I worked for two decades in a sarkaari daftar in central dilli. When I started, the region was a bustling Hindu area, dominated by a Punjabi elite, a load of bihari Hindus, and weirdly enough, a small population of Marathis.

A lot of marathis were astrologers, with their parrots. Biharis usually worked in local factories (wallets were one of the commodities they produced), some were rickshaw pullers. The elites didn’t really care who worked in their factories,

But they at least lived in the same region. That was a plus.
India went through market reforms in early 90s, as we all know. Suddenly factory owners were flush with cash, investment pouring in from all sides. Markets for cheap stuff exploded almost overnight.

Marathis started returning to maharashtra, made no sense being in dilli. There was more money to be made back home.
I stopped seeing parrots on chaurahas. They were fun little creatures. Somehow the buggers knew how to pick the right card, every time.

Moving on, there was a huge labour shortage. Bihar at that time was being ruled by India’s best ever chief minister, Lalu ji. For some reason, people started emigrating enmasse from Bihar at that time. Will never understand why.

That is when they started appearing in my little corner of dilli. Being a cheap ass, I lived near my workplace, among the proles. Saved me money and time. You couldn’t really tell they were any different. They looked the same. Spoke the same language.

The bihari community in my mohalla embraced them wholeheartedly. Got them jobs in local factories. The owners didn’t care. Too busy minting money.

They started mingling in. We celebrated diwali together. Because of course.

Sarkari salaries also saw an increase. The tax rate fell to historic lows. I could afford to move out. And so I did. From a participant, I became an observer.

Life became better. I could even afford the odd rickshaw.

Once I noticed, there were no rickshaw wala’s around. Seemed really odd. Was a <redacted>, just before weekend. Business should have been at peak. Happens.

The same happened the next week. And the week after that. Once I came across a congregation of rickshaw walas

All together, coming out of a brick structure. Asked them what that was. It was a makeshift place of worship. That day I understood why <redacted> was an important day for them.

Didn’t see everyone celebrating Diwali that year. Good only, crackers cause pollution.

The millennium turned. I got promoted, and then I got promoted again. And then again. Got a peon under me. He would get me chai every day, clean my desk, as he should have.

He was a middle aged man, must have been 40. Older than me, but he called me sahab.

He brought his son with him one day, 10 year old lad. Wanted me to use my influence to get his son transferred to a better sarkari school(Rajkiya Vidhyalaya’s we call them). Asked him why.

“Sahab isko wo roz marte hai, gali dete hai, aur kya karun?”

“Kaun marta hai?” “Unke bachche sahab, jhund bana ke rehte hai wo, ek hi ghar mei das das bachche, school mei aatank fela rakha hai, teacher kuch nahi karte”

I talked with a friend that day. Education department guy. Started at the same time as me.

We used to smoke together. “Yaar ye itne bachche afford kaise karte hai? Saale saare to rickshaw chalate hai”
“Ek bachche ka hazaar rupiya deti hai sarkaar har saal, school mei admission karane pe”
“To 5 bachche hai to 5 hazaar?”
“Haan chutiye, simple math hai”

Peon’s son got admission in the good school. He got me kaju barfi that day. Tasted shit, I ate a piece and threw the rest.

Another promotion, and a transfer. State government needed pencil pushers apparently. The first decade of the new millennium came to a close.

20 year mark was approaching. I decided to retire, because I am lazy and cheap. A government pension sustains me well, to this day.

Met my former peon when I visited my earlier daftar, asked him how life was. His son had cleared a clerk exam or something.

“Sahab humne ghar badal liya. Uss ilake mei bahut jhagda hota tha roz, roz ladai hoti thi. Police ka darr hai nahi unko, sadak pe hi bakre kaat te hai wo. Koi insaan kaise rahe udhar”

His son’s job helped a lot. A lot of under the table income.

Social and economic mobility eh.

I asked him if he knew where my former home was. I remembered the address, but had forgotten the route. Daily daru had affected my memory(I don’t drink now, in case anyone is wondering)
“Ganda ilaka hai sahab, kya karoge dekhke”

I still asked him to take me. He obliged, didn’t really have an option. I roamed around my former office while he worked the rest of his shift.

There were a lot more people around now. The lanes had definitely narrowed. Everyone seemed to be wearing a cap.

Peon came out at 5:30. He led me through the lanes. Goats tied everywhere. Women in black staring out of small windows. A stench of sorts, a whiff in the air. The place felt cramped. I finally got to my former house, after an eternity.

There were two women, covered head to toe, arguing loudly. A third one was sitting right next to those two, washing clothes by the drain.

“Kya dekh raha hai?” She shouted at me, without getting up.

“Sahab idhar rehte the”

“Hamare shauhar nahi hai, baad mei aana”

“Achcha” I finally spoke. Had seen enough. I turned around, ready to head back. Away from this filth.

“Urdu kitni meethi hai, mai ki jagah hamare bolte hai” I told my peon, making small talk.

“Sahab hamare matlab ham teeno ke” he corrected, almost immediately.

Before anyone asks me the purpose of this essay, well I am old and wanted to ramble. So why not talk about demographic change, kids here seem obsessed with it. It happens slowly, and then hits you in the face. I haven’t returned to that area since(almost 6 years).

Don’t plan to either.

The peon died a few years ago in case anyone is interested. Some form of cancer.