We are men and women.
Some of our days begin with odd jobs-
We are busy lifting things and loading them in truck, our soiled vests and a sweaty skin gleaming like polished shoe surfaces in the sun and yet by our own admission, we’re invisible.
We are driving autorickshaws, plying people from A to B, day in and day out. Some of these people sit at their desks and prepare reports that ought to be something substantive. Some of these people have people working for them, forging blocks of metal into sheets, the jangle similar to a steel plate slipping from my hand and landing on my feet.
And there are of us, wary people of the same mould, worrying over the same things simultaneously: the safety of our loved ones and the safety of our reputations.
We talk about anything under the sun- about women who were asking for it and about men who are bothering us.
This isn’t a feminist rant. It is about you and I.
You begin your day in a rented apartment and fast forward to work where you elaborate on presentations. I wake up and go where I work. I wake up and mop,clean,brush and dust for the madam that leaves her kid in care and keeps a foot in her cubicle and another in the creche.
You run, jump,skip,hop over obstacles and everyday is the same except that sometimes, you die. Sometimes, we die.
But still, you chatter around tea shops, discussing politicians and cussing them at the same time and I drop by, alight from my car and take a sip of the streetside tea while posting it on Instagram. You wear your overalls while machines buzz around you, a constant hum while you go wham. I, a ten year old kid see everything differently. Your world is so drab. I want to grow up already and have a job to pay for what I want. And you keep telling me to have fun while I can. Growing up seems fun too. You sit by the side of the road with last week’s produce that didn’t sell but I can see no one will buy it today too. I pity you, old lady.
You tell me I should buy this insurance and you have targets to report. I have choices to make.
These are just thoughts of a clueless mind about what we are, all of us.
Some of us can’t see colours. Some of us lose the will to carry on while others tell us their survival stories. I wish I could record all of this.
Men, women and transgenders because seeing the world in polar opposites is like trying to fit it into a zigzaw puzzle when it is not. It’s a seamless transition of states of matter. From skin to charred bone dust, from skin to termite infested flesh in soil, from present to the past.
People who marry the person they love. People who don’t like such people. People who have no qualms killing but find it difficult to look at PDA.
Children who don’t know what discrimination is, but will find out when they realise growing up is not that bed of roses they imagined it would be. Children who refused to grow up and have to be trained at schools for children with special needs.
Children with parents and without them.
This is going to take more than this. Maybe a series of posts. To talk about nothing else but us.
And to learn to empathize.