It’s a hot and dusty, late September morning and I’m slowly drifting around the chaotic tapestry of narrowing alleys and lanes that are home to Delhi’s famous bazaars. “Hello! My name is Ajay,” says an enthusiastic young Delhi-wallah as he greets me with his outstretched arm, “but everyone calls me Max”.
The pulsing sun exudes sticky, oppressive heat which hits me like a fiery wave every time we lose the sanctum of shade. The delectable smell of grilling kebabs and freshly brewed chai wafts through the air, cruelly overpowered by stale urine and berms of putrid waste at unwelcome intervals. Ajay is part of the Salaam Baalak Trust – a charity that cares for and rehabilitates street children – and I’ve come to find out more about the work that they do.
“As we walk, I will tell you more about Salaam Baalak Trust, and the street life” says Ajay as we weave through the labyrinth of bustling shops, crowded food stalls and old Mughal architecture. A former street child himself, he is well-qualified to relay the hazards and emancipations of growing up on the harsh streets of Delhi. We stop at a dusty side road, connecting New Delhi railway station to the vibrant neighbourhood of Paharganj; a handful of auto-rickshaws syphon past us, avoiding the clogged and heavily polluted road outside the station. Following a rare and disconcerting moment of silence Ajay asks rhetorically, “do you have any idea why the children are running from their homes?”
He tells me there are two main reasons: poverty and physical abuse. Most of the estimated 50,000 children that live alone on the streets of Delhi have fled from the countryside; escaping abusive parents fuelled by alcoholism and addiction, or leaving the life of miserable destitution that they have watched their families endure, for the gold paved streets of the City. They leave with hope. A youthful optimism for a better life. A sanguine naivety for the riches of the big City. But when the trains deposit these callow kids, the Promised Land evaporates, leaving them to contend with the murky world of the desperate and penurious. As Ajay tells me, “many kids watch Bollywood movies and they think, ‘if I join the City, I can become a Bollywood star’. But it’s totally wrong. They join the City, and they start collecting rubbish from the street”.
“Many kids watch Bollywood movies and they think, ‘if I join the City, I can become a Bollywood star’. But it’s totally wrong. They join the City, and they start collecting rubbish from the street”.
Rag-picking, of course, is a profitable business in relative terms, Ajay explains as we approach the perilous road that abuts the overflowing railway station. I watch with trepidation as streams of impatient city dwellers step out into the anarchy ahead, ignoring the countless rickshaws, cars and buses that intertwine the ill-defined lanes. “Whatever rubbish they are collecting, they sell at the recycle shop, and from over there they can earn up to two hundred rupees per day,” he asserts. Two hundred rupees equates to approximately £2; although a paltry sum to those living in the West, in a country where a staggering 80% of the population live on less than $2 each day, it is not an insignificant haul.
We make it across to the station façade, a chaotic chorus of rambunctious car horns ring in my ungrateful ears; excessive exertion of the horn is an acceptable substitute for using indicators or checking wing mirrors on the tumultuous roads of Delhi. “Life on the street is very difficult for them, whatever money they earn, they have to spend every day”. The street children have nowhere to store their money so rather than risk theft at the hands of bigger kids or gang masters whilst they sleep, they make sure they spend up before night falls. “Most kids are spending their money two ways: entertainment and drugs” he concludes nonchalantly.
The drug of choice is correction fluid. The kids soak scraps of cloth with easily accessible Tippex or white glue, which they then slowly insufflate at regular intervals. As well as the obvious adverse consequences to the health of the children – solvent abuse of this nature ravages the lungs and brain cells – many street kids fall in to the debilitating trap of addiction, meaning most of their money is spent at local stationary stalls. “About their entertainment,” Ajay adds, “every Friday they release a new movie in the theatre; the kids go over there and watch the movies”. The Bollywood chimera that maliciously lured so many kids into the street life continues to enthral them.
We advance along the crowded station front: adorned with convivial groups of men, squatted on their haunches, and lines of indigent cobblers hesitantly advising passers-by that their shoes are in need of repair. Two young boys delicately circumvent the gathered masses, bounteous jute sacks filled with rubbish lugged over their tiny backs. This railway station is home to many of the boys who arrive in the City; they sleep under dark stairways and caliginous platform roofs, practically anywhere they can seek refuge and safety until a new day begins. I ask whether there are many girls living here too. “No,” Ajay replies solemnly.
He tells me that many girls also make the fateful journey to the City but life is more perilous for them. “The fiends find them very easily and sell them into prostitution,” he explains, “Near here we have a big prostitute area. Girls are living over there, approximately three and a half thousand, working as prostitutes”. The iniquitous circumstances which force them into this life are just as tragic. “Do you know dowry? In India, whenever a girl is going to be married, her parents have to pay a certain amount to the boy’s parents. When a family does not have enough money to eat, how can they pay dowry to the boy’s parents?” he asks indignantly. Girls from very poor families run away from their homes and their families in heartbreakingly selfless acts aimed at freeing this financial burden and the associated shame which still permeates throughout villages in India.
“When a family does not have enough money to eat, how can they pay dowry to the boy’s parents?”
It is hard not to feel an overbearing sense of helplessness at the sheer number of children in need of help, but the Salaam Baalak Trust was founded in 1988 to combat such feelings of paralysis; stubbornly showing kids, devoid of a real childhood, that a better life is available to them. Created by the famous actress and director, Mira Nair, following the success of her film Salaam Bombay, the organisation has risen from modest beginnings to be an internationally renowned NGO, transforming the lives of thousands of Delhi’s most vulnerable children every year.
We have reached a small, unkempt Police post at the far side of the station front. As we trudge up the stairs to the rear, Ajay declares proudly, “This is our first contact point, and the first contact point of Salaam Baalak Trust where I used to come!” Annexed above the police building, we walk through an incommodious room – a gaggle of spirited lads are transfixed on the carrom board in the middle of the room, watching with anticipation as small wooden discs are propelled across the board – and enter a makeshift office which used to serve as the balcony for the Police post below.
At the age of ten Ajay had found himself sitting here in this very same room, “When I came here the first time, I did not understand about this sort of home, and I ran away again”. Living on the streets for so long had made him wary and distrustful, especially of those adults purportedly offering help, “I thought maybe they cut off my lips and hands, and use me for begging”. It is no wonder, placed under the spotlight by Danny Boyle’s much acclaimed film Slumdog Millionaire, forced amputation and permanent blinding is a very stern reality for thousands of street children; drugged and intentionally crippled by inhuman and amoral gangs in order to maximise their begging profits. One of 19 contact points around the city, kids can come here to obtain food, to access a social worker and doctor, and gain a non-formal education whilst they are still unwilling to leave the independence of street life behind.
Having exited the small office we negotiate the hazardous road outside the station once more; the sweltering heat of the sun has reached its zenith and beads of sweat rush down my neck. We join the colourful crowd pacing towards the compelling innards of Paharganj, the vegetable trader ahead gratingly hawks and spits a rapid stream of lucid red paan to the side of the road. A grubby teenage lad staggers in front of us and mumbles incoherently to Ajay, his filthy t-shirt is littered with holes and his gabardine trousers barely reach his ankles. Ajay offers a perfunctory nod and we continue walking, “An old friend,” he says, wanting to “go for the party… but I’m just ignoring… I have my exams.”
Hidden amongst the chaotic alleyways, he takes me to the first residential home opened by the Trust, to house young boys they had managed to persuade off the streets. The walls are newly decorated with a fresh coating of paint, which complements the clean and orderly environment that has been created here; a perfect antidote to the feculence and disorder outside.
It is one of the six residential homes set up since 1988 (four for boys and two for girls) and provides vulnerable children with security, in a loving an nurturing environment. An alien concept to many of them. “These kids are living here temporarily, six months to one year” says Ajay before explaining that the Trust spends a lot of time searching for the families of the children and, if appropriate, trying to reconcile and take them home. This is always their first choice but, understandably, sometimes it is not a feasible option.
“This was my first shelter home as well. When I was ten years old I used to come here, and then the social worker took me to another place because I was very good at studying, but I was crazy too, I was naughty boy,” he says, a cheeky smirk etched across his face. The six residential homes serve different purposes: for those staying for short stays, for long stays, and a home to address specific vulnerabilities such as sexual abuse. All of them, however, are united in providing a safe place to sleep, eat, play and study. Just as Ajay finishes talking, a throng of buoyant kids burst out of a classroom and canter down the stairs. Smartly dressed with beaming faces, they take great delight in welcoming me into their home, and displaying their knowledge of the English language, “Your name?” they enquire in excited symphony, “how are you?”.
It’s hard to believe that just a few weeks ago some of these jubilant kids were living in squalor, picking pockets and flirting with drug use, but that is testament to the army of social workers, doctors, teachers and whole host of other volunteers that support the work of Salaam Baalak Trust.
Just around the corner from the home Ajay takes me to our final stop: the organisation’s office. We clamber up the stairs and move into the first room on our right. One of the walls is adorned with photographs of former street children turned volunteers, and Ajay looks up in awe. One by one he takes pride in describing the lives they have made for themselves: Javed is studying at a university in America, Anil works as an engineer on the railways, Sudhir graduated from Delhi University and now works as a karate coach for Salaam Baalak Trust, Satyender was awarded a scholarship to study IT in San Francisco, and the list goes on. “So my friend, you can see, that all these people used to live on the streets and where they are right now. Because of Salaam Baalak Trust.”
“So my friend, you can see, that all these people used to live on the streets and where they are right now. Because of Salaam Baalak Trust.”
Next to the montage of volunteers hangs a photo of an English man called John; the architect of the ‘City Walk’ I have just been a part of. He had worked as a volunteer at the Trust and was confronted with a regular question from the kids, “how can we improve our English?”. His idea was to set up the ‘City Walk’ scheme where older children could conduct walking tours of the city, relaying their experiences and improving their communication skills. In return visitors pay a small sum of 300 rupees which goes directly to Salaam Baalak Trust to aid their continuing work.
“Now do you want to hear about my story?” Ajay interrupts theatrically. “Yes” I say, gearing myself to hear another tragic tale of abuse and addiction, but his personal story is slightly different. As I sit down he relays it with a stunningly concise and impassive flair, as if the young child he is describing is a fictional character from a nostalgic childhood novel, and not the man I see before me. “When I was seven years old, I got lost from my home during the big festival of Ganesha” he starts. And it was as simple as that. Inadvertently separated from his family in Mumbai, he had no idea where his home was and no idea where to go. He quickly learnt to survive the way the other street kids did; promptly landing him in trouble with the local Police, “I went to jail two times because I was a big pick pocket” he says with a mischievous grin. His perennial tribulations with the Mumbai Police eventually proved too much and one day he decided to hop on a train heading to Delhi; this is of course where fortune led him into the path of Salaam Baalak Trust.
It is astounding to think you could lose a family and a home with such ease – but in India’s largest city where the ubiquitous river of slums house over 50% of the population, including Ajay’s family – it is perhaps not so surprising that an uneducated seven year old could find himself in such a perilous situation.
Ajay says he was completely illiterate when he joined Salaam Baalak Trust, “an unskilled person”, but now he is enrolled at High School with aspirations to study at University and travel to America like many of the erstwhile volunteers, of whom he speaks so fondly. My street friends tell me ‘you are very good at the moment, you must stay with Salaam Baalak Trust’”.
His enthusiasm and passion for the future are infectious and as I leave I have no doubt that Salaam Baalak Trust has completely changed his life. I exit the office and begin to wander back through the compressed passageways; a purposeful barrow-boy clambers past me, and a strong tide of incense surges down the alley from an open door behind. I stand and gaze at the ancient Mughal buildings ahead when suddenly a curious thought occurs, “I wonder why everyone calls him Max?”.
heavywordsaresolightlythrown.wordpress.com 