George Menezes

There must be hundreds of Hume pipes lying all over Mumbai. Gigantic concrete ones meant to be used for storm water drainage into the sea.

They make for BMC forgotten temporary, very temporary housing for millions of homeless people who are merely a statistic for the powers that govern the city and a passing landscape for the well heeled people like you and me.

There is one such pipe, now frayed at its circumference near the road across where I live. In its benevolent radius, protected from rain and sun, lives a woman who could walk the ramp even in the ragged “saree” and “choli” that she washes under a garden tap or over a leaking pipe in the neighborhood.

She is dark, just the shade I like in women, large, sad eyes, small firm breasts a determined jaw and she walks in the sensuous manner village women walk when they carry pots on their heads.

Amazing I thought for a woman who lived back bent in a cylindrical home.

“We should sponsor a fashion show under the auspices of our Residents Association for these really beautiful, homeless women” I said to the old girl.

She gave me a look dirtier than a garbage dump, took my spectacles off my nose, wiped them clean and said with a smile “age has not dimmed your weakness for village women”

What could I say? After all I am a boy from a village in Goa.

Her name was Namrata and she lived with Govind her five year old son. Her husband had been killed the previous Christmas in their village. She worked on the construction site of a hotel that been recently demolished by terrorists.

When his mother was away Govind played with a wooden doll which he carried all the time like some thing precious, keeping it hidden in his pocket when he played road side cricket with neighboring children from the hutments.

I stopped by the cylinder one day on my way to buy fish at the Chimbai fishing village. Must have been Namrata’s day off, I thought foolishly.
“No” she said. “Govind was not feeling well. The burn scars on his face and hand were itching and bothering him”. She spoke broken Hindi and even some broken English as if, once upon a time, she had studied in a convent school.

Govind sat up. He showed me the toy he was clutching to his breast. It was made of wood. Baby Jesus he said simply. A baby face on a fat body, carved by a carpenter whose tools needed sharpening. It had been burnt on one side like the doll I had seen when I visited the Best Bakery in Gujarat during the 2002 carnage.

“I see you watching me from your window” she said. “I am a writer and I am always curious and looking for a story” I said “especially since I see you and your little boy in Church sometimes”.

“We are Christians” she said. “Converts from my grandfather’s time”. There was joy in her voice and it echoed in the Hume pipe that was her temporary home.

“I am from Kandhamal in Orissa .We lived on the edge of a beautiful forest full of wild birds, butterflies and animals. Last Christmas when the fanatics came they killed my husband and burnt down our house. We hid in the forest for months and then the refugee camp and recently Mumbai.

We are secure here but we miss Kandhamal. We are going back this Christmas.

“Baby Jesus will protect us” said Govind