Homebound novelizes the migrant exodus that followed the Covid-19 lockdown in India last year. A story of family, survival, and relentless hope, the novel captures the resilience and fortitude of those millions of migrant workers, who trudged hundreds of kilometres home, and those hundreds, whom the long walk killed. An epistolary novel, Homebound is narrated by a fifteen-year-old girl, who is writing these letters to a journalist while on her way home. It was published by HarperCollins India on 12 November 2021.
******
Chapter 9: Coal and Crystal
19 April 2020
Dear Ms. Farah,
How do you feel about bread? If you ask me, I do not think much of it, maโam. Iโm one of those who grumble if it isnโt baked right, if its crust isnโt crispy and crackly enough. I know it tops the list of five basic human needs, and I understand that its absence could steal lives. I, however, am the rich kind of poor, one who has never had to face chronic hunger, not yet. Of course, Iโve had my stomach growl, my head fill with a fog, and my abdomen turn into a jar of vacuum. Of course, there have been moments when I found myself standing at the edge of my consciousness, hunger trying to push me off it. But even in the direst of those sinking seconds, Iโve had a rescue crew of bananas available, or spoonsful of sugar. Even in the vilest of those pangs, Iโve never thought of eating from a dead dogโlike that man on the highway, squatting next to the carcass in the middle of the thoroughfare, scavenging.
His mouth was covered in the roadkillโs blood, his red fingers were busy separating bones from the meat, and his eyes, like his stomach, appeared empty. His hunger had diminished him to a carrion thief, and the way he chewed, he made me look at bread as I never had before. Bread was god to him, Ms Farah; bread was gold. Bread was his greatest foe, and bread, the one true friend. Bread was his master and bread, his freedom. Bread was his journey, and bread, the destination.
โDonโt look.โ Ma covered Happyโs eyes, and asked us to walk faster. โMust be a madman.โ
โNo, heโs just hungry,โ said Baba. Father then crossed the road, handed the man a bottle of water and a few berries we had picked up from the forest. The scavenger did not speak, only a tear rolled down his cheek, salting his palate.
As my eyes stayed glued to the human vulture, Saleha, my new friend, tried to calm my disconcerted bones. โHeโs part of the social lattice, which in our country is essentially a grid of diamond and coal,โ she said. โMore black, though.โ
โWhat?โ I did not understand her.
โDiamond and coal, theyโre both made of carbon,โ she explained. โItโs the chemical bonds of society that turn humans like these, even us, into coal, and others into uncut, sparkling stones.โ
โWeโre all destined for ashes then, being coal,โ I replied.
Two hours had passed since we left the woods. I believed Babaโs math was sound when we spotted a billboard inscribed in Gujarati: โAfter whisky, driving risky.โ Saleha, a native of Gujarat, had translated the hand-painted sign for us, and although it was only a traffic warning, a warm relief had washed over our bodies. The language of the inscription meant that we had crossed the interstate border into Gujarat without an encounter with the cops. The threat of leopards, sloth bears, wolves and snakes, yes, but thanks be to the wild, not the deadlier, khaki-clad predator.
We walked by the villages of Gujarat, their narrow roads and monochromatic settlements. I wondered about the people who called them home, and how the novel pathogen might have affected their lives. According to news reports before we left Mumbai, the virus was yet to reach the countryside, and once it did, everyone knew that chaos would reign. Rural India, including Balhaar, does not have enough medical amenities for a regular rainy day, and this seemed dead set on being a thunderous year. Of course, sadhu babas in the villages would prosper, as sales of their jiggery-pokery medicines would rocket. Hooch sellers would profit and so would shrines, and the greatest casualties, as in any manmade or natural disaster in the Indian hinterland, would be women and girls. Drunk men will first beat their wives in frustration over their lost livelihoods, and then sell their young girls into matrimony.
โGandhiji once said that Indiaโs soul resides in its villages,โ I told Saleha as we walked past a hamlet. โIf so, itโs a wretched soul, a malnourished soul, a soul desperate to break free.โ
โItโs still beautiful though,โ she replied. โLike a black rose.โ
Rubbish, I did not say. Although Saleha appears worldly and aware, sheโs ignorant to the fact that her own beauty corrupts her perspective. Beautiful people find everything beautiful, as if these genetic lottery-winners are also born with a high-definition filter on their eyes, seeing the splendour of details that remain hidden to others.
After walking for about three hours on the highway, we spotted a long queue along the side of the roadโmen, women and children; young, old and rapidly ageing. The chain of human rust culminated into a distant truck, about a kilometre away. Curious, we approached the man closest to us, who informed that the wayfarers had lined up for food. A local charity, he said, was offering hot meals to sad stomachs. We decided to join the chain. Our middles were gloomy too, as our last two meals were forest fruits. I was expecting Baba to protest: โIโm too proud for handouts; I wonโt pose for pictures with the free food; I wonโt become the poster boy of Hungry India, Poor Indiaโ. To my surprise, however, he listened to his fragile belly and asked his dear dignity to visit another day.
โDo you want to go see how long the queue is?โ Saleha asked me.
I checked with Baba and he agreed. โTake my phone with you,โ he said. โAnd do not use it to call your friends. Itโs low on battery and only has twenty rupees worth of talk-time left.โ
As we walked by the travellers, I wondered if the novel coronavirus had vacated the world. The migrants stood close to each other and most of their mouths showed, their masks missing along with their fear of the contagion. They were faces hardened to stone, I noticed, and their feet spoke more than their eyesโnaked feet, muddy feet, plastered feet, blistered feet, bruised feet and bleeding feet. They had thrown their luggage and their children to the ground, and every time the line moved, theyโd nudge them ahead with their limbs.
As the queue progressed, so did the maladies. Some migrants had fashioned plastic bottles and bags into footwear, some had strips of towels and torn cement sacks fastened around their feet, some had used leaves to fill the holes in their tattered slippers, while one had โmendedโ his torn shoes with safety pins, the pins giving away, tearing into his skin. A few, shoeless children stood on their toes to keep off the searing earth, while a few others lay on the road, their little, fatigued bodies rolling to keep up with the queue. They belonged to all castes, creeds and sects, those children. The traditional divisions, the great fault lines of our country, seemed to have disappeared. All that remained was misery.
โPlease give me food,โ cried a middle-aged man, the whites of his eyes yellow, the tears on his cheeks, brown. The blisters on his swollen feet had burst, and a piece of plastic foam, which he probably found by the roadside, soaked the seeping pus. โI cannot stand in this heat anymore. My feet are scabbed. My urine has turned red. Please, give me some food.โ
Another man blew air on his sonโs face, trying to soothe the sunโs scars. The boy looked younger than Happy, but his parched lips appeared older. โWeโll get water soon, beta,โ the man told his thirsty child. โJust swallow your saliva until then.โ
The boyโs cooked face was still tormenting my mind when Saleha pointed to a man a little ahead in the lineโa human ox yoked to a bullock cart. He balanced the wooden yoke on his shoulder with a white ox on the other end, while his familyโa woman and an infantโsat on the wagon with their meagre belongings. I reckoned that the migrant might have morphed into a draft animal because he did not want his wife, a new mother, to walk in that heat with their child.
โWhere is the other ox?โ Saleha asked the man.
โIโm the other ox,โ he barked. โAre you blind?โ
โNo, sorry, I mean, why are you pulling the cart? Whereโs the second animal?โ
โSold it to buy food,โ said the migrant. โFor five thousand rupees. Could have fetched me fifteen.โ
โHow long have you been walking like this?โ
โTwenty kilometres.โ
โHow far do you have to go?โ
โAnother fifty.โ
The manโs answer brought relief. The distance wasnโt too daunting and there was a thick chance that the beast of burden would make it home alive. We did not want to eat into his energy, so we left him alone. As we walked further, portraits of our migrant exodus kept emerging, some distressed, some determined, some desolate, and some dying. A child, too tired to walk, lay asleep on a trolley suitcase pulled by his mother, his cheek resting on its handle, his hands dangling on the rectangular case, and his feet dragging along the road. One migrant had fashioned wooden logs and sticks into a makeshift handcart for his pregnant wife and little daughter. He said he had been wheeling the cart for 500 kilometres over seventeen days. As I looked at those people and their tribulations, the highway appeared like an open book to me, with black pages that only seemed to get darker.
โYou, how much for a night?โ a pervert in a passing car slowed down near Saleha and me.
โNah, mangoes too raw,โ said the man in the passenger seat before the car sped away.
I wanted to hurl my shoe at those menโs faces and I would have, had I not just learnt how invaluable footwear was. Like bread, like diamonds.
When we neared the food truck, I could feel its appetizing flavours flirt with my senses, and my mouth was the first to respond to the raunchy display, filling itself with saliva. The volunteers, I noticed, were handing out two packets to every migrantโone for the journey, which included a bottle of water, an energy bar, biscuits and peanut crackers, and another, a freshly-cooked meal of dal, rice, chapatti, curry and onions. Every migrant thanked the donors with words, tears, or a talkative silence, while some insisted on physical contact. โI know I must keep distance,โ an old woman touched a volunteerโs forehead. โBut I must bless you.โ
โWhy are the volunteers charging these people for the food?โ I asked Saleha. โOne rupee per person.โ
โBecause the most important thing you can give someone is dignity,โ she answered. โIf the beneficiaries pay a rupee, they feel theyโve earned the meal. Plus, it helps with bookkeeping.โ
Although the charity seemed generous, I could tell that the truck did not contain enough food for every hopeful in that queue of about 800 migrants. I was certain theyโd run out of packets before our turn, and Saleha and I decided to inform our families about the futile wait. As we began to return, some migrants, as if hearing us, charged at the truck, and started looting the food packets. The hungry travellers pushed, kicked and punched each other, as the volunteers tried to calm them. The decorum of the queue evaporated and people from the far end of the line started rushing towards the truck. A few parents crouched on the floor, covering their children with their bodies, as the starved humans raced against civility for food.
โI havenโt eaten in days,โ pleaded an old man, too frail for a fight as well as flight. โSpare some for me, please.โ
Hunger, however, begged louder. The migrants overturned the food cartons and ransacked the truck. They snatched the leftovers from each other, as if a pack of food-aggressive dogs, fighting over meat, on the offense and the defence, growling, lunging, and biting. I turned to look at the volunteers, most of whom were now standing by the roadside, watching helplessly. One, however, appeared to be talking to the police, pleading with them to arrive and restore order. That was our prompt. Saleha and I started running, and we phoned our families, asking them to run too. We could not afford another confrontation with the police.
โI told you,โ said Saleha as we rushed towards home. โWeโre all coal.โ
Puja Changoiwala is an award-winning journalist and author of two non-fiction books โ Gangster on the Run and The Front Page Murders. She writes about the intersections of gender, crime, social justice, human rights, and technology in India, and has been published by leading networks and publications across the world. Homebound is her debut novel.