Dalit Stories from the Streets and Slums of ve Gone into the Forest and Wrestled with the Lion Dalit stories from the streets and slums of Bengaluru likho apni kahaani What the books

Dalit Stories from the Streetsand Slums of Bengaluru

I’ve Gone into the Forest and Wrestled with the LionDalit stories from the streets and slums of Bengaluru

likho apni kahaani

What the books taught me, I’ve practised.

What they didn’t teach me, I’ve taught myself.

I’ve gone into the forest and wrestled with the lion.

- I, Lalla. The Poems of Lal Ded, translated by Ranjit Hoskote

Mariyamma 1

Muniyamma 6

Pramila 11

Arogya Raj 16

Mamatha Byataraja 20

Komathi 25

Meenakshi 30

Krishnappa 34

Xavier Raj 39

Kamala 43

Selvi 47

Gundappa and Munikadaramma 51

Mamatha Shivakumar 55

Vasantha and Elumalai 59

Contents

FOREWORD

1

M A R I Y A M M AD e a l e r i n ‘ s e c o n d s ’ c l o t h e s

2

The best thing she ever did in her life, Mariyamma says, was to take her

three young children and flee the slum in which she was born and raised

along with her three brothers and two sisters. The other happy thing that

happened to her, she adds, was attending the international women’s

conference in Beijing, aged 25, as one of 94 women delegates from India.

‘I saw the China Wall,’ she says proudly.

Mariyamma never went to school. At 14 she was married to an

alcoholic, Ramu. The couple continued to live with Mariyamma’s parents

for the next six years. By 20 she had three children, the oldest of whom was

six. Ramu worked as a blacksmith, but whatever he earned he drank.

Mariyamma worked as a domestic help. She also went out, hawking

vegetables and food she had cooked at home.

Out of curiosity the young Mariyamma one day attended a

meeting organised by the Mahila Sangha, a women’s group. It gave her a

fresh perspective on her life, particularly as a woman. She joined a

woman’s self-help group and (for fifteen years) continued to attend

meetings regularly. Most homes in the slum had no television and most

women couldn’t read or write. The Sangha was their only source of

information. ‘I learnt many things, especially that if we educate our

children change will come into our lives. I realised then that if I stayed in

the slum only disease will come.’

The slum was no place for children to grow. Mariyamma had

always known that. ‘The poorest of poor live there. There are no public

toilets, there’s no water; only sickness, disease and filth. Children hardly

go to school.’ The worst of it, she explains, is that people have too many

children and homes are cramped and crowded. ‘Most husbands drink

too much. At night when they come home they are sometimes so drunk

they cannot tell the difference between wife and child.’ Painfully she

recalls the rape of a child by her own father. The mother, she says bleakly,

lost her mental balance after the incident. ‘I can never forget the incident.’

Mariyamma rented a house in a chawl called Vathara, where she

continues to live today - but in her own house - with her large extended

family, including five grandchildren. Her own children were educated

with difficulty; only one son didn’t study beyond the seventh standard.

Both sons work as drivers with Blue Dart. But her grandchildren, she

says proudly, are going to elite English schools in the city. One grandson

is in the fifth standard at Bishop Cotton, another is in upper KG at

Baldwin School. Two granddaughters are students at Carmel School.

Was the family offered a concession for being Dalit? Mariyamma shakes

her head firmly. ‘I myself went and requested them for admission. I

explained that I belong to a very poor coolie community and that our

children should also get an opportunity to study. They should not

become like us. In fact the principal in one school was so happy he shook

hands with me.’ At Carmel School the family got a concession of Rs

5,000, but that, she explains, was not because they were SC. ‘They didn’t

even ask SC or not. They realised I was a domestic worker.’

Her son-in-law, a carpenter, pays the school fees for his children.

Her sons do likewise. ‘I always say coolie work is enough,’ she declares.

‘Just hard work to educate the children.’ Mariyamma herself joined adult

education classes later in life and learnt the basics of reading and writing

in Kannada. ‘We are as good as blind if we cannot read or write,’ she says,

referring to her elder sister who is blind.

It’s been a long and arduous journey. For years she worked long

hours as a domestic worker. Her children often helped her as she slaved

away in the houses of strangers. Many a time the family lived off the scraps

of food and leftovers they received. Mariyamma sold vegetables. For a

while she tried making idli-dosas at home and selling them on the street.

‘But money is required, for utensils and other things. At least Rs 200. I had

no money.’ Being a domestic worker required no capital, only labour. She

didn’t mind because at last the children were receiving an education.

Some time during the late nineties, her youngest son stood

second in the SSLC exam and was gifted an auto rickshaw. At the same

time the Urban Basic Service Scheme was introduced, which trained

women to drive auto rickshaws. Mariyamma was the first of 49 women

to sign up. ‘My first passenger was Madhavrao Scindia,’ she remembers.

‘He gave me 100 rupees for the ride.’ The story was flashed in

newspapers and on television and for a short time she was famous. Since

she had little practice and could manage the auto rickshaw only when

the streets were empty, she left the driving to her son and continued to

do her domestic jobs.

Mariyamma had learnt the basics of how to start a business at a

5-day EDP course (entrepreneurship development program) conducted

by the Christian Children’s Fund. She put this knowledge to good use

when she invested some money in a pushcart and began once again to

hawk food for factory workers. Every day her son would drive her to

Tilak Nagar in his auto rickshaw and bring her back. Every day she

earned Rs 1,000 to 1,500. Then two years later, in 2006, tragedy struck.

The actor Rajkumar, who had been kidnapped in 2000, died. In the riots

that followed her food cart was set on fire. Everything was destroyed.

Yet Mariyamma salvaged something out of the experience. She

had overhead a conversation between two customer, both workers at a

garment factory, and it had given her the idea for a new business. She

began to sell ‘seconds’. ‘I learned that thousands of clothes such as cotton

shirts and trousers were sold on the spot for prices as low as Rs 30 a piece

because shops wanted to get rid off old stock. I bought one lot of 500

shirt pieces for Rs 30 each and sold each for Rs 100. They were very good

shirts.’ She made a tidy profit.

She was so successful she decided to make it into a regular business. The

news, that Mariyamma was selling good quality clothes very cheap in her

house, quickly spread in her locality. Customers flocked to her doorstep.

Middlemen would let her know every time a shop or garment

manufacturer held a sale of old stock. ‘Usually companies sell goods that

are slightly damaged at a high discount. They sell for Rs 250 a shirt which

is worth Rs 1,000 in shops. I keep a margin of Rs 50 and sell.’

Selling seconds from home has become something of a family

business. All the women in the house help to sort out the clothes. From

her profits Mariyamma keeps only money aside for expenses and her

grandchildren’s education; the rest she reinvests. She owns her own

house and has bought a tempo for her sons.

To the women in her neighbourhood Mariyamma is an agony

aunt and counsellor. Whenever they need to approach the police or get

legal aid, they rely on her to help them. They are impressed that she has

been to China. ‘I was selected through women’s groups. How they

selected me I don’t know,’ she says. ‘But the whole trip was free of cost.’

Only once Mariyamma experienced what it means to be an

‘untouchable’. ‘I was hired to do housework by a Brahmin family. I

entered the kitchen and the elderly lady of the house hit me. If she had

been a young woman I would have hit her back.’ Instead Mariyamma

instantly quit. ‘After the lady died I met her son. He apologised to me.’

Loans from JFS: Rs 10,000 in 2009; Rs 15,000 in 2010; Rs 20,000 in

2012;Rs 30,000 in 2013.















































































































2012;Rs 30,000 in 2013.

3















































































































2012;Rs 30,000 in 2013.

4















































































































2012;Rs 30,000 in 2013.

5

6

M U N I Y A M M AH o u s e h o l d c o o k

As a girl Muniyamma used to place a dozen bricks at a time on her little

head and carefully walk up five floors to deliver them.

When she was younger still, she was entrusted with the task of

taking her youngest brother to the anganwadi, the school for young

children. After leaving him there she’d stand to one side and watch the

children a little enviously. ‘More than anything,’ she says, ‘I wanted to sit

there with the children and learn the alphabets. But my father always

said: “Where’s the need for girls to study”. We were three sisters. I had

three brothers also but they all went to school.’

The teacher noticed Muniyamma standing there, day after day,

listening carefully, and one day she approached the parents and insisted

they send their daughter to school. ‘By then I had learnt quite a lot just by

watching and listening. I was good at studies and because I was older

than the other children in my class I was quickly promoted to the third

standard and then to the fifth and then the seventh.’

Today Muniyamma has four daughters, whom she has worked

hard to educate. One is a graduate, two are studying in college, and the

fourth is in the ninth standard at school. Muniyamma herself was unable

to complete her studies. At 12 she went to work at a brick factory. The

days of climbing tamarind trees to steal sour fruit were over. The family

was going through hard times. Her parents, both daily wagers, were

cheated out of the two acres of land they owned in Hoodi, on the

outskirts of Bengaluru. Money was often scarce. She remembers her

father getting drunk and being violent. Outside the home they faced

veiled hostility from their upper caste neighbours, and she remembers

her mother once being verbally abused and humiliated. Angered by all

this, her brothers and others got together and formed the Ambedkar

Sangha. ‘Even in school the other girls would make fun of us at times. As

SCs we had to sit at the back of the class. I used to feel like crying

7

sometimes,’ Muniyamma confesses.

At the brick factory, for Rs 12 a day she carried a load that was

heavier than she herself. For seven years this was her life. The work was

arduous and the supervisor relentless. ‘Mr Chandrashekar was a very

strict person. He used to correct our mistakes and encourage us to work

harder. Don’t waste time, he used to say. Whatever happened we had to

complete our work on time. He was very particular about that.’

Thirty years later, as Muniyamma hurries from house to house,

cooking breakfasts and lunches and dinners for 11 households, Mr

Chandrashekar’s little homilies on time management come back to her.

‘That time I didn’t understand, but now I realise how right he was.’

Muniyamma works 16 hours a day and has not a minute to waste.

She wakes at 4.30 am and at ‘5.35 sharp’ she’s out of the house and

hurrying to Prithvi madam’s house. In ten minutes she’s cooking

breakfast for the family. An hour later she’s at Sunitha madam’s house.

Half an hour later it’s Seethamma’s house. And so it goes on through the

day. She starts cooking at 5.45 am. Aside from a two-hour break in the

afternoon, she doesn’t stop till 9 at night. Wherever she goes,

housewives, harried mothers and busy women executives hail her arrival

and greet her as a saviour. ‘No one asks about my caste. Out of the 11

households I work for, seven are Brahmin. They all treat me with love

and affection and support me in many ways. In my difficult times they

have even helped me with money. Ten thousand once and 25,000

another time, all of which I repaid.'

Ten years ago Muniyamma used to clean people’s homes and

wash their dishes. Then two women employed her to help in the kitchen

and taught her how to cook. There was no looking back thereafter.

Today she earns Rs 38,000 a month.

‘In the beginning when I was cleaning people’s houses I used to

8

feel ashamed. I used to hide what I was doing from my relatives. One day

I got courage. I realised I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m only earning

money to give my daughters a good education. My daughters even speak

English.’ Because she had no son, she says, her relatives often treated her

with contempt and pity. But today Muniyamma is having the last laugh.

Her husband Krishnappa, a native of Bengaluru, takes care of

the house and does all the cooking while she’s away at work. Ten years

ago a metal rod had pierced his leg at the construction site where he was

working as a labourer. After a serious operation, which cost Rs 4.5 lakh,

he was bedridden for three months and for a year thereafter could not

move out of the house. To pay for the treatment he had to sell one of his

three houses. Even later, because of his leg, Krishnappa found it to

difficult to do strenuous labour. In 2010 he invested Rs 5,000 to open a

small shop where he sells eatables, tea and cigarettes. Presently he makes

a modest profit of Rs 300 a day but the family has plans to earn much

more from this shop.

Before he got married Krishnappa had a contract job as a

sweeper with the municipal corporation, but he quit after fours years

because he’d receive a salary only once in three months. ‘How to manage

the expenses of children, food and my chit fund investments like that?’ he

asks. Later he did small jobs for a daily wage and worked for a while in a

nursery, selling plants.

The daughters sit in the shop occasionally – if their father is busy

in the house. It is they who have advised the parents to expand the

business. The couple see a great future in this new shop and have taken a

loan to extend their present humble wares. Initially they plan to add

books and also to recharge mobiles phones. Then, who knows? Though

the shop is small the family is excited about it.

They are also eagerly awaiting the money they hope to inherit

9

soon. Along with her siblings, Muniyamma has gone to court to try and

get back the four-acre property in Hoodi which her father was cheated

out of. ‘We will win the case,’ in a determined tone she says. Since her

brothers and sisters don’t have much money, Muniyamma has invested

Rs 4 lakh towards the court fee and paper work. ‘Once we win, I will first

recover my money and then we will all share the amount.’

Meanwhile she has bought a sewing machine so that her

children can learn to use it in their spare time. ‘I am teaching them not to

waste time,’ she says.

Loans from JFS: Rs 15,000 in 2011; Rs 25,000 in 2012; Rs 50,000 (Nano

loan) in 2014.

10

11

P R A M I L AS a r i b l o u s e t a i l o r

When she was a school girl, children used to mock Pramila by calling her

a doddadu eater, one who eats beef, a Dalit. The memory still causes her

to bristle. ‘So what if I eat beef? Even today I like eating beef. Proudly I

say I am a SC woman and thank Ambedkar for giving us so many

facilities in society.’ There’s another small humiliation she recalls. At the

public tap in her village it was usual for some women to sprinkle water on

the tap in order to make it ‘clean’ again. If she caught anyone doing it,

Pramila didn’t let them off easily. ‘I taught them a lesson,’ she says

defiantly, yet her eyes seem to tell another story.

Pramila was born in 1981 in Sidi Hoskote outside Bengaluru,

the third and youngest child of daily wage earners, Krishnappa and

Chinnamma. As a girl it was the small children who looked up to her –

and she led them in mischief, roaming the village, stealing fruit from

trees, making candy sticks out of sour tamarind, occasionally filching

money from the temple to buy something to eat. ‘We were scared the

gods would curse us and prayed for pardon. But if we got a chance we

did it again,’ she chuckles.

When she was in class eight she joined a school three km away

from the village, walking the distance in her bare feet, often on an

empty stomach. Sometimes girls didn’t wear their uniforms to school.

‘I saw their colourful dresses and slippers and realised how shabby my

own clothes were. It was humiliating,’ she says. ‘So after I completed

class eight I decided not to go to school anymore.’ She would, she

decided, work in the fields instead, like her illiterate parents. Apart

from getting food, which she ate, she earned a daily wage of Rs 30,

which she kept for herself, saving the money until it was enough to buy

a fan for their home. ‘All I wanted was to get out of poverty,’ she states

simply, remembering her 12-year-old self. ‘I never felt sad for

discontinuing my education.’

12

A few years later, encouraged by an aunt, she decided to join a

garment factory at Bommanhalli, where she earned Rs 1,600 a month. As

she was only 16, each time the inspector visited the premises she had to

hide herself. At the factory she worked hard and learnt quickly, too

quickly and too hard for some who resented the way she always exceeded

her target. ‘To please them I slowed down. But I continued to work and

save my money. I was always conscious it was hard-earned.’

Married at 18 she quickly realised that husband Muniraju had an

unhealthy fondness for alcohol. ‘I successfully convinced him to give up

all his bad habits,’ she says with a little smile. The incident early settled

the power equation in the relationship. The couple moved to

Byransandara village in Bengaluru, renting a small place for Rs 600 a

month. Although Muniraju owned a house in the village, his relatives

duped him and took possession. Her father, too, lost his one-acre

agricultural plot in a similar way, she says. At first Muniraju worked at a

marble unit, unloading slabs of marble. Though he could earn up to Rs

1,000 a day the work was dangerous. ‘We discussed it,’ Pramila says, ‘and

decided it was not worth the risk to his life.’ Muniraju began to work as

a cleaner at ICICI bank in Jigani. Again the couple moved, renting a

house this time for Rs 1,000 a month. Meanwhile Pramila had given up

her job at the garment factory due to ‘health reasons and exhaustion’ and

was expecting their first child, a girl. Muniraju quit his job again and

began to work erratically at a series of odd jobs, earning small, irregular

sums of money.

In 2004, through a ‘contact’, he got them precious space in a slum

at Gundappa Layout. Pramila raised the Rs 12,000 needed to build a

room by persuading her parents to sell their cow. When the tiny ‘house’

was built it had a mud floor and no door. Pramila quickly found herself a

job as a domestic help and saved the money for a door. She also started

13

tuition classes for young children. As Muniraju remained unemployed,

Pramila began working in one more house, taking an advance from her

employer to admit her daughter, aged five, into school. ‘All the time I was

thinking how to earn more. That is my nature.’ She joined Classical

Men’s Wear, a factory in Begur, where she learnt how to stitch, earning

Rs 2,500 a month as well as one meal. After eight months she gave it up.

By then she had a two-year-old son and was not happy leaving him

behind. ‘I decided to stay at home and take care of my family.’ But what

to do for money? She noticed that in her area there were hardly any tailors

doing alteration work. Spotting an opportunity she bought a

second-hand sewing machine on credit for Rs 2,000. Her customers

were mostly Muslim. After four months most left the area and she sold

the machine. Again she began working as a domestic help and nanny.

Meanwhile, as always, there were expenses. A gold ornament

was bought. The single room that was her ‘house’ was divided into three

narrow parts. Her brother-in-law had met with an accident and his

hospital bills had to be paid. She invested in a sari business. The outflow

never seemed to end. During this period Pramila was also learning

dressmaking at a tailoring shop. ‘My strong skill is experimenting and

learning,’ she says with pride. Since knowing how to cut well is the

essence of a good tailor, she bought paper and spent hours practising

cutting at home. In 2009 she bought a new sewing machine. Soon she

began to get orders regularly. Today she stitches two to three blouses a

day, charging Rs 200 per blouse. In the afternoons she attends a

beautician’s course.

Over the years Muniraju too has grown more steady. In 2011 he

bought an auto rickshaw from a local financer. But somehow things

didn’t quite work out. The auto was subleased and Muniraju was back

again to being unemployed, this time for several months. ‘I withdrew Rs

14

53,000 from a chit fund and we bought a new auto rickshaw,’ Pramila

says. From this new auto, bought in 2013, he began to earn a regular

income, much to Pramila’s relief. At last Muniraju had ‘realised the value

of money’ and settled down. At present he gives her Rs 500 every day and

pockets the rest. Nevertheless, generously she says, ‘Because of him we

are living happily. He supports all my decisions. To him goes the credit

for anything I’ve achieved.’ Pramila is a member of a self-help group

promoted by the NGO, APSA. Recognising her potential, the NGO

several times invited her to train women on domestic violence and to

speak on their community radio.

Slowly the family seems to be prospering. The couple saves

about Rs 20,000 every month, though most of this, she says, goes into

repaying loans. Pramila owns 60 grams of gold and has about Rs 1 lakh

saved in South Indian Bank. An additional Rs 1 lakh she recently kindly

lent to a neighbour whose daughter had committed suicide. The couple

also owns a plot of land at Kembathahalli, near Gottigere, where Pramila

hopes to build ‘a beauty parlour, a sari shop and a tailoring shop all in one

place’. Meanwhile the family continues to live next door to a graveyard.

Isn’t she scared of ghosts? ‘I’m not scared of anything,’ she replies with a

smile.

Loans from JFS: Rs 10,000 in 2009; Rs 15,000 in 2010; Rs 25,000 in 2011;

Rs 30,000 in 2013; Rs 50,000(Nano loan) in 2013.

15

As a young boy Arogya Raj loved to roam Bengaluru’s many parks and

gardens. He’d take his catapult along and try to shoot down birds if he

could. Other times he and his friends would go fishing at Ulsoor Lake

and Tavarekere. ‘We cooked the fish,’ he remembers, ‘and sometimes we

even tried to sell it.’ They saw movies starring MGR, his favourite hero,

and Julie Laxmi. They played football and kabaddi. Twice he failed his

seventh standard exam, blaming it on his poor grasp of Hindi and

Kannada. After passing on his third attempt he gave up studying.

‘Because I was idle I had to help my mother in household chores. We had

no sisters. I was the youngest of six brothers.’ For two or three years

thereafter he did odd plumbing and electrical jobs.

Arogya Raj had hoped one day to be a policeman, like his father

Arjuna, a native of Tamil Nadu. Instead, at a young age he discovered the

joy of hammering and shaping metal. ‘All my elder brothers were also

working in sheet metal. I helped one of my brothers set up a sheet metal

unit, but it ran at a loss after two years. I also worked for other metal

workshops and learnt the business. In those days I used to earn four

rupees a day.’

In 1978, when he was 25, he fell in love with Rajeshwari. She was

a Hindu and he a Christian, but it made no difference. Nobody opposed

the union, neither his family nor hers. Love was something they

understood and heartily approved of. All the brothers had had love

marriages, except one. ‘And he didn’t get married at all.’ Love, in fact, has

been a source of joy and also of terrible heartbreak in this family.

Arogya Raj’s second daughter ran away and got married when

she was sixteen. She committed suicide in 2010, leaving behind three small

children. These grandchildren live with him. He loves to spend time with

them and wants to give them the education he and his own children never

received. Of his children, only one son completed his schooling.

17

Earlier in 2002 his middle son had also committed suicide over a

failed love affair. ‘It happened in the house when I was present, but I

couldn’t save him,’ sombrely he says.

Work was a solace and helped to ease his consciousness of suffering.

To hammer metal furiously and then shape it, to listen to the din of metal on

metal, the hiss of the welding flame: All this is part of the reason why he loves

spending time in his workshop. His friends marvel that at 61 he’s still working

so hard. ‘I love my work and wish to go on working,’ he says simply.

Soon after he got married, Arogya Raj got the idea of opening

his own workshop, not only so as to be his own boss but also in order to

earn more money to support his growing family. By then he had over ten

years experience. ‘That is how my business started. I used to get orders

regularly from my previous employer and then slowly from other people.

In the beginning I was only making trays used for baking. But later I

began to manufacture cots, metal cupboards and other items. My orders

got bigger.’ The small workshop fronted the house he’d bought for Rs

24,000, his share of the family property. He hired an assistant, but

everyone in the family helped in whatever way they could.

In 2003 he broke his house and built his present home. The new

house has a kitchen and veranda on the ground floor and two rooms on

the first floor. He lives here with his wife, grandchildren and one

unmarried son. Soon after he started Kiran Metal Sheet Works, a new

and larger workshop on a separate site. Arogya Raj likes to buy the metal

himself and supervises production. He also personally takes orders for

new jobs himself, along with advance payment. Presently he has four men

working under him fulltime, including his two sons. The workers get Rs

400 to 500 per day, as does his married son. His unmarried son, who

resides with him, receives Rs 200 a day for personal expenses. A painter

is hired whenever a paint job needs to be done. Apart from wages, he has

18

expenses like power, gas, metal. ‘I don’t usually keep accounts,’ he says.

In fact he gives money freely to anyone who asks. If he has a fault, his wife

says, it is that he is too generous.

Arogya Raj has many friends and several times a year he goes on

trips with them. ‘I don’t like to take my family with me,’ he confesses. ‘I

want to enjoy with my friends.’ His friends, like his customers, are from

different religions and castes. ‘I don’t differentiate. My wife got converted

to Christianity after we were married. I go to the temple with her, but I

love Jesus more.’ As for caste politics, he has no time for it. ‘During

elections I just go and vote for the party which appeals to me at the time.’

Family is important. ‘My one son wishes to set up a fabrication

unit. I want to help him. I wish for all my children to spend a contented

and peaceful life.’ Arogya Raj also plans to expand his present business

and train his sons to take care of it. Even so, he’s happy with what he’s

achieved so far. ‘I have provided employment to my two sons and also

two more assistants. I am very happy because I am supporting the

livelihood of four families. I will continue to do so as long as possible.’

Loan from JFS: Rs 1,00,000 (Nano loan) in 2013.

19

Every evening as dusk begins to fall Mamatha’s husband helps her push

her laden cart to the street corner close to where she lives in Bengaluru.

Customers soon arrive in twos and threes and at once she gets busy,

frying snacks, deftly swirling the dosa batter on the tawa, lifting hot idlis

out of the cooker, serving steaming lemon rice and ragi balls. By the time

the business packs up for the night she is weary but content. She has fed

70 to 80 hungry people and once again earned a tidy profit. Usually it’s

about Rs 1,000.

It might never have happened. ‘By standing like this on the street

and selling food you’re shaming our family,’ her eldest brother, a driver,

had shouted when she first began to cook on the street. Street vending

was an unsuitable job for a woman, any woman. Mamatha had paid him

no heed. For years she had longed to earn her money, like her friend who

had a little bangle shop. Tired of toiling over household chores for

nothing while other members of her joint family earned (though her

mother-in-law was only a domestic help), she was determined to be her

own woman at last, to depend on no one, not even her husband. Not that

he was as feckless as he used to be. He had grown steadier over the years.

He even drove his own auto rickshaw now. Plus there was the

not-unimportant little fact that he didn’t drink alcohol. But even so, there

are certain things a woman can’t forget. The fear of being helpless never

quite goes away.

Mamatha, along with her two elder brothers, had grown up with

little experience of desperate poverty. Born in 1982 in the village of

Jalahalli on the outskirts of Bengaluru, where her father was a worker at

the HMT factory and her mother stayed at home, she also had no

experience of caste. While she was in the eighth standard her father

began drinking heavily. Gradually the atmosphere in the house became

poisoned. Always a good student, she attributes her failure in class ten to

21

the fights that now constantly erupted in the family. She learnt tailoring,

but it didn’t interest her. At 18 they married her off to a close relative.

While her father-in-law worked as a lineman in the Karnataka

Electricity Board and her brother-in-law was a graduate (who later

would work in the HR department of a Tata company), her own

husband had neither qualifications nor gainful employment. Byataraja

had failed the tenth standard exam and all day he hung around with his

mates, doing little. Once in while he did the odd job. Every now and

then he pledged one of her gold ornaments for some cash. ‘In the end I

had nothing left,’ she recalls, fingering the gold chain bought with

money she has earned. Today she possesses 200 grams of gold. ‘Every

year I try to buy at least 50 grams,’ she says, adding with some

satisfaction, ‘Whatever I lost, I have double of it now.’ Demonstrating

just how much her situation has changed she says, ‘If I want Rs 50,000

or even 2 lakh today I can arrange it in half an hour without even moving

from here.’ Yet, remembering her own hard times she is quick to lend

money to those in need.

After the death of her father-in-law the joint family moved to

Bengaluru. While others went out to work she was forced to stay at

home, to cook, clean and wash for them all. To depend on others for

money. It made her bitter. Her husband, meanwhile, continued to do

odd jobs, earning little, if at all. Five years passed in this manner. Two

children were born, both bright girls who one day would do well at

school. At last one day in 2005 Byataraja got a regular job. Mamatha’s

second brother, who had started selling food from a pushcart, was

looking for someone to help him. For a year all was well. Then the

brother quit, leaving Byataraja to carry on alone. Soon profits began to

dwindle. Matters worsened after he injured his leg and was unable to

work for three months. The debts kept mounting. Other problems

22

cropped up, one by one. For a year Byataraja did not do any work.

In desperation Mamatha borrowed Rs 2,000 from a relative and

in 2008, along with her husband, began to sell food from their new

pushcart. The first thing she did was to add fried snacks to the existing

menu. ‘People really liked it,’ she recalls with pleasure. Soon business

picked up. Mamatha worked hard and her husband helped. In 2012

Byatarajaa bought an auto rickshaw, earning a daily profit of Rs 500,

leaving Mamatha to manage the food stall by herself. Since the auto

stand was across the road and Byataraja mostly ferried children and

teachers to school and back, he was often in the area in case someone, a

drunkard, tried to bother her. No one ever has.

Mamatha goes home at 10 pm, and then Byataraja takes over,

offering food to a more rough late-night clientele, until midnight.

Observing her success others in the area have tried to imitate her but

failed. ‘ People don’t realise what a huge amount of work is involved,’

Mamatha says, shaking her head. Not only does she cook fresh food on

the street from 6.30 to 10 pm, in the daytime too, in her kitchen at home,

she has to work and make preparations to feed up to 80 people every

night. Though Mamatha has a woman to help wash the utensils at home,

she does all the cooking herself. ‘ We eat the same food we sell,’ she says.

Her two daughters have learnt to be independent, like their mother. But

they are not left entirely alone. Next door they have cousins, children of

Byataraja’s sister and brother, fond uncles and aunts. Though the joint

family broke up, the two families continue to be close.

If Mamatha has a dream it is to start a small hotel and get off the

street. There are also plans to buy a car, which can be given out on hire

and become a source of regular income. Today the family lives

comfortably in a small house for which they pay a monthly rent of Rs

3,800. But it’s likely they will be rich one day. Byataraja and his brother

23

have inherited 12 acres of granite-rich land in Kanakapura, 40 km south of

Bengaluru. Mamatha’s mother, too, has a 20x30 square-foot plot on the

outskirts of the city, where she’s built a tiny house with some government

support. ‘She’s gifted me the third floor,’ Mamatha says, adding, fiercely

independent as ever, ‘But I want to buy my own land and build my own

house one day.’

Loans from JFS: Rs 15,000 in 2010; Rs 20,000 in 2012; Rs 2,00,000

(Nano loan) in 2013.

24

25

K O M A T H IS t r e e t f o o d v e n d o r

One day in the late eighties an impoverished young woman paid a worker

Rs 500 to build her a thatched home on a tract of barren land in Ulsoor,

today a crowded slum. Komathi, 25, daughter of a mason, had left an

abusive, alcoholic husband and needed, more than anything, a roof over

her head, a home for herself and her three young sons. To educate and

feed her children she was once again working as a domestic help.

It was work she was familiar with from an early age, having been

forced to leave school when she was only eight. Vividly she recalls the day

her childhood ended abruptly. She had got into a fight with a classmate

and as punishment the teacher hit her with a ruler. ‘She hit me so hard on

my hand my fingers were swollen. My parents got angry and they shouted

at her.’ To spite her, Komathi believes, the teacher failed her in the third

standard exam. ‘Because of this I left school and began to take care of my

small brothers and sisters.’ Many times she wished she could go to school

again, like her siblings, but no one bothered. At 13 she began to work for

a family and to take care of their child. She did this fulltime job till her

marriage at 17.

Komathi was born in 1965 into a Tamilian family and grew up

around the Ulsoor Lake in a settlement dominated by Dalits, a tenth of

whom were Dalit Christians. Later her siblings, too, converted to Chris-

tianity, convinced faith in the Bible had miraculously brought about the

change for good in their lives. Komathi’s father was a mason. Her mother

worked as a domestic help. But the family owned the small house in

which they lived.

In her new thatched home Komathi, now a single mother,

continued to work in people’s homes as a maid, an occupation she had

always found humiliating. ‘I cried many times when I was small and had

to work as a servant, even though the family was invariably kind to me.’ In

an effort to get out of it she tried her hand at cooking and selling food,

26

but was not successful – not at the time. Then an event in nearby Benga-

luru helped to change the course of her life. The Oberoi hotel was

demolished. Truckloads of rubble were dumped near her hut. Komathi

began to gather the metal rods, breaking concrete blocks to pull out

whatever metal was embedded inside. She made a good living selling

scrap. With the money she earned she demolished her hut and built a

small brick home. So busy was she working and earning money that she

stopped going to clean people’s homes. Never again would she have to

work as a servant.

About this time she found an orphan girl, no more than a toddler,

abandoned on the street. ‘I had always wanted a daughter,’ she confesses,

‘and though I was not financially stable I took the little girl into my home

and cared for her.’ With her family now even bigger, she again tried start-

ing a tiffin business. By now it was the late nineties. Where she lived was

no longer empty land. Houses had come up. There were people, custom-

ers. At first she fried snacks and sold them from a spot outside her home.

She made biryani, but when she tried selling it on the main road the cops

stopped her. She went through hard times again. On her hands and legs

a rash erupted, some kind of skin infection. For three years she could

hardly work. Still she struggled on, putting whatever she earned back

into her little food business.

Slowly the situation improved. By then her brother was active in

local politics and well known in the area. The connection helped. Cops

never bothered her anymore. Between 10 am and noon she sold tiffin

regularly. ‘In the beginning I used to make idli-dosa. Then I realised

customers wanted more so I began to make chapatis and rice.’ The new

menu was hugely successful. Encouraged by this, Komathi decided to

expand by setting up a stall in the evenings. Today she sells chicken

kebabs and chutney every night up to 10.30 pm. This business, which she

27

only does in the evenings, gives her her daily bread and butter.

Komathi is busier and yet happier in some ways than she’s ever

been. ‘I don’t like working under anyone,’ candidly she explains. What she

likes is to be her own boss. Her only wish is to stop being a street vendor.

‘I want to open a small shop one day where I can sell my kebabs.’ She’s

certain it will happens soon.

‘I never cheat my customers. I work hard and earn my money.’

She’s never accepted any government benefits either. Her children were

taken out of government school and put into a private school. But sadly

they showed little aptitude for learning. Two sons dropped out after the

fifth and began to work at a petrol pump. Only one son and her adopted

daughter have completed their schooling. Her youngest son, a football

player, was selected by the Sports Authority of India for its residential

program. Her sons are married and settled. Her daughter, though

married and with three children, still helps her mother with chores.

Komathi employs no one. She herself is up at dawn each day, preparing

food for 80 to 100 people. Daily she makes a profit of at least Rs 800. On

good days it’s Rs 1,000. She has money saved, about Rs 4 lakh, most of it

in chit funds. Every month she manages to save Rs 4,000. She has no

gold, whatever little she had was sold to pay the bills when she was ill.

Komathi is a member of the ruling political party. First she was

in Congress, now she is in the BJP. At election time she mobilises

women to attend rallies, a job for which, depending on the number of

people she’s got together, she receives a commission. It is at the grass-

roots level, however, that she has made a difference. Whenever a prob-

lem crops up in her locality she’s the one who goes to the local MLA

and ensures the matter gets resolved. She’s had toilets built in her slum

and got water connections. In her own home she has water on tap as

well as a bathroom.

28

Now that she’s almost 50, Komathi has only one desire. To visit

pilgrim towns together with an old friend. To go to Kashi, Rameshwara,

Shabarimalai. Back in 2000 she had tried to go to Dubai in order to get

rich. The agent cheated her and she lost Rs 30,000. This time she wants

to travel for the joy of it , and to thank god for small mercies.

Loans from JFS: Rs 15,000 in 2011; Rs 25,000 in 2012; Rs 50,000 (Nano

loan) in 2014.

29

30

M E E N A K S H IO n i o n a n d t e n d e r c o c o n u t v e n d o r

Meenakshi still carries within her an unfulfilled dream.

‘My aim was to become a teacher,’ wistfully she recalls. ‘When I

was small itself I made up my mind because my mother was uneducated

and my father was not committed. I studied in a Kannada - medium

school. I never got the feeling I was an SC. In my school all SC students

were studying well. I was good at studies, but failed in mathematics. I

was also good at sports and a member of the volleyball team. I was happy

to be part of the sports team. I played all over Bengaluru.’

Each morning after dropping her two children off at their

expensive private school (the annual fee for both is Rs 37,500), Meenakshi

stations herself at her pushcart. On one side of the cart is a pile of smelly

onions, on the other a heap of tender green coconuts. At 2.30, after eating

lunch, she picks up her children from school and then returns to her cart.

In all weather she continues to stand on the street until 8.30 pm, when it’s

time to go home. She’s been selling coconuts since 2007, onions for the

last one year. She tells herself she does this to pay for her children’s

education, to run her home. Her son, who is in the tenth standard,

attends a tuition class that costs Rs 20,000 a year. He wants to be a

mechanical engineer and work abroad. The children have expectations.

She bought a flat-screen tv for them recently, also a computer.

‘After completing my schooling, I worked as a teacher for one

year, but after marriage my in-laws did not allow me to work. Later I

taught in one more school for six months and also gave tuition to small

children at home. My husband wanted me to clear my tenth standard

exam, but I couldn’t. Ten years back I had joined classes in tailoring

and computer and spoken English. I wanted to improve myself. The fee

was Rs 3,000.’

During the summer months Meenakshi sells 100 to 150 coconuts

a day, in winter about 50. For every coconut sold she earns eight to 10

31

rupees. Onion and garlic fetch her Rs 100 to 150 a day. On a good day she

earns up to Rs 1,500. On rainy days it’s rarely more than Rs 350. She

started selling onions when a relative in the business told her there was

good money to be made in onions. Despite earning well the family has no

savings because of the children’s school and tuition fees. Also, her

husband was recently diagnosed with diabetes. Medicines are expensive.

‘My mother used to say that no one in our family has stood on the

street and sold things. Some of my old friends also used to say: Why don’t

you go for some other work? But there are many who think it’s daring for

a young woman to sell coconuts by the roadside. My life is an example to

them. All my friends are in a good position. We are in touch but not close.

I am the only one who is in tender coconut selling. I feel bad about it.

Recently my friend who is a bus conductor passed by and waved to me.

Immediately a customer asked me who she was. I said my classmate. He

was shocked to know I had studied.’

When she first started selling green coconuts Meenakshi found it

very difficult to slice off the top without nicking her fingers, but with

practise she has become a master. One can get used to anything, even the

smell of onions. Her mother used to sell incense sticks and later she

worked as a domestic help. Now she also sells coconuts from another

pushcart. Meenakshi’s father was a mechanic, an alcoholic, diabetic like

her own husband Dinesh. When she was born, in 1981, her father already

had three children by his first wife. Meenakshi is her mother’s only child.

When Meenakshi was 15 her father went back to his first wife.

‘When I was in the tenth standard this boy used to roam around

near my school. I didn’t encourage him. One day he proposed to me. We

eloped and got married in May 1998. At the time of marriage I was just 17.

My parents lodged a complaint against him. I even lied to the police that

I was 18. My husband is an upper caste boy. Reddy. He is the eldest son.

32

Due to his father’s illness at 15 he had to take responsibility for the whole

family. Because of this he did not study well, only till the eighth standard.

The family was in the business of tender coconuts. Before our marriage

my husband worked as a labourer. In summer he sold green coconuts.

Now he drives a rented auto rickshaw. After marriage I faced many

problems from my in-laws. Then we began to live in a different house.

During my second delivery I fell sick with tuberculosis. My child was also

affected. My in-laws tried to get my husband to leave me and we were

separated for three months. They even began to look for another girl.

Those were bad days. We didn’t even have food to eat sometimes. Finally

my husband decided to continue in our marriage.’

What are their plans for the future? One day Meenakshi hopes

to start a provisions’ store. She hopes her husband can buy his own

auto rickshaw.

‘With my husband I have visited many temples in Karnataka and

Tamil Nadu. But my dream is to go to Singapore. I don’t know if it will

happen. My husband has a 30x40 foot plot in his village, his share of the

family property. We will build a house there. In our old age we will settle

in his native place.’


Rs 50,000(Nano loan) in 2013.

33

34

K R I S H N A P P AT e n d e r c o c o n u t v e n d o r

Krishnappa, 53, wakes at dawn every morning. After taking a bath he

buttons on a clean shirt and then walks passed shuttered shops to offer

prayers to his favourite deity at the local temple. At seven he is settled at

his usual spot on the pavement, ready to meet his first thirsty customer of

the day with the offering of a tender coconut.

Two years ago Krishnappa finally obtained a licence to sell

coconuts on the street. ‘I paid Rs 1,200 to the Municipality. I didn’t have

to pay any bribe. Nowadays, in summer I sell Rs 10,000 worth of stock in

five to seven days. But in winter and in the rainy season profits are low.

No one wants to drink coconut water. I can sell no more than 50 a day

and I earn only Rs 5 to 6 per coconut.’

Krishnappa has been part of Bengaluru’s street economy since

the age of ten when he was sent away from his native Modur, in Kunigal

taluka, to seek work in the big city. He had just completed the fifth

standard. His father worked as a stone cutter and dresser, his mother

sold jackfruit and coconuts. When money was so scarce they had nothing

to eat, she laboured for a daily wage. During one particularly difficult

period his father sold a portion of his barren land to make ends meet. The

family was large. Twelve children, of which four were daughters. Three

died. Like Krishnappa, his younger brothers too drifted to Bengaluru

one by one.

Krishnappa found work in a small eatery called Ganesh Bhavan

for Rs 2 a month, food and shelter. This money he kept carefully and

handed over to his mother when she visited him twice a year. After five

years he moved on to Brindavana hotel, where he learnt how to cook.

When his salary of Rs 15 didn’t change, a year later he moved to the nearby

town of Shimoga, where a friend referred him to the Durga Prasad

Hotel. He began with Rs 50. Over the next five years his pay kept

increasing and he was able to send money home regularly by money

35

order. By 1983 the entire family had moved to Bengaluru in search of

work. Krishnappa returned and got a job at a factory. After his shift was

over he got into the habit of waiting for a friend who’d give him a lift

home on his cycle. And this is how he came to sell tender green coconuts.

‘While waiting for my friend, I used to loiter in a shop that sold coconuts,

watching customers come and go. Those days coconuts were cheap. One

day the owner began a conversation with me. When he heard I was only

earning Rs 3 a day he told me there was much more money to be made

selling coconuts. By this time my parents had got me a cycle and so, in

1984, I started selling coconuts.’

Krishnappa bought coconuts on credit in the morning and

settled the account at the end of the day. Each coconut, which he bought

for 75 paisa, he sold for one rupee. Once summer was over and the

demand for coconuts fell, he tried finding other means of employment

but with little success. For a while he was ill and couldn’t work. When

summer came round again he tried a new strategy to improve his profits.

‘I began to buy coconuts directly from the farmer. I bought from farms in

Kengeri and Kumbalgudu on the Mysore Road. I used to cycle all the

way to Nayandahalli with my coconuts. Many truck drivers passed on

that road and they’d stop to refresh themselves with some sweet coconut

water. Soon I was earning Rs 50 a day. Since I had no bad habits I used

to give all my money to my mother. My mother saved the money and later

bought two plots of land in Kamalanagar, where we live today.’ Each plot

measured 20x25 feet.

One by one the siblings were getting married. To pay for the

wedding of his two sisters one plot was sold in 1998. The second was sold

to pay his mother’s medical bills. Meanwhile Krishnappa himself had

settled down to domestic life in 1995. His wife Meena was a mere girl,

almost 20 years younger than him. She had never been to school. Two

36

sons were born, one after the other. With marriage came greater

responsibility. For a while he tried working as a cook for wedding

parties. His wife also began to work as a domestic help during lean

periods. Then Krishnappa began to sell vegetables. Each year as summer

drew to a close, he sat on the pavement and sold fresh vegetables.

Through the rainy season and winter months this practice continued for

the next twelve to thirteen years.

All day Krishnappa sits on the pavement and watches people

pass by on the busy street. It’s all very different from life in the village, he

says. He recalls how as children they were warned never to enter a

Brahmin’s home. Although it’s not the same in the city, some of his

community even now tend to follow the practices of their elders. By way

of example he says, ‘Even here in Bengaluru people of a lower caste than

ours won’t enter our house. We don’t say no, but still they don’t come. But

now everything is changing slowly.’

In 2012 he made up his mind to open a little shop where he could

sell daily provisions, along with coconuts. He invested some money in the

venture but soon after fell ill. ‘Nothing life-threatening,’ he says. ‘But I

couldn’t work and it took me a long time to recover.’ The little shop

closed down and he was back on the pavement, selling coconuts in all

weather. ‘It was not an auspicious time for me,’ he remarks stoically. ‘I lost

about 2 lakh. Later I had to spend another 2 lakh for my mother-in-law’s

heart operation and my sister-in-law’s wedding.’ Presently he owes about

Rs 25,700 in chit funds and loans.

Krishnappa seems not unhappy to be back on the pavement. ‘I

started the shop keeping in mind the future and because I wanted to

establish some business for my two sons,’ he explains. His elder son

Madhu failed his tenth standard exam and now at 17 sells tender

coconuts like his father, but on a handcart. But it is his younger Mahesh,

37

who has been a cause of heartache and trouble to his parents. ‘Three

times he ran away from home. He says he doesn’t want to live with us.’

Krishnappa shakes his head. Mahesh, 16, resides at Bosco, an NGO that

works with street children. He is studying for the tenth standard exam. ‘I

hope he does well,’ his father says, adding, ‘My children never listened to

me. What to do. We have to take them as they are.’

All through his childhood, Krishnappa says, he had no dreams. ‘I

didn’t have a chance. Afterwards I wished only that my children should

study well.’

In his old age Krishnappa will return to his village and build a

house on some barren land the family owns there. He hopes by then to

have paid off his loans and saved some money. He has a life insurance

policy, for himself and his two sons. ‘I have little hope of my children taking

care of me in my old age,’ he says. Without bitterness he adds, ‘I was a

good son. I never smoked or drank. I always listened to my parents.’

Meanwhile it’s another wintry day on the pavement. Someone

stops for a coconut. Krishnappa searches in the pile and holds up a green

coconut for his customer to inspect. When the customer nods his

approval Krishnappa grins. Expertly he slices off the top, sticks a straw

inside, and offers it up to the man. He has earned another six rupees.


Rs 50,000 (Nano loan) in 2014.

38

39

X A V I E R R A JT a i l o r

As a child, Xavier Raj, wanted to be a doctor. But extreme poverty and

the illness of his father, a mason, forced him to drop out of school halfway

through the tenth standard. ‘My father’s sickness was a result of black

magic by our relatives,’ he says ‘He would get cured in hospital but again

he’d fall sick. His condition was getting worse day by day. He was sick for

two years.’

Born to Mary Das and Sagaya Das in Eachanghuttam, a village

in Vellipuram district of Tamil Nadu, Raju, as everyone calls him, was

the only son. He has one sister, younger than him. Raju played with

upper caste boys. ‘But we did not enter their houses, even if we were

friends.’ A television was kept outside the house so that children like

Raju, who had no tv at home, could watch.

After his father fell ill, Raju left school to tend goats and work in

the fields in order to support his mother. It was the end of childhood, a

departure from more carefree days when he’d bunk classes and run into

the forest to climb coconut and palm trees with his friends. His sister

continued to study, but with little interest. She left school after the

seventh standard and no one objected.

When his father got better, Raju, then 16, went first to Chennai,

where he did a series of odd jobs - washing cars, selling popcorn, painting

walls, working at a florist, selling juice - before migrating to Bengaluru.

In Bengaluru he found caste discrimination was no better. The Christian

name was no redemption from the caste identity the forward caste

Hindus imposed. He stayed with his father’s elder sister and took up a

job as a worker on a construction site. At the suggestion of his aunt, he

attended a tailoring class for two hours every morning, paying Rs 150 a

week for three months. After the class he went to work as a daily wager,

earning Rs 50. Out of this, the labour contractor, who was also his uncle,

took his cut: Rs 10 every day. In 2002 after he’d learnt tailoring Raju

40

joined a garment factory as a helper on a power machine for Rs 70 a day.

After three years he moved to another garment company, K Mohan,

where, along with his monthly salary of Rs 3,500, he got ESI and PF. ‘I

managed my sister's wedding with the PF amount,’ he says. After his

sister’s wedding he took up piece work, earning Rs 500 a day.

At 23, he got married to Usha, the daughter of a tailor, who had been

born and brought up in Bengaluru. Usha’s mother had converted to

Christianity two decades earlier in the hope that the neighbourhood

pastor would help reform her alcoholic husband who regularly beat her.

The family, too, followed suit.

As factories began to outsource work to small tailors, Raju

invested Rs 12,000 in a single Zukki power machine. In a day he could

now cut cloth to make three shirts. He realised that by taking orders he

could earn Rs 150 a day and thought of expanding. He invested in two

more machines. To improve profits he got rid of the middle men and

began to deal directly with the garment companies. Though Raju and

Usha managed everything from home for a long time, by the time their

first child, Jabas, was born, they had rented a shop for Rs 1,500 a month.

But such a small shop at such a steep rent proved to be a bad idea. He

returned the business to his house. Now he had another problem on his

hands. ‘Since it was a power machine, it could give a child a shock any

time. I used to be very scared working at home. But carrying the machine

from one place to another was also very difficult.’

However, consistent hard work paid off. Soon Raju quit taking

piecework contracts from garment companies. He opened a tailoring

shop where he now charges Rs 500 for a shirt and a pair of pants. Other

tailors charge more than Rs 600, but Raju believes he has an advantage.

Even three sets per day fetch him a good monthly return, which increases

substantially during festivals. Furthermore, he wants to expand his

41

business by buying two more sewing machines and also a popcorn

machine. He says he saw the potential of popcorn while working on the

machine as a young man.

At present his tailoring shop, Raju Fashion Tailor, is thriving.

He loves the name. ‘Everybody who knows me here as Raju thinks it’s

named after me. But actually it’s named after all the members of my

family.’ The R stands for Raj, A for daughter Apsiba, J for son, Jabas and

U for wife Usha.

Comfortably off himself, Raju feels something like despair when

he sees young men with great potential whiling away their time, doing

nothing. ‘You have to come up in life. You cannot gamble it all away. I see

a lot of boys in our area who can do so much with their lives, but they lack

the drive. They are ruining themselves.’

‘To have a home of one’s own and earn well. What else do you

need in life?’ he says.

His wife Usha is the one who is keen on sending her children to

an English medium school. Her one regret is that she herself never had

the opportunity. ‘Sometimes I feel like scolding my mother for not

sending me.’ She’s convinced that learning English would have opened

more doors for her. ‘I could have got a better job than the one I had in a

garment factory. But my father was an alcoholic and he was no help to my

poor mother. So I am happy that she even managed to struggle and send

me to school. At least I am educated.’

His son goes to an English medium school and the couple will

do the same for their daughter, when she is old enough. ‘Both should

study equally,’ Raju says firmly.


Rs 50,000 (Nano loan) in 2013.

42

43

K A M A L AS a r i s e l l e r

As a little girl of eight, Kamala has sometimes begged on the streets of

Bengaluru. Her father, a carpenter, had died some years before and his

widow had gathered her four young children and left their home in

Doddaballapur. In Bengaluru she hoped to feed herself, her four

daughters and one son.

The young mother found work at a construction site where she

earned Rs 12 a week. She also took to selling flowers by the roadside. Life

was hard for a long time. Kamala’s brother got into bad company and

was often in jail. One sister alone completed her schooling. A second

used to accompany her mother to the construction site. Kamala herself

never went to school and has only ‘learnt how to sign’. At the age of eight

she started working as a domestic help. ‘I was working for Rs 2 or 3 a

month. The family used to give me food and clothes.’

Today, at 46, Kamala owns jewellery worth Rs 5 lakh, is a

member of a political party, heads the Mahila Sangha, a women’s group,

and does a brisk business in saris and textiles. Her daughter, Deepa, is an

accountant and wants to take up job in Malaysia. Her son Harish works

at a call centre. Three other children are also settled and doing well. ‘Till

ten years ago I was struggling to bring up my five children,’ Kamala

confesses. Her husband, Mani, an alcoholic, did paint and polish work.

She recalls how she used to roll beedis and make incense sticks and

garlands for weddings. ‘I worked as a maid and even my daughters used

to work in two houses and then go to school. Later they began to work in

the factory. Slowly we improved our situation.’

It began with her selling blouse pieces, then she moved on to

saris. She invested Rs 5,000 in the beginning, then Rs. 10,000 until,

gradually, ‘I started investing big,’ she says.

Kamala was married at 13. Seeing how hungry the family was a

young man Mani used to bring them food from a nearby eatery. ‘Because

44

of that my mother thought he was a good person and would take care of

me.’ By then she was also in love. Mani was a Dalit, but nobody cared.

‘We didn’t care much about caste.’ She didn’t know at the time that a

woman belonging to a higher caste automatically becomes a

Dalit if her husband is one.

She became first aware of this while attending a festival in

Doddaballapur with her husband and five children. ‘We were ill treated.

I asked my mother why and she told me that I was now a lower caste

woman. We cried a lot. I thought: We are all humans, blood will be red

for all.’ Kamala mentioned the incident to her Iyengar employer. ‘He told

me to ignore it and to live for myself and my children.’

While they were struggling to make ends meet an Italian pastor,

who ran a Trust at Tavarakere, came to their aid. The Trust daily

sponsored one litre of milk for children. It also sponsored children’s

education and offered training to women. While her children went to

school, Kamala learnt tailoring, embroidery and how to make incense

sticks. She also converted to Christianity. ‘Nobody forced me,’ she says.

Soon some people in the area started an organisation with

savings of Rs 3 or 4 a week, offering loans to those in need. In 2004 they

formed a Mahila Sangha at a bank, with an investment of Rs 5,000.

With this money she bought clothes that she sold. ‘Now we have

invested Rs 1 lakh and have the capacity of investing as much as Rs. 2

lakh,’ she says.

Three years ago she and a friend started buying clothes in Erode.

‘Clothes we buy in Erode for Rs 60 we sell for as much as Rs 150 in

Bengaluru. Business is generally good during festivals. And we also have

regular customers.’

The turning point in her life came when she joined a political

party. Presently, as a member of the Bharatiya Janata Party, she does

45

social work, helping women harassed for dowry and other evils. Though

she is happy she has ‘the energy to help others,’ Kamala is busy also

planning the family’s future. ‘We want to open a textile shop, a cyber café

and a hardware store. We will need about Rs 50 lakh for all this.’ Kamala

has no doubt that she will succeed. ‘I’m like my mother,’ she says. ‘She too

was stubborn, strong and independent.’ Her mother has been her

greatest inspiration. ‘She taught us to work hard.’

Loans from JFS: Rs 10,000 in 2010; Rs 20,000 in 2011; Rs 1,00,000

(Nano loan) in 2014.

46

47

S E L V II d l i b u s i n e s s a n d p r o v i s i o n s ’ s t o r e

Every morning in her kitchen at home Selvi, 49, makes fluffy idlis:

breakfast for her family and also for dozens of other families in the

neighborhood. This has been a morning ritual for the past 20 years. Her

grandmother did the same, and for a while her mother too. Selvi

outsources the grinding of rice and urad dal but makes the chutney

herself, once using her stone grinder, but now the more practical electric

grinder. ‘I am famous for my idlis,’ she says with a touch of pride. Her idli

business shuts down by 10 am.

Then it’s time to sit in her little 4x5 foot shop, which adjoins her

house. For the rest of the day she sells rice, dal and other such things,

occasionally thinking of the many businesses she’s done in the past, and

dreaming also, of new ventures. Selvi earns a profit of about Rs 100 every

day from the shop. In addition, after deducting costs, she makes Rs 50

from selling idlis. ‘My husband doesn’t encourage me or discourage me in

what I do. But my younger son always supports and helps me if I have a

problem.’ Selvi is glad she doesn’t have to depend anymore on her

husband or his salary. She recalls how her mother suffered for not being

financially independent.

When Selvi was three, her father gave up his minor job at the

Air Force. Though they continued to reside at the Air Force quarters in

Bengaluru, at the home of her maternal grandfather, everything

changed slowly. Her father opened a cycle shop and began to hire out

cycles. The family also had a firewood depot. Later her father bought

an auto rickshaw. He bought a car on loan, and hired it out. Selvi has

happy memories of her father taking them for rides in his rickshaw.

Then he began to drink heavily and to gamble. As the debts mounted

some of the land the family owned had to be sold. Her elder brother

was forced to drop out of school to manage the cycle shop. Selvi herself

failed to pass the tenth standard exam.

48

At 28 the family got her married and Selvi Rose Mary, a

Christian, became Shailaja. ‘Not everyone was happy I was marrying a

Hindu, that too of a lower caste.’ But her mother, too, had converted

upon marrying. A Hindu formerly, she became a Christian. On the

maternal side, at least, they were Dalits. In later years Selvi would regret

the conversion. ‘I was baptised and a regular member of the church. In

fact the priest wanted my husband to convert to Christianity. At the time

he agreed, but it never happened.’ Dazzled by the grand wedding in her

husband’s hometown of Kolar, Selvi forgot about matters like religion.

Kumar Babu, her husband, had a diploma in photography but no

job. His father, however, was a member of the Congress party and a man

of some influence and wealth. When he died of a heart attack six years

later, everything changed. With no earning individual and no money,

suddenly there was no food to eat in house. She couldn’t even go to church

to pray because her husband didn’t like it. ‘We just celebrated Christian

festivals at home.’ The only thing to do was to leave Kolar, which offered

them few opportunities. In 1992 Selvi returned to her native Bengaluru

along with her husband. They took their two sons with them, leaving a

small daughter in the custody of Kumar Babu’s mother.

Kumar Babu got a job as a security guard and the family settled

down in Siddarthanagar. Over the years her husband has remained steady

in his employment. He earns Rs 9,000 a month. Her two sons, too, have

steady jobs. Ashwin works as a turner on the lathe, earning Rs 10,000.

Naveen is in Sales and earns Rs 9,000. Both have finished their schooling.

In the family, Selvi alone is constantly dreaming up new schemes

to earn money. First it was the idli business, which became a daily habit.

Soon she was restless for more. In 1994, seeing the demand for cotton

saris she did some quick calculations and decided there was money to be

made from selling saris. She bought cotton saris at wholesale prices,

49

paying Rs 55 or Rs 60. Instead of selling them door to door, she had the

ingenious idea of starting a sari chit fund. Women in batches of ten paid

Rs 7 each. Once a month there was a lucky draw in which one woman

received her sari. Selvi had a hundred enrolled for her fund and made Rs

10 per sari. ‘I became famous for my sari chit fund,’ she beams. ‘Even

today I have the books of accounts.’

Buoyed by her success she tried the chit fund concept with other

products, selling brass utensils, tv tables and display cases in this way. ‘I

was the pioneer in this neighbourhood. I used to earn Rs 450 to Rs 550

from these material chit funds.’ Soon she had moved on to the real thing

and started a regular chit fund business. For some years she did well. The

family bought a small house for Rs 85,000 in 1998. In 2008 several

customers cheated her and Selvi lost money. Eventually, in 2013, she gave

up the idea as a bad one closed the chit business.

Meanwhile the family had bought a second house, in 2003, for

Rs 1,12,000. (Eight years later she would sell this house for Rs 4 lakh,

invest another two lakh, and spend the entire amount on getting her

daughter married.) It had a small partitioned area which she converted

into a shop. Selvi rented the house and kept the shop. As she sells her

humble wares she dreams of one day having a big shop, ‘just like the

wholesale shop near my home.’


2010; Rs 30,000 in 2012; Rs 50,000 (Nano loan) in 2014.

50

51

G U N D A P P A A N D M U N I K A D A R A M M AP r o v i s i o n s ’ s h o p

'Thirty years ago they used to refuse to give us water and said we were not to go near their houses,’ remembers Munikadaramma. ‘But now it’s all changed. Now tap water has come to all houses.’ ‘It’s all because of education,’ her husband Gundappa intones wisely. Munikadaramma is 55, her husband Gundappa 65. Together the couple run a small shop selling daily in a poorer part of Bengaluru. Gundappa did not study beyond class three. Munikadaramma herself left school after the fifth standard to look after the cows and take care of the house. They owned three cows but the milk did not earn them much money and one by one the cows had be sold. When the last cow was gone, Munikadaramma went to work in the fields, earning Rs 12 a day till her uncle arranged her marriage to Gundappa. In 1971 the couple were married. They have one son, born in 1988. Narasimha Murthy completed his schooling and now works at Manipal Hospital. Two other children died. 'He studied at the Satyanarayana school till class 8. After that he was always playing and he failed in one subject. Later he realised his mistake and cleared his class 10 exam,' Munikadaramma says. 'He also wanted to go to college. But we couldn't afford it,' her husband adds. This is the couple’s biggest regret. 'I was without a job after a serious injury. At the time only she was working. Now I realise he should have studied,' Gundappa says. 'Maybe if we had struggled a bit more we could have managed to pay for his education somehow. He would have come up in life and might have supported us. Sometimes when he is angry, he asks us why we didn't educate him further. We just bow our head because we don't have an answer.' The couple live in their own home. 'This is my grandfather's house. He had three children and it was divided between them. I'm the only child of my father so I have this home,' says Gundappa. Apart from the shop they

52

have two more houses, which they have leased. ‘For one house we get Rs 4,500.’ Gundappa worked as a labourer for 15 years. Then age caught up with him. 'I began to get tired, it became harder to bend and move around. Going out to work became difficult. So I gave up and started this shop.' They’ve had the shop for 12 years. Initially they invested Rs 15,000 to rent the shop. They stocked it with goods worth Rs 8,000. Gradually they began to invest more. The couple find it easy to manage the shop. ‘If the stock gets over, I go to Madiwala or K R Market. At such times she stays in the shop,' he says, pointing to his wife. ‘After I come back she goes home to prepare food.’ What do they keep in the shop? Things for children. Also rice, pulses, sugar. Biscuits. Business is good, they agree. The shop is open all day. But in the mornings, between 7 and 10 am, and in evenings between 6 pm and 9 pm, sales are good. ‘In between we get customers occasionally. There is a school nearby, so some children come.' The couple earn about Rs 1,000 on weekdays and Rs 1,200 on weekends. 'Of that our profit is about Rs. 200 a day,' Gundappa says. Initially there were few shops in the area. ‘Then others started. They saw we are doing well and were jealous of us. But we earn enough for food. If there’s any money left we save,' Gundappa says. They keep all their cash at home or they put it into gold ornaments. Why not in an account? ‘I get scared,’ Munikadaramma confesses. ‘If I go to the post office or to any office, I start shaking. Standing in a line, I get scared. Now I am feeling good. But even if I am in hospital, I start shaking.’ Out of the money saved the couple built their house and set up the shop. Although they have electricity now, they got the connection only with great difficulty. 'The Bangalore Development Authority gave us a connection 20 years ago under the Bhagya Jyothi scheme. But still

53

we have to go and demand to get it.’ Otherwise the couple haven't availed of any government schemes. They do, however, have a BPL card and take advantage of it to buy rations cheap every month. The couple’s investment is a chit fund. 'There is about Rs. 1.5 lakh in that. I will pay off the loan I took for the house with that,' Gundappa says. When asked about their inspiration Munikadaramma says: 'Others have done well and improved their living conditions a lot. So why not us?' On Tuesdays and Fridays, the couple perform a pooja to Narasimha Swami, their ‘house god’. During Shivarathri, they visit Nandi where there is a Narasimha Swami temple. ‘We all go in a tempo. Recently we went to Madurai to see the Shani Mahatma temple. In Kadari, Andhra also there is a big temple.’ Once in two years Munikadaramma and Gundappa like to make these little trips. Once every three years they also try to go to Dharmasthala. All they want now is to see their son married and settled. ‘If he marries someone from another caste I won't object. He is like a friend. If he does not listen what can I do?’ Gundappa says. Munikadaramma objects. ‘I will shout,’ she declares. Both, however, feel that if their son marries within the caste they will be taken care of in their old age. The search for a bride is underway, but 'nothing has been finalised yet.' Munikadaramma and Gundappa still have plans though. 'We want to make the shop bigger. A park is coming up in the area, so business might pick up in the future.' 'Money is the problem,’ Gundappa says. ‘I will save a little and borrow the rest.’ As an afterthought he adds, 'But I am already 65. I will be happy after I clear the loan and get my son married.'

Loans from Janalakshmi: Rs 15,000 in 2011; Rs 25,000 in 2012; Rs 50,000 (Nano loan) in 2014.

54

55

M A M A T H A S H I V A K U M A RB a n g l e s h o p

When asked what she likes, ‘Business,’ Mamatha replies. ‘Business and only business.’ At 28 she has a colourful little shop selling bangles, she does piece work for a garments’ factory, and she also has a vegetable pushcart standing outside her shop. Mamatha, born in 1986, was brought up by her grandmother and her uncle, a daily wager, in their one-room home in Bengaluru. Soon after she finished school at 16 she took up her first job as a helper in the cutting section of a fabric factory. Of the Rs 800 she got as salary, she gave half to her grandmother. The other half she carefully saved in chit funds and small gold ornaments. Proudly she says, ‘Whatever ornaments I wore at my wedding were all bought by me with my own money.’ She had fallen in love at 18. Shivakumar was a colleague at the garments’ factory that she joined next, eager to better herself. Her new employers trained her to work as a sample tailor. After her marriage in 2003 she found a job in another garments’ factory where she began to earn Rs 4,000 a month. All through her pregnancy she continued to work. Two children were born, a girl in 2005 and a son in 2007, and yet she continued with her job. Though she was earning a good salary, Mamatha was not happy. ‘I didn’t enjoy being scolded by my seniors. And there was too much work. We had to work long hours.’ The real reason, however, was that she’d been observing her friends who were trying to start their own little enterprises. ‘I felt very inspired. And I thought: Why don’t I try?’ Why should she work long hours for a boss, when she could do it for herself? She and her husband had also been going through a difficult time financially. For a while Shivakumar was out of work. There were also difficulties with Mamatha’s mother-in-law, who was not pleased that her son had found his own bride. That she was a Dalit didn’t matter; in any case both her children were registered as Gowdas. ‘When I got married I didn’t know cooking or household work.’ The couple lived in Doddaballapur for some years and then, in 2008, moved to Bengaluru

56

where Shivakumar found steady employment at a garment’s factory. Mamatha made some enquiries and took the plunge in 2010, investing Rs 15,000 in a sari business. At first she did well. She earned Rs 200 to 300 for every sari she sold. ‘But soon I ran into a loss as people who had bought my saris on credit failed to pay the instalments.’ She repaid her loan, but in May 2012 was forced once again to find employment. After seven months she quit. ‘I wanted to do my own business.’ She took a loan and began a fruit and vegetable business, investing Rs 5,000 in a pushcart and another Rs 5,000 in supplies. The remaining Rs 10,000 was used for household expenses. Shivakumar, though hesitant at first, the memory of her failed sari venture still fresh in his mind, supported her nonetheless. He often went to the wholesale market at 5 am to buy fresh vegetables and fruit. Mamatha initially found it difficult to push the cart and stand in the sun all day. ‘But I was earning a daily profit of Rs 300, which made me happy. I was never scared or embarrassed to stand at our corner with my pushcart because this is my area. I was born and brought up here and I know practically everyone.’ Buoyed by her success, in 2013 Mamatha took a second loan, this time for Rs 50,000, and opened a vegetable shop in Ganapathi Nagar. After six months she closed down the business and started a bangle shop, sharing both space and rent with a tailor friend. Both paid Rs 20,000 each. Outside the shop she parked her vegetable cart. Meanwhile, both women had applied for a subsidised Ambedkar loan through the Dalit Sangharsh Samiti (DSS). The amount was Rs 1,00,000, Rs 35,000 of which was the subsidy. Mamatha received her loan in March 2014. Immediately she invested in two Zukki sewing machines. By then she had paid her friend Rs 20,000 and taken over the entire shop. Mamatha takes orders for piece work in garments and also takes on stitching jobs. She works on one sewing machine and Shivakumar, if he is free, works on the other. The couple have a vey good understanding.

57

Matters have also been patched up with her mother-in-law, who looks after the vegetable business. ‘Daily I make between Rs 60 and Rs 90 from my bangle business; and much more during festivals. I make Rs 150 profit from the vegetable business and Rs 200 to 300 from my tailoring.’ Recently Mamatha also invested in a display unit and other things for her store. Altogether the stuff in her shop is worth Rs 40,000, she says. Through all the ups and downs in her life, Mamatha has remained strong and level headed, always planning ahead. Her two children, Keerthana and Sagar, go to a good school. She takes care of her old grandmother as well as her mother-in-law. A few years ago she bought a 15x40 foot site belonging to her uncle and built the house in which they live. It cost Rs 1,20,000 and she’s paying the money in instalments. Mamatha has little time to read the newspaper or watch television. ‘I am occupied by my business fulltime.’ She has joined a class to learn how to cut blouses and dresses. ‘I will start taking orders directly from customers as there’s money in that,’ she says. But her big business plan is to stack her little shop with every kind of bangle and other ‘fancy item’ so that her customers never have to go anywhere else.

Loans from JFS: Rs 15,000 in 2010; Rs 20,000 in 2012; Rs 50,000 in 2013; Rs 2,00,000 (Super Nano loan) in 2014.

58

V A S A N T H A A N D E L U M A L A IV e g e t a b l e v e n d o r s

After forty years in Bengaluru, Elumalai can finally say it: ‘I am very happy that at last I am the boss.’ Fifteen years ago, after he was diagnosed with diabetes, Elumalai decided he couldn’t go on doing manual labour for Rs 300 a day. He’d been working like that since he was a boy and now he was growing old. ‘I’m going to start selling vegetables,’ he told his wife. Vasantha thought it was a bad idea but Elumalai went ahead, anyway, and hired a push cart. Soon after, Vasantha and her mother both fell critically ill. Elumalai was in terror of losing his wife. Her mother died but Vasantha, whom he calls ‘the soul of his life’, survived. The incident dredged up the horror they’d faced when their two small daughters died. One fell ill and died when she was 10, the other daughter was raped and burnt. She was 11. The couple could not lodge a police complaint because the perpetrators threatened to kill their other daughters. 'No one supported us,' they say. Now, however, they are ready to face anything, 'without anybody's support'. Their other daughters also suffered from this tragedy. After the incident they were not allowed to go to school. Life went on otherwise. Five years ago Vasantha, too, began to sell vegetables. ‘Now she is also very happy with our business,’ Elumalai says. The couple took a loan and bought one pushcart. While Vasantha remains standing at her usual spot in Gurappanapalya, Elumalai goes down street after street, pushing his cart and seeking customers. Every day they invest Rs 3,000 and each earns about Rs 1,000 during the day. Vasantha and Elumalai have four grown daughters, three of whom are married, and one son, Veera. Veera, 23, who failed the twelfth standard, works as a personal assistant to a councillor in Bengaluru. ‘He’s very smart,’ his father says approvingly, ‘though he’s handicapped. He takes care of rations and other expenses in the house.' Thanks to Veera, the couple have a ration card.

60

Veera was afflicted by polio when he was a year old. To treat him his parents visited hospitals in Karnataka, Tamil Nadu and Andhra Pradesh. 'We faced so much difficulty because we had to spend money. We had to pay even in government hospitals.'. Finally, a friend told them to go to Visakhapatnam. More difficulties followed since neither could speak Telugu. 'Even after the operation it was no use, though we spent nearly Rs 2 lakh,' says Elumalai. Later, Veera injured his ‘good’ leg so seriously in an accident that a metal rod had to be inserted. Once again they had to spend nearly Rs 2 lakh. Elumalai bemoans the loss of all this money. He grumbles also that his married daughters continue to ask him for cash. ‘Our eldest daughter is asking for Rs. 30,000 as her husband wants to start a business. We have to work for our children even at this age.' Two married daughters live in Tamil Nadu and a third pays them rent for the use of the house on the ground floor. ‘They pay Rs 2,000 though we could get about Rs. 4,000 to 4,500 from others,' Elumalai says. They also spend on their grandchildren's upbringing. Their unmarried daughter lives with them and has a job as a domestic help. Kumari gives money to her parents and also invests in chit funds. Life has been a long, hard struggle for Elumalai and his wife. His father was a daily wager and Elumalai and his three siblings were lucky to get one meal a day. There was no question of going to school. At eight, he was sent into the fields to work. Even work was an uncertainty. ‘One day we got work, next day we couldn’t say what would happen.’ Then at 20 he fell in love with Vasantha, his aunt's daughter. 'My mother was not happy,’ he says. ‘She wanted me to marry her brother's daughter.' The newly-weds took a train to Mandya, where he found work with his uncle. He saved money and bought an acre of land in Tamil Nadu, 'Which neither my father nor grandfather could do.’ Later they moved to Bengaluru. Initially, they stayed with Vasantha's brother. At the time Elumalai worked at Bamboo Bazaar, where he used to load and

61

unload timber from trucks. In the meanwhile, one of his brothers decided to go to Tamil Nadu to work on the plot Elumalai had bought. 'I don't ask him for anything as he is taking care of my mother.' Speaking about caste, Elumalai says that he faced discrimination only when he was young. ‘But now here in Bengaluru and Tamil Nadu there is no caste difference. They will sit next to us and we will eat together. They will greet us and invite us for functions like marriages. We will go and greet them, too, by giving flowers . We have many very good friends here in Bengaluru.’ They talk about their son’s wedding. ‘His job is not permanent. We wish him to get a government job as soon as possible.’ They talk about their daughter’s wedding. They’ve received many marriage proposals for Kumari. 'But I don't want my daughter to get married in Bengaluru because they will expect a dowry from us.' They talk more enthusiastically about their future business plans. 'Our next plan is to set up a shop. It’s my son's idea,' Vasantha says. They decided it was a good idea too, as age is catching up with Elumalai, who has to push his cart all day long. They will take a loan, the couple have decided. ‘I can get you any amount as loan. This is how much trust I have gained,’ Vasantha tells her husband, referring to her prompt payment of earlier loans.

Loans from JFS: Rs 15,000 in 2011; Rs 25,000 in 2012; Rs 50,000 (Nano loan) in 2014

62

‘We are as good as blind if we cannot read or write.’

Mariyamma Ramu was born in a slum and never went to school but she has seen

the Great Wall of China and her grandchildren study alongside

the children of Bengaluru’s elite.

Muniyamma carried bricks on her head as a child and now earns lakhs

every year working as a cook in 11 households.

Meenakshi stands by her pushcart in all weather, selling coconuts,

in order to pay the fees of an expensive private school.

Kamala begged on the streets, never dreaming her daughter would

one day be an accountant.

Arogyaraj dropped out of school but runs his own successful metal workshop.

Single mother Komathi left her alcoholic husband and does a thriving

business selling chicken kebabs on the street.

These are the men and women who throng the streets and slums of every city and

town, seeking a livelihood, daily wrestling the beasts of extreme poverty, disease and

hardship, armed with nothing: no education, no skills, no support, nothing except the

will to survive. Some succeed, some do not. The men and women featured in this

book, randomly selected, are remarkable for the courage and determination they

show in their simple desire to live with dignity.

likho apni kahaani

NO

T F

OR

SA

LE

. For

pri

vate

cir

cula

tion

only

.

Documents

Dalit Stories from the Streets and Slums of ve Gone into the Forest and Wrestled with the Lion Dalit stories from the streets and slums of Bengaluru likho apni kahaani What the books