Occasionally I visit this bar that's on the main road in the neighborhood and near the circle where a tower of lights light up the area like Christmas night. The bar has two sections - an upper where you can sit and order and drink in relative peace. And a lower where you stand at the counter and have your drink and some snacks and sometimes indulge in a chat with the people around.

This evening as I stood there at the counter and ordered rum and coke, someone next to me took the empty glass that the barman gave me and went away with it. That someone returned after a minute and the glass in his hand was sparkling clean. A boy of maybe 16 or 17 years, thin, in clean but worn clothes, his hair a little oily, a little brown, and there was a worried look in his small eyes which made me turn away. I concentrated on what the barman was pouring. The boy continued standing next to me and the barman scolded him, "Go to the top and work there."

The boy said, "Those people sent me down."

"No, you tell them I sent you up."

The boy kept quiet and the barman attended to some other customers and I turned to the boy and asked him what the matter was.

He shook his head. "Nothing. They just enjoy sending me up and down."

How long was he working here?

"I took up this job only yesterday."

Where was he from?

"From Jharkand."

Jharkand! That was at least a thousand miles from Bangalore. How did he land up here?

"My father died four years ago. So I came here."

What did he die of?

The boy shrugged.

I told him he should have stayed in Jharkand or worked in some place close by, why did he come all the way down to Bangalore?

"I know some people here. They gave me work. Construction work. You know the shuttering aspect where pillars and roofs have to be erected and sealed off for at least two weeks for the concrete to harden. It paid me well. Four thousand bucks a month. Enough to send some money home."

Then why did he join this bar? He could have continued working there. He was by no means going to earn four thousand bucks here. At the most they would give him thousand five hundred or so.

"The contractor who hires us laborers ran away. I am trying to get another job. In the meantime I got this job."

He went on to tell me that he was the only son and had four sisters all younger to him and his mother was house bound as she had to take care of the children. "I phone her every week," he told me proudly and something in my chest tugged as I pictured the scene, the eager boy phoning his mother who was a thousand miles away and the mother desperately trying to sound cheerful and allright on the phone after waiting for seven days for his call. Both of them talking pleasantly and normally, as if everything were in order, but deep inside their hearts and minds, their frustrations and love and desires pulsating like sev eral heartbeats gone haywire.

"Why are you still here? Go on up," shouted the barman and the boy, with just a brief glance at me, went away.

------------

What's the context of all this?

Violence on migrants. Some have been killed. Many have been forced togo back to where they came from.

'They take our jobs' 

'This city cannot accommodate so many'

'They don't speak our language, they don't respect our culture'

These are the excuses doled out by the perps.

Not here in Bangalore for now, but in Mumbai, in Bihar, in West Bengal, in Asssam...pretty soon, if left unchecked, it might engulf the entire nation.

But there's a glimmer of hope.

The media, especially TV, is awakening to this frightening phenomenon. Holding numerous panel discussions

The Supreme Court too has said an Indian can live and work anywhere, although the court has refrained from passing any judgement on the PIL that was brought before it. The court said it's up to the central government to pass a specific law in this regard.

So, here's hoping that India's political class shows some guts and rises to the occasion. I would be ashamed if India, the land of Mahatma Gandhi, cannot overcome this significant challenge.