Walk to work

At the first char rasta (char means four and rasta means road) on Jodhpur Gam Road, four streets meet at an open tarmacced space in the middle of which is a small traffic island. Chalky lime is occasionally scattered around this island and at the ends of the concrete traffic dividers that stop at the edges of the circular space, the dark skinned worker allotted this task digging into a cloth sack filled with the bright powder with his bare left hand.

The road ahead leads to Jodhpur village itself and to Anandnagar Road. The road to the right leads off into a residential area of two-storey houses sitting behind low walls and ten-storey high apartment complexes that rear up out of the flat land. At the entrance to this road there is a square expanse of wasteland off to the left that flooded during the rains and afterwards in the evenings resounded with the deep croaking call of frogs. To the left the road runs straight to the Shymal char rasta road which links with the flyover to Vejalpur. This is the route I take to work every morning.

Walking this way, keeping clear of mopeds, superbikes, bicycles, battered hatchbacks and gleaming Toyotas, there are several things that catch the eye. On the left hand side of the street as you proceed down it, a building, a small house, is being renovated. There is a pile of sand by the side of the road and two mongrel street dogs lie there curled up, sleeping in the morning sun, their fur patchy in places, their ribs showing against stretched skin. They are oblivious to the small-framed man, perhaps in his early twenties, who with bent back sifts grit through a large, square wooden sieve next to the sand, sweat on his face and bare arms.

Further on, at the side of the road, stands a small white-tiled shrine with an entrance space enclosed by a metal cage that has been painted white. On the wall of the shrine facing the road is a single colourful icon tile depicting a god-like figure with no head, from whose severed neck bright blood spurts left and right to where there are smaller figures standing by. Occasionally in the caged entrance to the shrine there are men and women kneeling or standing in prayer.

At certain times of the morning you will be passed here by a middle-aged Jain man, dressed in unstitched white cloth, wearing sandals and with a yellow tika marked on his forehead. He will be on the way to his morning worship at the Jain Temple on Jodhpur Gam Road and carries a small metal pot in his hands.

Past the shrine there is a large Banyan tree standing out in the road, its base ringed with thick concrete and surrounded by tarmac. There are three or four Ganesha statues leaning against the tree trunk, several of which have broken arms or elephant trunks, the plaster showing white where the statue has cracked. To the left of the giant tree a line of old men wearing white homespun are sat on two concrete benches in the tree’s shade, some with walking sticks, and others with spotless white Nehru caps on their head. They say little to each other as you pass, but together take in the passersby and watch the traffic.

Beyond the old men there is a junction and an open space to the side of the road, on one corner of which are four rectangular concrete slabs, stained by oily food and rotting vegetables. On these slabs are placed dried rotis, piles of yesterday’s pulao and bags of vegetable peelings. Into these bags a magnificent white cow is pushing her bristly nose, her sharply curved horns arching up above her head and her drooping neck folds gently wobbling. On the cow’s back, between the shoulder blades, is a large, basket-ball sized hump: the product of thousands of years of domestication and alignment with man’s needs through the plough and cattle cart.

Passing the cow, engrossed in its urban grazing, you come upon a man of nineteen or twenty, his face angular and his hair parted down the centre of his head in wavy lines thickened with hair oil. He is sat behind a small table on the narrow pavement. Above the table is a canopy of plastic sheeting rigged to keep off the sun in the summer and deflect the torrential rain of the monsoon. The man is a tailor and is leant over an ancient-looking black sewing machine, his elbows stuck out either side of the desk and his knees tucked under it, his concentration focused on the cloth in his hands. He will be in exactly the same position in eight or nine hour’s time.

On the opposite side of the road are large bungalows, some mansion-like, with high gates and protruding balconies. In the road, where at times sweepers work with long-handled brooms, there are empty packets of mouth freshener, silver and white. Gobs of spittle and dried cow dung mark the tarmac. Back on the left hand side of the street is another shrine, smaller than the last; it is only knee high. The small roof is adorned with a dozen hairy coconuts strung together and an orange pennant with a gold fringe. Strange sculptures made from silver foil are perched in the branches of the tree above the shrine. They look like squat spaceships and glitter in the sun. Next to the mini-shrine is a low-roofed chai stall with stone slabs set on bricks for seats. There are usually four or five men sat here in the morning, their motorbikes parked up in a row in the road in front while they enjoy a sweet cup of tea.

By this point you are nearing the end of the road and only the bright yellow school buses of the A-1 school parked up ahead are much distraction between here and the junction where it easy to catch an auto to Vejalpur. The walk has taken eight or nine minutes and been accompanied by a raucous cacophony of beeping cars, tooting autos and sputtering mopeds.