Left on Bengaluru streets, saved by strangers: Stories that will break you

On any given day, 800-1,000 homeless people are loitering on Bengaluru’s streets. DH's Barkha Kumari visits a shelter offering care and hope to the abandoned and the ill.

Pink bougainvillea hangs over the entrance of a large house, with a conifer rising behind it. It is a striking sight against the bright blue sky. There are more trees inside the compound, bearing mangoes, chikoo, and pomegranates. Beneath them, people are passing the afternoon napping, rolling wicks, or simply gazing into the distance.

Some sit in wheelchairs, others rest beside their crutches. A few are wrapped in bandages, while others have amputated limbs. A man is absorbed in his newspaper, reading about the Men’s T20 World Cup final, unfazed by the crackling FM music in the background. I see a woman smiling at me. “Zeenat Aman,” she says, introducing herself. Soon, we are crooning her favourite song, ‘Tujhe dekha toh yeh jaana sanam’.

This place could not be farther from the lives they once led. Many were found on the streets, hungry, dejected, or too lost to ask for help. Others were picked up from homes, railway stations, or hospital campuses, with infected wounds, exposed bones, fractured skulls, or rat bites. Some were brought here by families that could not afford to care for them, or just did not want to.

I am visiting AiR Humanitarian Homes in Chikkagubbi, Bengaluru. The NGO also runs a much larger centre in Bannerghatta. Together, the two facilities are home to about 600 people, fewer than 10% of whom are in touch with their families. Many of the residents live with mental illness, mobility challenges, and age-related problems. Some are survivors of addiction, accidents or domestic abuse. There are unlettered folks as well as former lecturers, a doctor, and a public sector employee. Almost 80% come from BPL families, while a minuscule number have children living overseas.

This shelter also has 12 children between the ages of 10 and 14. “All of them were found in dustbins. They have mental or physical disabilities. Were they dumped because of financial difficulties or because they were born out of wedlock? We will never know. They were no older than a month when we found them,” shares Divya, director of the NGO, which started in 1993.

The team shares a consistent observation: no family has ever taken back someone they once abandoned. At first, they visit the shelter every week, then it drops to once a month. Eventually, it is the team that has to chase them just to get them on a video call. Older men are abandoned more than older women, says Meena, a senior executive, and Praveen, the NGO's chief, agrees. Possible reason? Families tend to rely on women for household chores, while men are seen as having little use beyond ferrying grandkids around.

Will you judge?

A visit to a destitute shelter first makes you angry. Why would a well-to-do family leave their blind mother near a temple and drive away? Why would a landlord lock up a family that couldn’t pay rent during the pandemic? Why would a son not come from the US for his father’s last rites and yet insist on having the ashes couriered? What marriage pressures could have pushed a female IT worker into homelessness? But the team doesn’t judge. As Divya says, in many cases, we never fully know the backstory — who wronged whom?

Last month, the team found a woman on the streets and traced her husband within 20 days. The reunion was far from joyous. She accused him of beating her, while he claimed she verbally abuses him, making life at home unbearable, especially with their son preparing to become a doctor. She is now admitted at the shelter. She had fled home under the pretext of visiting a temple on Shivaratri.

In contrast, some cases make you question whether our justice, medical, and social welfare systems have let people down. The day before my visit, the NGO received an alert about a woman about 20 years old. She had a rod in her leg from a previous operation, and it needed to be removed due to pus formation. The family refused to take her, claiming “she would hang her baby upside down, and had tried to jump to death herself”. Could it be out of postpartum depression, the team wonders.

In another case, a family brought a 24-year-old woman home to sign property papers but then abandoned her on the road. Police helped her return to the shelter. She had been admitted by her sister, who explained that her brother-in-law had allegedly kicked her during pregnancy, causing a miscarriage, denied her food, and forced her into isolation. “The husband’s family came back for her a second time, claiming her signatures did not match across the documents. We said a firm no,” shares Divya. Now, this NGO requires families to obtain permission from the police before taking anyone home.

The team knows the backstories only as much as the residents share with the police or families tell them. Trauma also affects how they recount their past. An elderly resident sometimes insists she is single, even though records suggests she was married to a non-Indian who cheated on her. There is also reluctance to discuss estrangement, and much hesitation to pursue a legal case.

Streets over schedule

According to Bengaluru’s municipal corporation, an average of 800-1,000 homeless people can be found on the city’s streets on any given day, mostly in the 40-60 age group. The NGO responds to calls from the police, hospitals, donors, shopkeepers, and through their 24×7 helpline (97395 44444). It checks on more than 140 destitute individuals each week, but only about 10% agree to receive medical care or rehabilitation.

For many, a life of routine, from bathing to wearing fresh clothes, eating on time and taking medicines, is like losing freedom, especially for those addicted to tobacco or alcohol. So when the team approaches destitute persons with a bottle of water or a glass of juice to start a conversation, some try to run away, others turn aggressive. Some even suspect the staff of being involved in organ or human trafficking. A few are simply bitter with life. A man with a straggly bread once shouted at them in Kannada, “Only when you saw my wound did you approach me. All this while, I was invisible.” Meena recalls a Russian woman in her 70s. She was found bedridden in her villa but refused to come to the shelter, saying her suffering was the result of her karma and that she deserved it. She was a follower of Sai Baba. She relented on the third visit, but died within a day of arriving at the centre. She had breast cancer.

Those who try to start a new life find it difficult at first. One woman complained that she was better off eating khushka on the streets than having anna sambar in their canteen. A cancer patient with a beedi smoking habit had to be let go after he started throwing soiled diapers around, tearing mattresses, and urinating at the gate. Many attempt to escape, and this is true of both men and women. Begging is a major draw. The team recalls a habitual absconder they once found on the streets with an unusually large stomach. He was hiding Rs 35,000 in plastic covers under his T-shirt! He refused to get into their ambulance until every last cover that had fallen was retrieved. After much counselling, he came around. He was an abandoned case.

People are brought to the shelter only with their consent, and after the case is reported to the jurisdictional police. Documenting their identities presents the first challenge. Sometimes, cops have to assign names for them on the spot as many are not mentally able to think clearly. Someone picked up from Jayanagar might become Jay, while a person found in Govindapura might be called Govinda. Today, the shelter hosts many Manjunaths, Lakshammas, and Gowrammas. Birthdays are rarely celebrated, as many residents don’t even know when they were born. But all festivals are celebrated, from Ugadi to Eid to Christmas.

Ward watch

Personal wardrobes, trunks, and family photographs are noticeably absent in the wards. Residents pick their clothes from a common pool — a way for the team to show that everyone is equal. The men’s ward is in impeccable order, with bedsheets stretched to the corners and blankets folded neatly. It is overseen by Ravi, their cook. He cannot speak but enforces a military-like discipline. The women’s ward feels more lived-in. One resident, simply called Chikkamma, keeps a plastic chair next to her bed, stacked with miscellaneous bundles and topped by a giant soft toy. Her family visits her every week.

The absence of phones is also apparent. Items like phones and jewellery are kept in the office locker, again a way to eliminate indicators of economic status. Through the day, residents watch TV, play carrom or chess, step out for snacks, and chat in the central courtyard. Some help in the kitchen, tend the garden, or assist one another with bathing and meals. Hemashree, 41, is one of them. She fled her home in Tirupati to Bengaluru due to marital discord and boarded a bus to Bengaluru. A BSc dropout, she is known at the shelter for her formal manners. Her brother visits her.

A faint stench of urine lingers in the air, especially in the children’s ward. Divya explains that even though the children wear diapers, they tend to throw them off. Life in such shelters is never fully under control, no matter how hard the staff try. They say it's a part of parcel of this life. During psychiatric breakdowns, residents may smash windows or doors or pull down fans and switchboards. And what happens when someone passes away? They say most residents remember little beyond 24 hours, and before long, a new arrival takes the empty cot. 

‘Family won’t come’

Loneliness haunts many lives here.

Manohar* was the all-India secretary of a temple trust when the NGO found him alone in his Bengaluru home, in a diaper, barely conscious, with an overgrown beard and infected legs. Both legs had to be amputated till above the knees. He rarely discusses his family. He has a son in the US and a daughter in Bengaluru. “He says even if you inform them, they won’t come,” says Praveen, the NGO’s chief. Yet influential contacts from Bengaluru to Kerala, including a collector and an MLA, called to check on him and donated a motorised wheelchair.

Rakesh*, an MBBS doctor, was found wandering aimlessly on the Victoria
Hospital campus, his foot badly infested with maggots. He had no family, job or money. He told the team he quit his job after he started forgetting the names of medicines or treatments. Though he is better now, he refuses to return to practice; he has lost confidence. But he tries to keep the shelter’s 24/7 clinic team updated on residents’ needs. Through friends, he discovered that his mother is alive and lives in an old-age home, which he visits often.

Gayathri was found lying on the floor of her home, malnourished and soiled. After the death of her mother and younger brother, she told me she sank into shock. Her elder brother used to visit with food and check on her, but when he didn’t turn up for a few days, neighbours alerted the NGO. She came to the shelter in a wheelchair over 17 years ago. Her brother continued visiting until he passed away. Today, she walks around, “helps with chores, listens to bhajans, and is happy”.

Loneliness had also hollowed out a Prabhat*, a lecturer. His wife was gone, and his son lived abroad. He agreed to move into the shelter on one condition: they must take him out for snacks every evening. When the man passed away, his son asked the team to carry out the cremation, paid the expenses, and told them to send the ashes. There were some ego clashes between them.

Feels like home

Daily life at the shelter has a familiar rhythm. Women watch soap operas, while men ignore TV curfews to catch cricket matches. Small things bring them great happiness, whether it is the promise of a pair of earrings or a plate of gobi manchuri. They love singing and dancing. Taking the mic from them is a task, the team says. Children enjoy cartoons, and I find a teddy bear, a monkey toy, and a doll with its legs stretched wide in a split strewn around their ward. 

Strong friendships have become the talk of the house. “Asha and Muniamma fight over who got the extra sweet or a better dress, but they always come back. Their cots are side by side,” shares Meena. Residents eagerly await visits from family; one woman even saved a peda served to her at lunch to share with her grandchild.

The NGO was started by businessman-turned-philanthropist Ravi V Melwani after he embarked on a spiritual journey. It has helped about 2-3% of its residents reintegrate into society by supporting them in running shops or driving autorickshaws.

The team finds it especially heartening when they can help reunite missing individuals with their families. One man had fractured his skull in a road accident. During his time at the shelter, staff noticed he was fixated on water tankers passing outside the gate. They decided to show him moving vehicles daily, and his memory slowly returned. He recalled he was a lorry driver from Hoskote, and provided his family’s contact information. He also remembered he had been drinking while driving and vowed never to touch alcohol again.

Nisha* was found at KSR Railway Station. Her eyes were unresponsive, and she sat there with the dead body of her three-day-old baby. Despite being rushed for treatment, she suffered a heart attack and partial paralysis. As she recovered and returned to her cheerful self, she shared her story. She had fled Bihar after her father-in-law allegedly made sexual advances toward her. An aunt in Bengaluru had promised her shelter but stopped answering calls once she arrived. She was pregnant at the time. She has since returned home.

Equally rewarding is the trust residents place in the staff, knowing they will always be cared for. Divya recalls Albert*, a happy-go-lucky man in his 50s who had befriended 35 geese at their Bannerghatta shelter. A relative suddenly took him home for “vacation” without saying when he could return. Six months later, he made his way back on his own, riding in an auto, battered by a terrible allergy. Another man, who went to Mysuru to stay with his daughter, ended up on the streets begging. When the police caught him, he simply gave them the shelter’s address. He knew the home, with its bright flowers, fruit-bearing trees and sunny courtyard, would always welcome him.

(*Names changed to protect identity.)

(To report homeless persons in Bengaluru, dial the GBA helpline 1533.)