I CHOOSE TO GO MISSING

“Chillao, jitna chillana hain, chillao” Scream as much as you want, I said to him, angrily. He went on for another 10 minutes about how f#@!*d up the Government is and how the whole virus is a scam to deepen communal conflicts between people.

“Babri Masjid toh cheen liya na humse. Ab gaon gaon me jaa ke aag laga rahein hain. Mujhe sab kuch malum hain. Aur kya chahte hain humse? Itna nafrat kyun karte hain aap log?” They snatched Babri Masjid from us, and now they are setting villages on fire. I know everything. What more do they want? Why do you all hate so much? He screamed out loud and suddenly broke into tears.

“Tum roh rahe ho, sunho na, please rona mat. Hum vaccine ki baat kar rahe the aur tum acchanak… Kya hogaya hain tumhe… Hello, hello…” Are you crying, please don’t cry, we were talking about the vaccine no? What happened? Hello, hello… I asked in desperation, when I could only hear his voice breaking into giant tears. My eyes started watering.

“Kya faida 14 salon baad ghar jaane ka? Mere hi khandan wale mujhe marne ki dhamki de rahe hai, to duniya se mujhe kyon umeeed rakhni chahiye?  Mera apna saga bhai, 2 acre ke zameen ke liye bhooka hain. Harami saala, chota bhai ho kar, itna ghamand. Ab tak maine hatyaar kyun nahin uthaya? mein kisi ka bura kyon nahin soch pata? Iss liye main ro raha hoon.”

What is the point of going back home after 14 years? When my own family is threatening me, what can I expect from the world? My own brother is greedy for 2 acres of land. Bastard, being my younger brother, what pride! Why have I not yet picked up arms? I am unable to wish bad for people, I can’t destroy anyone, that is my problem. That is why I am crying.

I was quiet. I let him cry. I could sense he was sinking back into the same whirlpool of regret and disillusionment.

“Isi liye kaha tha, paise kamao, apne pair pe kade ho jao, phir log tumhe izzat denge,” I mustered courage and said. “That is why I have been saying earn some money, stand on your own feet, people will start respecting you.”

“Kyon? Taaki main bhi un logon ki tarah ban jau? Nahi chahiye unke izzat, paise, jayidad, parivar, pyar. Sab jhoot hain. Marna bhi chahoon, vo bhi to itne asani se nahi aata. Thak chuka hoon main Ekta, bahut thak chuka hoon.” “Why? So that I become like them? I don’t want their respect, money, property, family or love. It is all a lie. Even though I wish for death, it does not come easy. I am tired Ekta, very tired.”

“Khana khaya? Kitne 90 lagaye?

Did you eat yet? How many 90s? I asked.

My mother screams from the next room. “Why are you still on the phone? What work are you doing at this time? Sleep.”

I checked my phone.It was 1:30 am. We’d been talking for two hours.

“Har baat ke liye ek sawal. 14 saal baad ghar lautna, mazaak ki baat hain kya? Tum sabko ajeeb laga hoga.” I tried to console him. For every single thing, there is a question. To go back home after 14 years is not a joke. It would have been awkward for all of you.

Ghar tak maine tumhe is liye pahunchaya, taaki tum phir se bhatak na jaon. Ek saal bhi nahin hua, tum phir se bhag gaye. Aise hi phir kho jaoge,” I ensured you reached home, only so that you don’t stray away again. Not even a year has passed, and you have run away again. Just like this, you will get lost” I said with worry.

“Mujhe koi pharak nahi padta. Jab tak zinda hoon, ghoomta rahoonga, bhatakta rahoonga. Mujhe kisi se kuch lena dena nahin hain. Bas jab mar jaoonga, mujhe dafnaana zaroor.” It makes no difference to me. Till I am alive, I will keep wandering, I will keep straying away. I have nothing to do with anyone. Just that when I die, make sure I am buried.”

“Aur agar tumhara phone pichle hafte ki tarah switch off aaye? Phir se dhoondne aao tumhe? And if your phone is switched off like last week, should I come looking for you again?

P laughs hysterically and eventually passes out with his phone switched on.

It is a highway. I can hear heavy vehicles passing by. People passing P by, laughing. Sounds of construction are heard at a distance. I imagined the sound of the metro passing by. I cut the call.

***

I have been in constant touch with a few migrant workers who came to build the Metro Rail in Bangalore, since 2009. They featured in our films as poets, ghosts, lovers, dreamers and friends, under the title Behind the Tin Sheets. In my latest film Birha, I travelled back to their homes, where they welcomed me with abundant generosity. Many of the workers I interacted with during the lockdown especially, made me realise that not much had shifted for them in real terms. They are grappling with the same ghosts, the same questions. Life had been hard for a very long time, the pandemic made it harder.

This piece is an edited transcript of a phone conversation with a dear friend, I call P. I met him 12 years ago when he came here to build the Metro Rail in Bangalore. He ran away from home when he was 16. He remembered his house address, but never went home for 14 years. When the COVID pandemic broke out in 2020, and migrant workers were keen on heading home, he too felt the urge to find his home. I managed to speak to the local Police station in Betiyan, Bihar and after a month, somehow managed to reach his family. He spoke to his mother 14 years after they thought he was missing or perhaps dead. It felt like a miracle. He ended up going there only in March 2021. That is a whole other story. Life experiences can reach a point of fatalism where there is no point of return.

For P, he carries hurt about things one would least expect: from the first slap from his father when he was 6, to his friends in the labour colony stealing his mobile phone, to the cops beating up the sex worker, to being beaten black and blue with a lathi, to mosquitoes bites when he was a security guard, to not tolerating workers shitting on the tracks they just freshly laid. To the growing hatred in an Anti-Muslim nation. He thinks about all these encounters as he loiters aimlessly in different cities, late at night, after work. I have lost and found him over 4 times in different cities. We argue tooth and nail about many situations, and we share things we see around us and discuss how they make us sad, angry, happy…

The migrant worker has become a central figure in statistical reports, relief work, research and fact finding reports, Government documents, social media: that image of him is hollow unless, we can say more than his name, age and the incident he suffered from. I will always remember P for asking me the toughest questions, which I could never answer. He always leaves me suspended with one haunting question: that of death. He has, not once, seemed afraid of death. His phone is switched off. I wonder when we will speak again