Changemakers: Gurgaon Ki Awaaz

In the words of urbanist Jane Jacobs, people make cities, and it is to them, not buildings that we must fit our plans. 

Truer words have never been spoken. Yet tragically in cities such as Gurgaon, the real people have become the outliers. Don’t be misled by the swanky glass and steel towers, the real Gurgaon is much more than its uber chic facade. The pulse of the Millennium City consists of the people who keep the wheels turning. The migrant workers, farmers and villagers who prop up the city. The security guard in your building, the garbage collector who recycles your trash, the rickshaw puller at the entry gate, the shopkeeper at the sabzi mandi and countless others. Ironically, they are the ones we refer to as the people on the fringes. In reality, they are the real people of Gurgaon.

 

Founded in 2009, Gurgaon’s one and only community radio station – Gurgaon Ki Awaaz has been providing a platform for these voices. The station broadcasts for 22 hours daily but its programmes are a far cry from the stuff you would hear on popular (read urban) radio channels. In the true spirit of community radio, Gurgaon Ki Awaaz programmes are created for the people, by the people themselves. 

 

I spoke to station director Arti Jaiman last week who explained that the community radio began as a project on the sidelines of her NGO, The Restoring Force. Over the period of time, the project acquired a life of its own. The programmes include a mix of traffic updates, sessions on sexual health, empowerment, agriculture, counselling sessions and folk music in Haryanvi, Garhwali and Bhojpuri among other languages. Radio staff make regular visits to local communities to research on key issues. These are then woven into the programming. Local folk artists are invited to record sessions at the studio which is then broadcast to an enthusiastic, lively community. I tuned in last Saturday and listened to a rousing session of Antakshari played by community members. Music is the glue that binds the community together.

 

The all-women team of the station are from local communities. They speak the language, both metaphorically and literally. The community members trust them and open up to them. Not just that, the community radio station had a key role to play during the pandemic and the subsequent lockdowns imposed by the administration over the last two years. From relaying information about the timing of food delivery vans, Shramik trains to guiding people about restrictions placed on movement and quarantine status in various parts of the district, counselling migrants on how to dealing with anxiety, tackling food and money shortages, the radio station anchors dealt with it all with grace and elan.

 

Gurgaon Ki Awaaz has a fan following that runs into thousands. Shambhu (name changed) from Bihar is a security guard at a swanky condominium in Gurgaon. He works night shifts and is stuck behind a desk monitoring entries and exits. He is addicted to the community radio. It helps break the monotony of his work.

 

Mansoor (name changed) from Western Uttar Pradesh works as a tailor in Gurgaon’s Sadar Bazaar. He comes from a family of tailors and moved to Gurgaon several years ago in search of work. Now he has a job at a boutique and spends his hours stitching clothes. He is another fan of the community radio.

 

Not just locals, the popularity of Gurgaon Ki Awaaz is spreading far and wide. People have started tuning in from other cities and smaller towns as well. 

 

To tune into the radio and sponsor the team’s work, click here.

 

A dire situation?

Soon after Game of Thrones was aired for the first time in India, our condominium saw an influx of Siberian huskies. “Ma look – a dire wolf,” the girl screamed in excitement when she spotted one at the park for the first time. She was GOT-crazy, I wasn’t. I had no clue what she was talking about. All I saw was an unusual looking dog with intense blue eyes. When I went back home, I looked up dire wolves on the internet and learnt that Northern Inuit dogs played dire wolves in the TV series. Northern Inuit dogs are a crossbreed of huskies and German shepherds. 

 

In true Gurugram fashion, there had been a frenzied dash for dire wolves. In their absence, folks had scrambled to get the next best thing - huskies. The result - here a husky, there a husky, everywhere a husky husky in Drona’s village. I remember seeing an abundance of Dalmatians when I first moved to Gurgaon in 1998 (101 Dalmatians - the movie starring Glenn Close had released two years ago). 

See what I mean?

 

I couldn’t help but wonder whether the hot and dusty climate would be good for these dogs. How would huskies (meant to be raised in colder climates) adjust in poky flats and sultry weather? We can all wish for things. Doesn’t mean we have to have our wishes fulfilled, does it? I’d like to own a dragon. But that isn’t happening anytime soon.

 

Over the years, the numbers have multiplied. Young, old, in various states of disrepair. Most often the owners can't be bothered to walk the dogs themselves or give them a spot of exercise. The car wash boys drag them around by their leashes in the evenings, summer cut of fur and lethargic. I can only pray the owners keep them in air-conditioned rooms during the day. While I’m not a dog expert, I’ve grown up in a house with five dogs. I can tell when a dog is sad. The strays have more swag than these dogs.

 

I’m told a husky puppy sells for anything between Rs 40,000 and Rs 60,000. I saw one advertised on a dog website having blue eyes, strong bones and a smart personality. Asking price, Rs 56,000. A puppy with a smart personality? What on earth does it even mean?

 

My Bengali neighbour has named his Siberian husky Randy. After Randle McMurphy in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, he offers helpfully in the lift (in case I didn't know). Also the way he says it, it sounds like Kaku.

 

Trying hard not to giggle but feeling terribly sorry for Randy the puppy. I hope he has a good life in Kaku’s Nest.

The Theory of Unidentified Flying Objects (that could be chapatis)

I was walking inside my condo last evening when something landed on my head with a painful thwack. I rubbed my head in alarm and found (of all things) a chapati. I might have eaten it. It was nearly dinner time and I was feeling nippish. Whoever says no to a free snack? But the unidentified flying chapati had turned brittle with age and it belonged inside a trash can. So I disposed of it and went to sit in the park outside my block of flats where I had a Newton moment.

In hindsight, it could have been a concussion. The top of my head felt sore and I could feel a bump forming. But in that instance, it seemed as though the Universe was providing some sort of insight into why people fling stale chapatis from their towers at unsuspecting people below. So I closed my eyes and listened intently to what it had to say. 

 

When the Universe started talking in Punjabi, I realized something was not right. I opened one eye to find my neighbour, Mrs Malhotra, on the bench next to me.  And she was talking (rather loudly) on the phone with someone. So much for my Newton-esque revelation. 

The woman finished her call, dumped her phone inside her bag and turned to me with a smile. “You got hit by a chapati, no? I noticed the lady in the flat above was feeding the birds.”

 

“Feeding the birds or trying to kill them?” I muttered. “She was flinging the rotis with great force. She could have hurt someone.”

 

“Arrey don’t be silly,” she giggled. “She’s a bird lover. And the birds love her.”

 

“How do you know the birds love her? Would you love someone who served you stale food? Besides, are stale chapatis safe for birds to eat? Why not give them some grains or seeds?” I argued. “If you won’t eat something yourself, why give it to birds and animals?”

I’d seen folks feed stale chapatis to cows on the streets plenty of times. At least they were not flinging food but I couldn’t ignore the traffic snarls that ensued.

 

She shrugged. “The birds don’t have a problem with it."

 

“How would you know? Have you asked their opinion?” I shot back.

 

She got up and walked off in a huff. I smiled to myself. She wouldn’t be lecturing me for a while. Never underestimate the power of a flying chapati. 

 

As for Bird Woman in the flat above, I think I’ll pay her a visit with a prezzie. A CD of an Alfred Hitchcock movie and a tale about the real-life incident at Capitola that inspired the film. 

 

I think I should start a movement to make our birds gluten free again. What do you think?

 

 

 

What's cooking?

The folks in the flat upstairs are definitely involved in something shady.

For the last month or so, as soon as I lay me down to sleep, I hear noises.

Bump …. thud … bump

 

The first night I thought they were rearranging furniture.

 

But every single night?

 

The bizarre medley of noises include the sound of running feet, a series of muffled thuds, random chairs being dragged, pressure cooker whistles and vigorous mortar pestle grinding.  Now these are normal household sounds, you would argue. You are right. Of course they are. But who cooks at midnight?

 

Some days, it feels as though the ceiling will come crashing down on my head from all that running and thud-ing. Given the recent unfortunate happenings in Gurgaon, I’m not taking any chances. I have started going to bed wearing my Sunday best. Freshly laundered.

 

If I didn’t know any better, I’d think the folks upstairs were disposing of a body. But unless they were part of some crime syndicate (Gurgaon Gangsters Alliance?), I can’t think of why they would need to dispose of a body every night. Perhaps I read too much crime fiction but a pressure cooker going off in the middle of the night is a red signal for sure. What or who are they cooking?

 

I’d watched a movie in my teens called The ‘Burbs and the scenario is uncannily similar. There’s definitely something cooking if you know what I mean *wink wink*

 

Perhaps I should call up the RWA and tell them about my plight instead of letting my imagination wander. But my brains are all muddled up from lack of sleep and I have no clue what to say.

 

Any ideas?

Things that go BLEAT in the night!

The silence was punctuated by a series of unearthly sounds.

Aaaa eeeee ooooo aaa eee oooo aaa eee oooo

 

I dropped the bowl of ice cream in fright and dashed out of my room to investigate.

 

It was nearly midnight and everyone should have been asleep. I stress on the word should since the pandemic (and Netflix) has messed up our sleep cycles. I stood in the corridor of our flat trying to ascertain where the odd sounds were coming from. The door to the teen’s room was ajar. What on earth was she up to?

 

My first thought was that she was holding a séance. That would explain the peculiar noises. When we were teenagers, we’d often play around with home-made Ouija boards (more about that later) so I wouldn’t have been surprised if she was doing something similar. I took a deep breath and peeped in cautiously.

 

The room was dark with fairy lights twinkling like stars near the window.

 

She was in front of her laptop, making weird sounds.

 

Aaaa eeeee ooooo aaa eee oooo aaa eee oooo

 

“What in god’s name are you up to?” I yelled at her. “Have you seen the bloody time?”

 

She grinned sheepishly and gestured for me to pipe down as she was on a call with a friend. Turns out the two girls were doing an online quiz and one of the clues involved figuring out what a mountain goat does. Hence the Alpine yodelling in the middle of the night!

 

The pandemic has messed with our brains, some of us more than the others. Now I’m not sure whether I'm shocked or relieved that she wasn’t invoking spirits from the other world. The house is cramped enough as is. Not sure we have space to accommodate more souls. Hopefully, now that things are coming back to normal, she can go outside and be a regular (masked) teenager again. I will tell her to refrain from bleating when she’s outside though. Not sure the goats of Gurugram will take kindly to cultural appropriation.

Monkey Business!

Where have all the monkeys gone?

 

No, I’m not improvising on the lyrics of the Pete Seeger song, silly! This is a genuine question. 

 

The monkeys that have been part and (hairy) parcel of my existence over the 21 odd years that I’ve lived in Gurgaon seem to have disappeared during the pandemic. You might think it strange that I’m missing a monkey of all things but the truth is, I’d gotten used to watching them as they wreaked havoc on my balcony, trampling my plants and breaking my ceramic planters. A watered-down version of Planet of the Apes if you will. 

 

Yes, one of them did pee all over my nasturtiums. Nasty business that was.

 

Every year, the monkeys would pay me a visit once or twice around this time. They’d come alone or they’d bring their entire families along. Their arrival would be announced by a bloodcurdling shriek (from the person who had spotted them) followed by doors and windows banging shut and the metallic clang of the rails as the primates jumped from one balcony to the next. If the monkeys had nothing better to do, they’d stare at us, rubbing their noses against the glass windowpanes. I guess it’s fair to say that there was curiosity on both sides of the glass.

 

I’d have expected them to return in greater numbers during this period. After all, wasn’t nature healing and all that? There was some talk about relocating them to Ferozepur Jhirka in neighbouring Nuh but the environmental activists were putting up a fight. According to them, the authorities do not have the equipment – either trained handlers, rescue ambulances and veterinary doctors - that can take care of the relocation exercise safely. Most of the time, the authorities rely on private catchers who trap the monkeys using langurs and then, after a couple of days, release them somewhere else. According to official estimates, Gurgaon has around 30,000 monkeys. That is a whole lot of monkeys that need to be treated with care.

 

Could the plan to relocate them have already begun? If not, where on earth are they?

If you have news of the missing monkeys, do share. NO rewards are being offered at this point of time.

 

 

 

 

 

A Shot in the Arm!

 

84 days.

 

I could have circumnavigated the world in this time - like Phileas Fogg. Instead I stayed locked up in a poky apartment waiting for an injection. Well, not just any ordinary injection but one that will keep the horrid coronavirus at bay. At least I hope it will. From what I hear, the sneaky Delta variant is giving all the vaccines a run for their money. So we have to get our shots, keep our masks on and carry on social distancing till kingdom come.

 

Sigh.

 

I have a list of things I want to do when I get the shot in my arm. I want to hop over to my favourite café – stuff my face with my favourite chocolate, almond and orange cake (under my mask of course) and stare at folks within safe distance. It’s been years (literally) that I have sat at a public space and eavesdropped on conversations. I want to go grocery shopping and run my fingers along the spines of books at a bookstore. Online shopping is no fun at all!

 

I haven’t been this excited about anything in a long while. I keep telling myself it’s only an injection when it feels more like a magic potion. Hopefully soon, when we have all been vaccinated, the world will become safe to navigate again. 

 

With masks on.