A few days ago I saw a fully grown man get beaten on a public street. He was a grizzly looking guy, the kind you could tell had been sleeping on the street for a while with long, matted hair and a black two week beard speckled with spots of grey. He was walking down the road in front of the "new market," an upscale place known as widely for its merciless hawkers and touts as for its silk. He was carrying a huge, white bag made of a stiff plastic that crackled with its starchiness as he dropped it to the ground after receiving his first blow. It came from a man who looked more like he belonged cruising the golf courses at an American country club than selling cheap children’s toys on a street in Calcutta. He wore a blue polo and nicely ironed khakis over shiny brown loafers. The reason for that first blow, whether it be because the poor man was trying to snag something off the businessman’s shelf or simply because his unbecoming appearance was bad for business, I will never be sure. What I do know is that the man sunk to his knees and cried out in pain, his moans on the verge of tears as a small crowd gathered around the situation. I glanced around at the faces in the circle, trying to get a better sense of what was happening when out of the corner of my eye I saw the switch - a piece of stiff, beige-colored bamboo cut in half lengthwise to give it a better bend and snap - move again towards the man, then meeting him across his collar bone. The man again cried out but no one in the crowd moved to do a thing. After a few more seconds of writhing in pain on his knees and a few more threatening gestures by the man in the loafers, the poor man picked up his bag and cut his losses by leaving the scene, whether justice had been served or not.
This isn’t the first instance of the poor being physically beaten here in Calcutta I’ve run across. One day I was having tea with Farita, a beggar woman who hangs out on Sudder Street, the most popular location for budget tourists to find a guest house. She told me that she is homeless, and that if she sleeps one night in the wrong place the police will come and beat her "Very hard, like this," she said, as she began taking dramatic pokes with her fist at my ribcage.
Malik had another outlook on the situation. Malik owns a book shop just off Sudder Street. He said that he always has to keep a close watch on his tiny shop because these people were always trying to take things. He said the other day he was in the process of sweeping his floor when he turned around and found that his waste basket had been swiped. "My waste basket! Can you believe that?" I asked Malik about the homeless getting beaten by the police and he acknowledged that it does happen. I asked him what these people are supposed to do, where they’re supposed to sleep so that they can be safe from the police, if no one else. "Well, the police give them new places to sleep," he said, as if this was the obvious answer to the problem.
"Really? Well that’s nice," I said. "And where is that?"
"Well, it’s outside the city."
"Outside the city, as in away from all the people and thus the only source of income they have?" I asked.
"Um, well, yes I suppose that is true," said Malik. I then asked him about what I had seen the other day with the man getting beaten by the shop owner. I asked him if this was normal and whether it was justified. I asked him why the police were not called during these apparent robbery attempts, but rather a sort of martial law seemed to have been put to use. He said the police are useless in cases like this, that they couldn’t care less. That is, however, unless their pockets had been lined a bit, then they would come running with a phone call. Corruption among the police force here is a very common subject of quiet conversation.
I met another homeless, jobless man the other day named Vernon. Vernon came hobbling up to me on a crutch, his constant companion since getting sideswiped by a car a year ago. Vernon was old, in his late fifties I guessed, so his body just hadn’t quite healed back up after the accident with no medical care given towards it. Vernon’s story behind being jobless was a bit more interesting than most. He knew a few restaurant owners, was friends with them, in fact. These were people that would love to give him jobs as a maitre d’ or as a server (he speaks great English), but to do that he would have to be able to carry a tray and walk unaided, an impossibility with his leg in such shape. He said he would love to just have a kitchen job but obviously he could not do that. When I asked why not he said that his friends wouldn’t allow him to work in the kitchen because, being an Anglo-Indian (his father was English), the job would be below him. He would be working under people who were under him caste-wise. So rather than working a job that may have been lower than what he deserved, Vernon was out on the streets, finding safe places in doorways to sleep at night while storing his clothes on top of a city electrical box during the daytime.
These are just a couple stories of the many. I have a feeling that I’ll hear many more before my time here is over.
Back to Uncategorized
This isn’t the first instance of the poor being physically beaten here in Calcutta I’ve run across. One day I was having tea with Farita, a beggar woman who hangs out on Sudder Street, the most popular location for budget tourists to find a guest house. She told me that she is homeless, and that if she sleeps one night in the wrong place the police will come and beat her "Very hard, like this," she said, as she began taking dramatic pokes with her fist at my ribcage.
Malik had another outlook on the situation. Malik owns a book shop just off Sudder Street. He said that he always has to keep a close watch on his tiny shop because these people were always trying to take things. He said the other day he was in the process of sweeping his floor when he turned around and found that his waste basket had been swiped. "My waste basket! Can you believe that?" I asked Malik about the homeless getting beaten by the police and he acknowledged that it does happen. I asked him what these people are supposed to do, where they’re supposed to sleep so that they can be safe from the police, if no one else. "Well, the police give them new places to sleep," he said, as if this was the obvious answer to the problem.
"Really? Well that’s nice," I said. "And where is that?"
"Well, it’s outside the city."
"Outside the city, as in away from all the people and thus the only source of income they have?" I asked.
"Um, well, yes I suppose that is true," said Malik. I then asked him about what I had seen the other day with the man getting beaten by the shop owner. I asked him if this was normal and whether it was justified. I asked him why the police were not called during these apparent robbery attempts, but rather a sort of martial law seemed to have been put to use. He said the police are useless in cases like this, that they couldn’t care less. That is, however, unless their pockets had been lined a bit, then they would come running with a phone call. Corruption among the police force here is a very common subject of quiet conversation.
I met another homeless, jobless man the other day named Vernon. Vernon came hobbling up to me on a crutch, his constant companion since getting sideswiped by a car a year ago. Vernon was old, in his late fifties I guessed, so his body just hadn’t quite healed back up after the accident with no medical care given towards it. Vernon’s story behind being jobless was a bit more interesting than most. He knew a few restaurant owners, was friends with them, in fact. These were people that would love to give him jobs as a maitre d’ or as a server (he speaks great English), but to do that he would have to be able to carry a tray and walk unaided, an impossibility with his leg in such shape. He said he would love to just have a kitchen job but obviously he could not do that. When I asked why not he said that his friends wouldn’t allow him to work in the kitchen because, being an Anglo-Indian (his father was English), the job would be below him. He would be working under people who were under him caste-wise. So rather than working a job that may have been lower than what he deserved, Vernon was out on the streets, finding safe places in doorways to sleep at night while storing his clothes on top of a city electrical box during the daytime.
These are just a couple stories of the many. I have a feeling that I’ll hear many more before my time here is over.