BENGALURU: Against the rubble of a 10-day old demolition drive in Fakir Colony, Kogilu Layout, and families displaced by Bangalore Solid Waste Management Limited (BSWML) clearing encroachments on government land, a group of men return to the debris of their ‘homes’. They pay obeisance to their Sadar (chief) -- 64-year old Khader Basha with heavily tobacco-stained teeth -- before they huddle around a makeshift fire lit by the remains of materials that till recently supported their humble dwellings in North Bengaluru.
The crackling embers lend some warmth to the homeless under the open sky on the penultimate December night. Men, young and the middle-aged from the Fakir community are paid qawwals (singers) and offer renditions on family occasions around birth, marriage, religious and death ceremonies.
“Hum dervish hain. Hamare baap-dada yahi karte they. (We are traditional dervishes, of our forefathers lineage),” said one of them while settling the loosely tied turban on his long wavy hair. “We offer Fateha, sing the whole night on certain religious days and pray for those who invite us. We teach our children from a very young age to sing qawwalis. When they grow up this is what they do,” said the others.
The qawwals carry with them a dhol (percussion instrument), which brings to life their songs of prayer. Some of them beg, sell petty wares, including toys, on the roadside. “We are paid for our renditions and make some money,” they spoke under the careful watch of Basha, who sat on a plastic chair in the middle of the rubbled square, facing the hearth; a common kitchen put together by some philanthropists, NGOs and donors to feed the displaced, which included women and children.
“We are from Karnataka and have lived here for around 30 years. We have all the documents to prove it,” spoke Basha, symbolically putting up his heavily beaded hand under the winter night sky. His voluminous voice rose among the surrounding din of people rendered homeless by the JCB that December morning 10 days ago. His green luminous jacket flashed the glimmering light of the burning bonfires around him.
Under the cold dark sky some teenaged boys gathered to play a game of luck on the mud. Some others aged between 5 and 13 years got around to sing inside the premises of the shouldering Prema Kannada School amid loud, innocent, hopeful claps, “Main jaanta hoon besahara hoon main; mere Aaka mujhe sahara deejiye.. Bulandiyon par hai meri qismat; yahaan kisi ko khabar nahi hai... (I know I am helpless, O Lord help me! I’m destined to go high but here no one knows it)...”
There was a symphony in the broken notes and young voices. There was hope for bulandi (height) in the debris of identity, migration, livelihood and poverty.