"Ik Bagal Me Chand Hoga, Ik Bagal Me Rotiyan"

A struggle for dreams and survival.

Ali, a 14-year-old boy, lives in the New Seemapuri slums of East Delhi—though the name of the slum seems cruelly ironic. His father was a manual scavenger. Life was not fair to him; he lived his own filthy life and died cleaning others' filth.

Ali's mother, a tuberculosis patient, works at "Amayra's Home" in a nearby colony. Even though her health doesn’t allow her to work, a few bloody coughs seem a smaller price than dying to hunger. Her Mem Sahib is considerate of her poor health; hence, she does not fire her for being too slow in cleaning and dusting. In return, every time Ali's mother dusts off the pristine wall paintings, she covers her face with her dupatta, hoping to keep her bloody coughs from staining them.

Ali’s mother started working there after her husband’s death. It’s been 3 years now. She joined for Rs. 600, and every year she gets a hike of Rs. 100 to keep up with the "mehengayi." Currently, she earns Rs. 900 a month. And half of her meagre income goes as rent to local MCD officials. Although she is well aware that this rent is not legal, so is their 8*6-foot home. 

Ali lives in a tin cabin-like structure with his mother. Even though their wobbly door is breaking apart from its hinges, Ali likes it. It carries his name, "ALI’S HOME," an idea he picked from "Amayra's Home" when he used to accompany his mother on Sundays. He writes it with kohl.

Like his dead father’s memories, Kohl fades with time—either due to rains, dust storms, or the repeated poundings of rent collectors at their door. But Ali enjoys writing it time and again. It gives him a sense of belonging and an identity in a place where it rarely matters.

Residents of New Seemapuri have a fluid identity, just like Bulleh Shah's sexuality. It keeps changing. They are Bangladeshis, criminals or parasites for some, and vote banks for others. But this existential crisis doesn't affect Ali. At least now it doesn’t, as he is busy earning survival and striving to fulfill his dreams.

Ali, like others in his slum, dreams of a life of sufficient food and enough money to take care of his mother and meet his basic needs. As of now, he regrets only one thing and keeps on asking his mother, "Why couldn't Baba get us a ration card?" Had his father been successful, they would have gotten a free ration and some money in exchange for their votes. That could have reduced some of the weight that he carries over his shoulder in a big plastic bag. But you can't undo your past, especially if you are a slum dweller and a Bangladeshi refugee. Hence, the only option left is to struggle.

Ali is a self-employed child laborer. Every day early morning, he gets out of his dilapidated “ALI’S HOME” for the city with a plastic bag over his shoulder. "Salaam Aleikum," he greets everyone he encounters while crossing the narrow alleys of his slum. 

Poor drainage makes dirty water collect on the streets. Ali finds his way through the dirty pools by taking big jumps, like an athlete on his run up for a long jump. After reaching the end of his slum, where the city begins, he can smell the change even in the air, from a stinky smell to the sweet fragrance. The incense sticks and the hot tea flowing through the sieves make the air more pleasant. The air is so soothing and satiating that he doesn't need any breakfast now and can focus on his work.

Ali enters the city with his eyes moving like radar, searching for his destiny. For him, ragpicking is like sorcery. He predicts his future by looking at the valuables in his bag, like a Greek Oracle reading left-over tea leaves in a cup. If he gets lucky, he and his mother might not have to sleep without food. If he doesn’t, well there’s no option.

With one hand holding his bag and the other picking up the valuables, Ali arrives like a mounted bandit. He makes sure that he reaches there before the sweepers arrive; otherwise, the sweepers and the army of green trucks would conspire against the ragpickers, making them return with heavy shoulders and empty bags. Sometimes, he also gets jealous of the "kachrawala" truck drivers' luck; after all, they carry enough waste to provide food for weeks. And a week-long assurance of food is enough for Ali to devote some more time to his dream.

Ali dreams of becoming a doctor, to cure his mother’s TB. Every morning, on his way back home from collecting waste, he passes by the “Navjeevan Hospital” in the city. There, he notices doctors with their faces shaved and hair well kept. The white coats they wear look brand new. The only thing he finds weird about them is a black wire around their necks. Once, he asked his mother about this wire, and she told him, “Doctors use it to listen to their patients’ hearts." After knowing this, Ali started imagining himself wearing a white coat with that black wire around his neck and listening to his mother’s heart, but his mother’s cough brought him back to his reality.

Ali found the idea of listening to one’s heart interesting. He knows that hearts never lie. But how would a heart speak? Ali once rested his ear on his mother's chest. The steady Da-Dum, Da-Dum, reminded him of the persistent knocks on their door asking for rent. He doubts whether his mother’s frail body could bear it for long. Sometimes he imagines his school teachers using it to confirm whether his classmates were really ill when they asked for medical leave.

There’s also a school in New Seemapuri where Ali studies. It’s run by an NGO. The school doesn’t charge any fee, but life does. Education is a long-term investment, a gamble for the rich. But, for people like Ali, every hour they spend in school would mean less food on their plate. Still, in his busy schedule of collecting valuables throughout the day, he manages four hours of school.

Whenever Ali tells his mother that one day he will become a doctor, she starts doing his unkempt hair. His mother's wet eyes and her trembling fingers moving through his hair never make him understand that life has done injustice to him. Being born in a slum comes with extra struggles, not only for fulfilling one's dreams but also for survival. She is a witness to the two generations of struggle. Her father-in-law, as well as her husband, both wanted to do better in their lives, but the fight for bread buried their dreams under the filth of this slum. Therefore, she pities her son.

Day-by-day she is coughing and bleeding more. To wipe the blood off her lips, she has to keep a dirty cloth with her. Her deteriorating health has made Ali more firm in his decision to be a doctor. Now, he devotes more hours to his studies. But his mother doesn’t take pride in his hard work. Perhaps the discontent that she noticed in her dead husband's eyes convinced her of the futility of hard work. Ali is no different from his father. Even if he keeps on working hard, after her death he will get overwhelmed with the daily struggles. Thereafter, he may settle for a humble life—a life of a slum dweller.

She also has a dream, an achievable one. She dreams that her son will leave ragpicking and become a daily worker, like others in New Seemapuri. Nearby industrial towns offer many opportunities for physical work. The only thing she doubts is whether Ali would be able to give up on his dreams, like his father and grandfather did. Maybe after her death, he will get married and raise a family. Anyway, he won’t need to be a doctor, as death cures every disease.

In India, there are crores of people like Ali who live in slums, forests, or railway platforms. They think that one day they will overturn their reality and live happily. But their constant failure alienates them from the outside world, and they continue to struggle in their overcrowded ghettos. Sometimes, unfulfilled daily requirements even force them into the criminal world. Although a few of them get lucky and succeed in realising their dreams, the majority of them keep struggling until their death.

Piyush Mishra's "Ik Bagal" song very well captures their helplessness as well as their constant struggle for “happily ever after.”

Ik Bagal Me Chand Hoga, Ik Bagal Me Rotiyan

Ik Bagal Me Neend Hogi, Ik Bagal Me Loriyan

Hum Chand Pe… Hum Chand Pe Roti Ki Chadar Daal Ker Sojayenge

Or Neend Se… Or Neend Se Kehdenge Lori Kl Sunane Ayenge(2)

Metaphorically, it encapsulates the paradox of our existence: the antagonism between our dreams (Chand or Moon) and basic needs (Rotiyan or Chapattis). It refers to the compromise that people make with their dreams to earn a livelihood. It also portrays our helplessness to achieve both sleep (Neend) as well as mental peace (Loriyan or Lullabies). People say peace is where home is, but life requires us to move out of our homes to sustain the family.

At the end of the paragraph, the writer compromises with an uncertain future for the present. He prefers survival over dreams and delays peace for some other day.

Hum Maut Ko Sapna Btakr Uth Khade Honge Yahin

Or Honi Ko…

Or Honi Ko Thenga Dikhakr Khil Khilate Jayenge(2)

The song ends with a poignant reflection on the duality of life. Death is the ultimate and inescapable reality. So, we should not fear life’s hardships. Rather, we should embrace the contradictions that come with our existence, that is, joys and sorrows, or beauties and pains.

Listen to the full version of the song and make your own interpretation: