Ever since this creature named Man set foot on this earth, he has been creating nuisance. What an egoistic creature he is. Thinks himself to be superior to all others. Although I must say that claim is not without some merit. He could walk on two legs and had a small brain that dreamt big. However, not much is to be said about him in his early days. He roamed around like here and there trying to make sense of the world around him. Then one day, he discovered that thing called the wheel. Oh yes, the wheel. And the rest as they say is history.

I am the street. I am in a sense a creation of man. Of course there are those muddy and grassy lanes naturally formed in forests and plains through passage of water during rains or through animals following fixed paths or whatever. But I am not that. Those are for animals. I am damn superior, just like man. I am for the civilised. I am where man rides his animal drivel and now engine driven vehicles. And yes, I am a social construct. As human society evolved, so did I. Unlike those natural lanes in forests. I am a product of this thing called the science, which the mischievous mind of man developed to control nature. I have walked over the graves of thousands of trees cut down to accommodate me. Poor creatures, I sympathise with them. They were sacrificed for me by man. But hey I am after all the street. I am more important to him than those Oxygen giving static creatures. I am the one who facilitates movement. I am the one that ensures that the pizza reaches his doorstep. Oxygen is no match to me. I am the path man takes to reach his destination. At present he seems to be heading towards his own destruction. But anyway. Let’s begin from the beginning.

Unlike man, I had no means of writing my own history. History was written ‘on me’ rather than ‘by me’. Oh of course it was ‘written’ in study rooms and libraries but you know what I mean. From the history written by men, I hear that my ancestors were there in the Indus valley civilisation. Oh what a gala time they had. The drains were in place. The cleanliness of the WC toilets of the time had the potential to make the Indian Parliament look filthy. My ancestors were laid out in a manner that winds removed the dirt off them while they blew. Oh what a pleasure it would have been for them. Being cleaned by fast flowing chilly winds touching you at all the right places from all the right angles. Unlike us, who have to bare the wrath of scratchy brooms every morning. I hate these brooms. They hurt. The atmosphere nowadays is pregnant with praise for this man named Kejriwal who came to rewrite history ‘on me’ but chose that hateful broom as his symbol. And you know, he claims to make Indian Parliament as clean as the Harappan WC toilets. Hmm. I don’t know about the cool winds in Harappa, but I have been experiencing that hot anti congress wave which I had first encountered in the 70s. It makes me nostalgic.

Talking about Harappa, it suddenly disappeared! No one knows how. My ancestors were gone. And expectedly, I hardly have any resemblance with them. I am anything but planned. My cousins in Chandigarh and Lutyen’s Delhi are lucky. They were laid out by foreigners. But I wasn’t that lucky. I was laid out by Indians. I don’t know what has happened to them. They lost all sense of aesthetics and cleanliness somewhere in the post Harappan phase. They lay me down according to convenience and mix cheap materials which have caused to me several fractures. But I am not a cry baby. I would like to divert your attention to that man called the Shudra. Or is he the Ati Shudra? Whatever. His sorrows are greater than mine. He has been serving me since the last thousand years or so for some reason beyond my comprehension. Only he does it. He cleans me every morning and prevents the drains from overflowing on me. He lives on me, wears my stink and embraces my dirt. In chilly winters he shivers. In hot summers he sweats. I have seen him cry when his children die. I have seen his wife sulk after being raped. It happens quite regularly. Don’t know why but people don’t come out in protest when this happens. His shadow is said to be polluting. Probably because he cleans filth. But what about those who create that filth? I hate them. They are the most polluting I tell you. The shadow of the Shudra never pollutes me. The dirtiness of the others does. It’s a collective thing. All are polluting. Where did this ati shudra come from? He wasn’t there in the Indus Valley I am told. I think he was sent by god to compensate for the drop in standards of cleanliness of Indians. Boy what a hard worker he is. If only, I wish, he got rewards proportionate to the amount of work he does.

Talking of people coming out in protest, I still remember that man called Gandhi. Boy what a following he had. I m told when he walked, he shook up empires so huge that the sun never set in them. The enthusiasm he generated is compared by my Brazilian friends to the carnival in Rio. History is ripe with such instances of mass participation of men and I have been witness to all of them. I have seen Buddha, Kabir, Mira Bai and several other reformers go about their business of developing cults. I have heard the trumpets blow when Ashok returned from his victories. I have seen fakirs sing songs in the praise of god. I have seen Mosques getting shattered, I have seen the Taj Mahal getting built. I am there when man burns crackers in diwali. I am there when he plays with colour on holi. Everyone loves to give me a new meaning. I have been given the tag of a public space and been recognised as the site of play of urban blasé attitudes. I am laden with cues by those who construct me. Left to be deciphered by those who travel. The buildings on my side, which grow taller and taller day by day, constitute the private sphere. Man makes love there. I don’t know why, but he still chooses to fight outside, on my chest.

Before going, a word for the second sex. She was barred from entering the public space I offer. Don’t know why. Man is crazy I tell u. He ignored women when he wrote history. As if they didn’t matter. But I have seen it all. I have witnessed atrocities that fell on them when their men lost in battle. I have heard the cries of women beaten up in their homes. I have seen them burning as Sati and jumping in wells as jauhar. I even witnessed Nirbhaya lying on that street injured with her friend while men whizzed past in their vehicles as if they didn’t care. I have seen it all. But I have also seen women reclaiming the night and it gives me hope. I long for the female gaze. I am sick of being a male dominant space. I see queer groups marching in pride. I see liberation. I see change.

I am named after great men so as to serve as a reminder of their once upon a time existence. Or is it to honour those men? I don’t know. It’s rather an honour for me to have their names. So yes. I am the space where man chooses to express his anger. I am where he gets to learn the unwritten rules of social life. I am the one where he wanders in loneliness. I am the arena of artistic expression. I am the site of revolutions. I am home to those who don’t find acceptance in society. I am the stage where the societal drama plays out. I am the space of dramaturgy. I am the first eye witness of crimes. I am the silent spectator of change. I am the facilitator of societal flow and exchange. I am also the space where filmy heroes dance. I am where everyone loves to get their trumpet blown. I am the property of everyone and none. I am a symbol of civilisation. I am the street.