DISTRICT 9.

It was the dark era of the late 70s. The clouds of recession were hovering around the small sleepy town. People had no real big money then.

Gandhi Nagar was a hutment colony which was overlooked by our buildings in childhood. You could see the steel grey rusty aluminium sheets and brown asbestos tiles in uniformity shading the poor population. God had hand picked all the unwanted beings in our town and placed them there. It was a place, shunned by all the higher strata of our small town. Yet, everybody had to encounter them as the main road ran through the colony.

The long queue of unshaven guys standing patiently with plastic tumblers in their hands and a small beedi in their slender fingers dominated the morning scene. The impatient kids used the road freely,often sitting in rows like school children, littering and desanitising our town. It was not a pleasant sight. The poor ladies had timed their bowels for the afternoon sessions when they would chat with black tobacco powder in their mouths.

Brawls were frequent and vociferous. Gandhi Nagar was a loud place. Water queues elicited the most decibels where the ladies would fight tooth and nail to gain vantage in the queue. Hair tearing and choicest abuses never escaped our attention. They used to fight for no reason whatsoever. They had nothing else to do. Evenings used to see the return of the frustrated drunken husbands who would vent their fury out on the hapless wives. Shrieks and Wailing cries dominated our otherwise quiet evenings. One day a drunkard was set alight with kerosene by his rebellious wife. She walked tall in the colony since then.

During marriages and naming ceremonies, The noise levels used to cross our tolerance threshold. Huge loud speakers blared out unheard of songs. We would shut all our windows tight. The revellers were hardly bothered and continued their celebrations. Even the police had given up, on this colony a long time back. They pleaded helplessness. The people were beyond salvage. They did not want to taint their hands or displease the local politician who fed on this vote bank.

Salma was a half mad girl who roamed our streets in tattered clothes collecting rags, paper and plastic bags in our civic town. She stayed in the hutment colony. One day she got pregnant and was beaten black and blue by her livid parents. We did not see her for few months.

The big well was located on the outskirts of our town. It was unused but people used to immerse the used flowers and garlands over there.One day, we saw a small still born baby floating in the well. The identity was never pursued but everyone kept quiet. Salma emerged from her home bound incarceration and merrily began her scavenging work. Such was Gandhi Nagar.

It was a DISTRICT 9 of our times. The socially out casted unwanted people made a haven over there. They lived their own independent anarchic life. The Mother Ship had abandoned them, right since birth. They were stuck in this mess and only ever wished to come out.

Last year, I went to see to my old town and was pleasantly surprised to see the new redeveloped Gandhi Nagar. The hutments were demolished and all the dwellers were accommodated in self contained rooms. The times had changed. Each house boasted of cable TV, fridge and a colour TV set. The entire look of the population had changed, for the better. Each and everyone had a job. The Gandhi Nagar looked so quiet and dignified that day. I had gone to visit my old ailing maid, was warmly greeted by her school going grand children.

I walked down from the building in a happy state.

I saw Salma, she was no longer half mad,

She had become fully insane like us.

She in her grey matted hair and an arching back continued her scavenging work.

The Mother Ship had conveniently left her all alone.