw him in the evening near Aroma bakery, wearing those accessories and walking down with his friends having animated conversations. Last year, after the first lockdown, when the markets were open, accidentally I met him on the street with a brown torn bag on his back. He was standing at the Aroma Bakery bus stand. He had a painful smile on his face when he told me that he is going back to his village. When I asked him when he is planning to come back, with a firm voice he replied - he will never come back, ever. After four years of living in this city, where he came looking for his life, all that he had was that torn brown bag and an empty pocket. I gave him the few rupees I had in my pocket that he refused to accept. Finally, after much persuasion, he accepted a couple of hundred rupees. A couple of days later, I saw another young boy of the same age, same style, same enthusiasm behind his cart. Ram Yadav told me once that every month, he got around three thousand five hundred rupees, a place to stay, and two-time meals in this city known as the Silicon Valley. In a city with eleven billionaires, where a square foot of land costs seven thousand to twenty-one thousand rupees, Ram Yadav and the faceless people like him from all over the country continue to come to seek the luxury of a few hundred rupees' worth of life. Like puppets, the strings that tie them will continue to make them feel like heroes in this spectacle called a city.

Invisibles: Siddhamma, House maid

When we moved from an independent house to an apartment, she became a part of our lives as a package deal. She used to work for the previous family that had lived in our flat. Siddhamma walked into our life like a little tornado. She was a very short lady with an equally strong temperament, particularly with others. Interestingly, she always behaved affectionately toward us. With her slightly curved back from years of work, her voice could be heard from the gate itself, with her Gauribidunur accent. Early in the morning, before coming to us from the neighborhood slum, she would have already taken her bath and adorned three lines of vibhoothi on her forehead along with a red sindhur in the middle. She always wore cotton sarees that were double her size and hung about a quarter of a foot above her ankles.

In addition to our house, she used to work for two other houses in our apartment complex. Every month, in the last week, she would take a day off to visit her family and hand over her earnings for the month to them. She had three boys and two girls. By the time we met her, she had already lost two of her sons to alcohol, and the third one was also very sick from alcoholism. They all depended on her to earn money and send it to them. Every month, Siddhamma would return to her family with her savings and the month's ration collection from the government. My wife would often help her, but Siddhamma would refuse to accept such help. Since neither would relent, she would eventually give in and accept a small contribution from Bindu. One day, after washing utensils, she suddenly broke down in the corner of our kitchen, a sight we had never seen before. Her son was in the hospital, ailing, and her daughter-in-law, despite taking all her money, wouldn't allow her to be with her son. At Bindu's insistence, she took the money and gave it to her daughter-in-law at the hospital. After a month, she lost her son. Shockingly, she returned to work after just two days. She looked the same Siddhamma as always, with the only difference being that she became a little bit quieter. We knew that without her earnings, she might not be welcome in her own house. She was a very proud woman who would refuse all favors and any help, even in her financial crisis.

During that period, I was doing my research on persecution and had a studio in the nearby slum where Siddhamma lived. Due to the research demands, I specifically chose that space, a minority colony among the majority. Her landlord and mine were the same lady, an affluent widow in that area. She owned around 12 to 13 small huts in that space. I had to pass through Siddhamma's room while going to my studio. Every time I passed by her room, a pleasant smell of camphor and agarbathi would waft from her room, and she would offer coffee, which I would politely refuse. The day we left the apartment for a new place, she cried. In the four years, it was only the second time I saw her wiping her eyes. Although Bindu left behind a lot of things for her to take, such as blankets, clothes, utensils, groceries, and others, Siddhamma took only a few that were essential to her. She later told me that she didn't have the luxury of space in her life to hoard things. As we moved out of our apartment, Siddhamma also had to move out of her house because the place she lived in was also given away for an apartment complex.

Later on, we went in our car to bring her to our new apartment. She was very happy, and as we dropped her near her house, she wanted us to drop her in full view of the public. She was heard telling her neighbors about us. Bindu and Siddhamma stayed in touch all this while until her phone became inaccessible before this lockdown. Today, I am going to check with her friend. Although I went to check with her friend last week, her friend's small shop was also closed, perhaps due to the lockdown. I am sure Siddhamma will be there. Definitely there."

 

Invisibles :Yelahanka banana seller

When walking into his shop, I often had to search for him among the suspended bananas and banana plantains. Deep inside the long, dark room and from behind the desk, he would emerge like a character from a Baroque painting, fair-skinned amidst the black. Although he knew that I would buy a one-kilo banana, he still preferred to ask every time in Kannada - 'heli sir.' As he packed the bananas, he wouldn't forget to ask - 'coffee ayitha sir?' (Have you had coffee?), a routine that continued for almost ten years since I reached Yelahanka in 2011.

It is not that I always buy bananas from him, but I make it a point to buy from him at least once a week. I love bananas, and there are many embarrassing childhood stories in my family about my love for bananas. Every time I went to his shop, I used to see a lot of bananas getting spoiled, and the air inside his shop would always be filled with the pungent smell of rotting bananas and a few flies. Our conversations have never gone beyond those two or three courtesy Kannada sentences. My late colleague and friend Sudipto always had a piece of advice on buying fruits and vegetables. One should buy only the fruits and vegetables that have flies on them. He told me the flies on fruit are a sign that it doesn't have too much pesticide on it. He was correct. It was a golden piece of advice!

The curious thing about this banana seller was, although he would never smile at you from his shop, whenever we met outside of his cycle, he would stop the cycle to greet you as if we hadn't met for a long time. Last month, during the lockdown relaxation period, when I went all the way back to his shop near my campus, a young man in a bright pink shirt emerged from behind the desk. Everything seemed the same, the way bananas are placed, hanged, darkness, smell, except my friend and the question 'coffee ayitha sir.' The young man in a bright pink shirt, with all seriousness in tone and although he only had bananas, asked me 'en bekhu sir?' (what do you want).

'Ek kilo banana,' I don't know why, but I replied to him in Hindi.

He silently packed the bananas on a piece of Kannada paper, and after paying the money, without asking what happened to my old friend, I walked out of the shop. Actually, I didn't have the guts to ask the question as I see a lot of shops these days around Yelahanka with the signboard 'to let' and the shutters down

Invisible -4

Yelahanka banana seller

Acrylic on paper

 

Invisibles :Yelahanka Gardner

Like all Mysorians, Nagaraju was also a stiff-lipped Kannada speaker. There is an unmistakable character to Mysorians among the rest of Kannadigas - they look very serious, rarely smile or acknowledge strangers; men are usually slim and prefer very light-colored shirts and grey or black-colored pants. Furthermore, they always appear very aloof, and although there is an unpolished roughness to their behavior, unlike the north and south Kannadigas, they often are not very aggressive. Nagaraju perfectly fits this generalized description of a Mysorian.

I met him at the nursery I visit for my garden requirements. He works there as a helper. He walks with us to carry the plants and manure we select. The first time I visited, I even felt offended by his behavior for not answering properly according to my expectations as a customer. By the second time, I perceived that he is from Mysore, the land and the people I know in the back of my mind from the Gondathimmaiha stories of Srikrishna Alanahalli.

Over time, we became comfortable with each other, and he would insist on selecting plants and manure for me. Many times, quietly in sign language, he stopped me from taking many fertilizers and manures his supervisor would suggest. Over these years, none of the plants he picked from the lot have ever died in my garden, and he would make it a point to ask about them on my next visit. I often joke with him, suggesting that his name should have been Nagaraja, not Nagaraju.

Two weeks ago, when I went to the nursery in the morning hours during the permitted time in the lockdown, I did not see Nagaraju there. Due to COVID, as the nurseries are not able to function, most of the workers have been sent home, it seems. I asked the lady at the counter about Nagaraju. She told me that Nagaraju left the place due to COVID during the lockdown, and she hasn't heard from him since then. That's it. The story of Nagaraju ends there, or that is all in terms of the relevance of people like Nagaraju in city life.

 

Invisibles : Flower Seller lady from Yelahanka

I met her for the first time on an Onam day, six years ago, on the sidewalks of the road leading to the Upanagara bus stand. She was selling flowers along with many other pushcart sellers. I bought flowers from her on that Onam day. She had a peculiar North Karnataka accent and language, slightly difficult to understand for an outsider with limited proficiency in Kannada. Over these years, as Yelahanka New Town changed from a sleeping village to a bustling suburb, unlike many other street sellers, she did not change much. She wore the same polyester saree and a blue cotton blouse. Her unwashed hair always looked untidy. Those familiar with Bengaluru would know that in Bengaluru, most of the grocery, hardware, electronic, textile, medical, and stationery kind of shops are owned by Marwadi families from Rajasthan. Bakeries are run by Malayalees, real estate businesses by Andhrites, and restaurants are partly owned by Andhrites and partly by Kannadigas. I often felt that there is some kind of unwritten code that exists in Bengaluru's business world. In that same code of business, pushcarts, it seems, are meant to be operated by Kannadigas only. One will rarely find anyone else doing business on pushcarts. Coming back to my story, over the years, I had many conversations with her, and with the changing times, she also started selling seasonal fruits on her cart. Whenever possible, I started buying fruits from her. As she would always park her cart near my homeopathic medicine shop, it was very convenient for me to buy fruits from her. Whenever I bought flowers or fruits, she used to give some extra pieces of fruits or flowers to me, along with some pep talks and a bright smile. Although I once asked her name, with her North Kannada accent, all that I could gather was that it ended with an 'amma,' as many names in the villages usually sound like. Today, after a long interval, when I went to give her a food kit in the morning, she was not there. A young man was standing there with another cart. I was told that she has gone. Covid didn't spare her. I don't know if anybody would have noticed her absence from that small corner of a developing city. Like many others, despite their constant presence, they always go unnoticed in our city life

Invisibles

Yelahanka flower lady

Acrylic on paper