Sharmili

'I am a Brahmin, okay?And if my relatives see me taking food from you, they will not let me back into the house.'
'Where is your house, Sharmili?'
'It's here, in Besant Nagar.'
'Can I take you there?'
'No, they don't like me, they will throw me out.'
'Who doesn't like you?'
'My Aunty, its her house.'
'Do you have any other relatives here ?In chennai?'
'You are asking me too many questions. I will go from here, I don't want your help.'
'Sorry if I was intrusive. I won't ask you any more questions. Can I move your bags to the side,but? You are blocking the street.'
'NO! DON'T TOUCH MY BAGS!'

This was the conversation which kept repeated, like a broken record, on a sunny morning in the streets of Chennai.

Sharmili looked haggard, much older than she probably was and completely delusional.She was skin and bones, wore four torn, dirty Kurtis on top of each other, probably the only clothes she had, an old, moth eaten cap and a pair of trousers. The chappals that she wore looked like they hadn't been removed.She clearly went to sleep in them on the streets and never took them off, for fear of them getting stolen. She dragged along with her, two big bags filled with stuff from the streets. One was filled with what looked like various types of papers,newspapers, plastic covers and torn textbooks and another which was filled with pots and pans. These were all of her worldly possessions and possessive she was, of them.

She had been coming to our street often enough , but every time, she would disappear before we could approach her or get her some help. For some reason, everyone on the street knew her, 'Sharmili the squatter'. The man who ironed the clothes of the residents on the street would sometimes give her whatever little water and food he had and she would squat next to his cart, a few metres away but , because she didn't believe she was one of the 'street people', the garbage collectors knew her, the residents knew her as well, sometimes giving her coffee and food , but she never let anyone in, to help her or to get to know her, because she was living in her own reality.

And her reality was far removed from the reality she was placed in, in this cruel and unforgiving world.
She was, she told me, from a Brahmin family, her father was a no good useless man but her mother was an exemplary woman who had told her that the world would ruin her. She lived with her 'relatives' who had given her a house and all she wanted to do was to go back to her house. The 'relatives' turned out to be just good Samaritans who had let her squat in their front yard and her 'house' was a patch of grass where she and her possessions passed their days.

I asked her if she would eat something and she was very specific, she wanted Poori and chutney. What would she like if the hotel across the road didn't have it? Then some Idli would do,she said.

She spoke in full sentences in English, which made me curious and wonder at the circumstances that could have befallen her. But the more I asked, the more she started distrusting me.

While waiting for the good people from the NGO that was contacted, I kept her company lest she ran away. It was clear she was schizophrenic, in need of a shower and a warm bed where she could rest her head, something she had probably not done in years. I started asking her what subject she had liked in school and without missing a beat, she said she loved English, but she only started speaking about her school, only after I told her I had studied there as well. Then she was desperate, did I know her friend so and so ? Tell her I am here and I want to see her.

Her lucidity amidst her dis-orientation was disconcerting. Her paranoia stood out the most. She had somehow figured out that we had sought help for her. But she believed it be something worse, that we were 'sending her away', either to a mental institution or worse some kind of police lock up. She kept asking me whether I could drop her to her house and I guiltily, kept stalling.

And when they finally did come, I couldn't bear the look of betrayal she directed at me. She had trusted me and I had 'let her down'. However gentle they were, however much they talked to her and cajoled her and reasoned with her, telling her she needed help and that they could provide for her, she refused to budge, standing guard over her bags.

The climax came when one of them took her bags and put it in their car. They had reached an impasse.After what seemed like an eternity, realizing she would be short of most of her possessions she climbed in.

This was two months ago. I called up the NGO to see how she was doing today. The first important breakthrough they had had, was that she had developed insight into her condition, her delusions had reduced and she may well go back into the community in a while, as a fully functioning individual.

Till this incident, I had no understanding of how to help the homeless, short of buying food and giving clothing. The Banyan, the NGO which was contacted gave me  the hope that the concerned individual would be given shelter, food and medical help. And they did. They gave her that much more, they gave her a sense of community.