advertisement
Irfan Ahmad takes the same route near a sewage line every day to his workplace at New Sir Syed Nagar, Aligarh. On Saturday, 28 March, he did so for the last time for the next fifteen days. He worked as a domestic help at several posh homes in the locality that usually houses professors of Aligarh Muslim University or the doctors at the nearby Jawaharlal Nehru Medical College, one of the three places equipped with coronavirus-testing facilities in Uttar Pradesh.
The eighth house was of a retired professor, a widow who lives alone. She was the only one who was still paying him because, despite the prime minister’s appeal for workers to be given paid leave, many in the unorganised sector are not being guaranteed a pay during their time off work.
I asked Irfan if he was going to buy himself supplies as everyone else was panic-buying.
He had saved enough money to last him about a week or so worth of supplies, but he would not have survived without the help from the retired professor. Most daily wage workers in Aligarh are not so lucky. The fear and stigma around the pandemic had hit their livelihoods much before the announcements of a Janta Curfew and lockdown.
The number of people in the markets has dropped exponentially as well. The once busy and bustling sidewalks of Medical Road now bears a deserted look.
Manoj, a vegetable seller constantly looking over his shoulder for the police, told me on Saturday that people had not been coming to the markets to buy anything in the weeks leading up to the curfew.
On being asked how he would cope with the lockdown if it was implemented, he started shifting nervously.
“I might have to borrow money from my landlord. I was already in debt. I don’t know if I would be able to ever pay it off”.
Irshad, a fruit-seller in Jamalpur, described the difficulties in the simple process of maintaining hygiene during this crisis.
Meat shops around are forced to sell at Rs 50 per kilogram in order to get make some earning. Mohd Akram, a fish seller in suburban Railway Road, hasn’t sold a fish for two days.
Kuldeep, a rickshaw-puller was very excited to ferry me at 3 pm under a scorching sun. I was his second passenger of the day. He was not wearing a mask, so I gave him one. I told him this could help keep him alive.
Before putting it on, he said “If they close off the roads, I’ll die of hunger anyway. I used to take my daughter to school first thing in the morning before earning for the day. Now, I don’t know how I will earn for her.”
When I met Rubina and Farzana on the eve of the lockdown, they were utilising the pennies they’d saved to buy whatever they could afford.
In a dimly lit structure, the future of all those families looks bleak.
The daily-wage workers face the most damaging dilemma, too. If these people stay outside, they are likely to be infected with the virus.
On the outskirts of Aligarh, a few banjaraas have set up tents to save themselves. But with no resources and no income, they are not certain how long they can last.
Without social capital or monetary security these groups are the most disadvantaged, both in the fight against coronavirus and for their survival.
(All 'My Report' branded stories are submitted by citizen journalists to The Quint. Though The Quint inquires into the claims/allegations from all parties before publishing, the report and the views expressed above are the citizen journalist's own. The Quint neither endorses, nor is responsible for the same.)
(At The Quint, we question everything. Play an active role in shaping our journalism by becoming a member today.)
Published: 28 Mar 2020,01:08 PM IST