The Walls of Delhi Read Free

an official ration card after last year’s election, and increasingly entertained the hope they wouldn’t get displaced.
    Ramnivas Pasiya was twenty-seven, twenty-eight, max. Ramlal Sharma, the local council man, put in a good word and got him part-time work as a city sanitation worker. His area was in south Delhi, in Saket. At eight in the morning, he’d put his plastic lunch tiffin, full of roti, into his bag, and catch a DTC bus toward Daula Kuan, and then transfer to another bus that took him to Saket. Ramnivas would punch in, grab his broom and other cleaning equipment and head toward the neighbourhood he was responsible for. When he got hungry in the afternoon, he’d buy a couple of rupee’s worth of kulche, and then eat his fill along with the roti he’d brought from home. His wife, Babiya, had made the roti; they’d been married when she was seventeen. Now he was the father of two – a boy and a girl – and would have had two sons if one hadn’t died.
    I first met Ramnivas by Sanjay’s. He had a good reason for frequenting the neighbourhood: he was chasing after a girl named Sushma. She was a part-time servant who washed dishes and did chores for a few neighbourhood households, commuting every day from Samaypur Badli, where Ramnivas also lived. Ramnivas had accompanied her several times, smoking cigarettes or bidis at Sanjay’s or drinking chai at Ratanlal’s while she worked. Sushma was seventeen or eighteen, a full ten years younger than Ramnivas. He was dark-skinned and lean – if the actor Jitendra were a little poorer, a little darker, and a littleskinnier, you’d have Ramnivas. Sushma had a thing for him; you could tell just by watching them walk side by side.
    The secret that I’ve been wanting to tell you is connected with the tale of Ramnivas. But please, promise me this: don’t tell anyone who told you. You already know that I’m in way over my head, and if anyone found out, I’d be drowning in danger.
    I saw Sushma just yesterday, and even today she came to clean a few houses in the neighbourhood. Every day, she still comes. Just like always.
    But Ramnivas?
    No one’s seen him around for a few months, and no one’s likely to see him anywhere for the foreseeable future. Even Sushma doesn’t have a clue where he is. I’ve already told you about this kind of life: a man who you see every day can suddenly disappear, and never be seen again, not a scrap to remember him by. Even if you went looking for him, all you’d find – at most – would be a little damp spot on a square of earth where Ramnivas had once existed; and the only thing this would prove is that on that spot some man once did exist, but no more, and never again.
    I’d like to tell you, briefly, about Ramnivas: a simple account of his inexistence that will reveal the first hint of the secret – the secret that these days it’s vital we all know.
    Two years ago, on Tuesday, 25 May, at half past seven, Ramnivas, as usual, was getting ready to go to work in Saket, forty-two kilometres from where he lives. His wife Babiya not only packed his plastic tiffin full of roti, but also placed a small metal lunchbox in his bag. In it was his favourite: spicy chole with vegetables, and aloo, too. Sushma was already waiting for him by the time Ramnivas got to the bus stop. Today, she waswearing her red polka dotted salwar, had used special face cream, and was looking lovely.
    The previous Saturday, she accompanied Ramnivas for the first time on an outing to a movie at the Alpana. During intermission, they’d gone outside and snacked on some chaat-papri. In the theatre and afterwards, and on the bus going home, Ramnivas inched closer and closer to Sushma, pleading with her to say yes, while Sushma continually deflected his advances. After they’d got off the bus and were walking home, Ramnivas announced this before parting: if she wasn’t