Bed Time

Another night time chai, at the Chai stall. A friendly face waves good night from across the street. He is not sleeping on the street – just sleeping outside. On the same spot where he works. He shouts good night from underneath a thick blanket as he lies on top of his cart, on which during the day he sells his wares. His friends and colleagues walk by, pulling down the metal shutters of their shop stalls and clicking padlocks into place. Brushing teeth and spitting into the alleyway.

Paul appears, as always as if from no where. He waves a big hello and my friends point to his eyes and to me and Paul is already enthusiastically nodding. No problem my friend. Silently it has been communicated that he will walk me back to my guest house. I have walked this road many times during the day, but by night it looks very different. I pass so many sleeping people, lined up next to rickshaws or chai stalls. Taxi door stand open as feet poke out of the backseat, or gentle snores escape from wound down windows. Bodies lay everywhere, inside trucks, underneath trucks, even on top of the cabins of trucks. Many sleep directly on the pavement, some have a mattress of cardboard, or others with pillows and blankets arranged in courtyards a small distance from the pavements. Insomnia does not seem to be a problem. Maybe too tired to be awake, maybe accustomed to the night time sounds of footsteps and car horns. These people don't look homeless. They simply look as if the streets are their home.

The longer I spend in Kolkata the more I 'see' and tonight I see that there are many different classes of homelessness. There are those who have a family or community of workers on the street, or whose 'homes' are far away or too full. For some it is just more practical to sleep outside their work – or underneath it. Others have constructed more 'permanent' shelters, which are not dismantled at first light, but remain poised against walls or fences, and guard a small bundle of belongings. Then there are those who before sleeping remove their sandals from their feet to place under their heads; a pillow and a safe. For these street sleepers, their alarm clocks are the numbers of pedestrians whose number increase with the dawn's light, walking through their beds of pavement.

And so I'd like to ask you: What is a Home? Can a home be made of the wheels of your rickshaw, and the roof of its undercarriage? Can a home be a piece of concrete marked by flattened cardboard or two pieces of plastic sheeting tied together, which is where you and your family, or your colleagues sleep every single night? Can a home be a street if you don't 'own' it, but if it is where you don't just walk, but wash, defecate, work, eat and then sleep upon? And if so, maybe this is why it becomes impossible to talk of the 'homeless.'

Paul pretends to drive a car, points to his eyes, squints and then points to those sleeping near the road. He slams one hand into the other to motion a crash. Indeed it must be very dangerous to drive at night. It must be very dangerous to sleep at night. I wave goodbye to Paul. Walk down the road and bang lightly on the metal concertina door. The security guard is sleeping on the stone floor underneath the table. Tap Tap Tap. I don't want to wake him, but I want to go to bed. Tap Tap. He rolls, wakes, jumps up and then inserts the massive key into the massive padlock. Click! The lock jumps open. Screeeeeech. The metal door is pulled back. I turn and wave goodnight to Paul, who is still standing, watching at the end of the road. A silent wave back. I step inside the guest house. Screeeeeech. An apologetic whisper of "Danyabad", as I walk to my double bed, inside toilet and running water.

Even here sleep doesn't come. The fan rockets around recklessly. Noisily and tirelessly it tries to dispel the days humidity. The breeze it creates is hot. My sheets become damp under my body, and my hair begins to stick to my cling to my neck. I take my sarong and walk out onto the roof. I sit in a old wicker chair staring out into the haze of Kolkata. By the light of the half moon I can make out the beautiful ruins of the old Indian Capital. The sound of the night traffic is muffled by height. A cool breeze strokes my face....Finally, sleep lazily takes me.