In the course of time

I grew up in a slum in Bombay. The kind of place everybody wants to escape only to end up in a place—Nashik/New-Bombay/Pune/Gurgaon—that makes you nostalgic about your past. It had everything imaginable. The good. The bad. The makeup. People from all the three communities were present (nope, never met a Sikh/Parsi/Jew/etc there—perhaps the place was too poor for them). We never witnessed a riot, not even during Babri demolition or the following bomb blasts of ‘93. We may not have had the basic rights but we had our basics right. We respected and cared for each other. There was no scope for naarebazi. The Hindus in the neighbourhood lent their carpets for the grand namaaz on Friday afternoon while the Muslims helped with the pandals during Ganeshotsav and participated in the Holi pyramid. Well, the Christian community was the icon for the rest as far as the importance of education (read: literacy) was concerned. We effortlessly embodied the spirit of basti. People, back then, loved the city for accepting them the way they were—broken, luckless and hardworking. It’s easy to sit in an air-conditioned room in 2016 and blah about secularism while conveniently forgetting that the Western idea of secularism is bound to be counter-productive for a country like ours where religion is practically woven into our consciousness whether a person is rural or urbane. What these misguided conversations usually highlight is the distance between reality and notion. Fortunately, the chawl i was/am from didn’t care for such labels. Maybe that’s why there was no tension regarding who ate what or who prayed to whom. The Hindus were happy with their vegetarian/meat diet while the Muslims relished their beef and the Christians fearlessly showed their soft corner for pork. Non-Hindu kids gathered for prasad whereas the non-Muslim kids gathered for niyaaz. What mattered was the sweetness of the food offered, not the mumbo-jumbo of myths behind it. There was noise everywhere and yet, in that chaos, we found a diverse semblance. Things changed only after 9/11, thus proving once again the power (of narrative) USA enjoys. Suddenly, the conversations during lunch/dinner began to turn bitter and paranoid. Still, on the surface, there was no evident animosity. The walls that united the one-room houses remained polite but then, manufactured anguish has a way with our species. Interestingly, i left the place and moved to Nashik in 2002, the year that remains significant. My family moved to New-Bombay within two summers. I revisited my slum (the thing about this word is it sticks with you irrespective of the buildings that mushroom over time) in 2007 to teach secondary school kids English. I carried on till 2011, the year i joined journalism full-time. I haven’t rerevisited the place since. But what i noticed during those four years, in touch with the kids i taught, was the drastic shift in attitude. Something was clearly missing. When i was a kid, the friendship we built with our neighbouring kids triumphed our differences. The kids i encountered on a daily basis in a tiny classroom back then seemed to have let their differences triumph. Armed with with their limited vocabulary, they couldn’t even hide their prejudices. A perverted version of religion had become the norm. Some Hindu kids were suddenly proud of their perceived greatness. Some Muslim kids were seeking a hero in Zakir Naik. Some Christian kids were clearly brainwashed about the superiority of their God. And ‘some’ is more than enough to make the ‘most’ divided. An idea or an ideator refines with time, yes. However, if it’s not for the better, what’s the point of evolution? If it instills unwarranted fear of the unknown in children’s minds during their formative years, what good can possibly come out of it? Facts are going to be abused in places like these. The chawl i remembered was the one where only one thing got abused on a daily basis: English. We called chewing-gum ching-gum, station taeshun, brown-pao burun-pao, slice-pao si-lace-pao, lantern lal-turn, bottle baa-tal… the list goes on.

Free fall

Streets provoked by monsoon come up with stories of their own. Some have grim ones to share while others, happier. However, post-rain scenarios are worth a dekko. At least in our haphazard city. The garbage is soaked. Puddles created out of nowhere. Dogs feeling homeless all over again. Cars failing to hide their glee due to free wash. Kids acting like they'll never grow up. People walking cautiously for a change. Umbrellas up out in the open. The professional municipal road-diggers cursing the clouds. Long queues outside local dispensary. Vegetables rotten and crushed in the market. Fortunately, it rains every single year. Unfortunately, it never pours hard enough to rid the streets off their scum.

The train and its trainee

Harbour Line has to be Indian Railways' stepchild. Nothing else can explain the kind of treatment it (we, the commuters, that is) receive on a daily basis. Today, the trains were more than an hour late. That is 60+ minutes, numerically speaking. On top of that, it was pouring, thus providing the authorities a reason to hide their inefficiencies. Whatever. I too waited along with half the population of Bangladesh at Kurla station on platform number seven for 300 years. But not a train in sight. 

The drama unfolded here. 

At last, a locomotive lost its way and reached us. Full to its brim, there wasn't an inch to be budged. But then, in a  Mumbai local train compartment, there's always space for one more person. In this case, however, there was space for at least a dozen. I tried my luck but couldn't grab anything so i did what my amma would NEVER want me to. I climbed onto the steel steps on the back of the compartment. Yes, the space between two bogies. In my defense, i wasn't alone. There were six more of us. None of us exchanged a word. Space management at its best. I've done this before but never in a downpour. Everything felt wet and cool before pain crept into my limb joints. The thing is it's difficult to stand in such an uncomfortable position for long. Approximately 22 minutes of heroic ride from Kurla to Vashi platform number three.

The real drama unfolded here. 

This train i was hanging on to my life—quite literally—was supposed to go till Panvel but the motormen halted their 'office' at Vashi itself. They even switched off the light: an indication that the local will be moving to car-shed at Juinagar and all the passengers should alight. One can imagine the kind of reaction the public must have exhibited at this point. And they did. Perhaps they were high on Turkey protest news. Some started banging the door of the motormen's compartment. Others tried to break the glass in front of the train. Two fools even managed to slap the motorman (poor fellow got slapped twice while his colleague didn't even receive one) for not listening to their demands. This went on for like 12 minutes before another train headed for Belapur reached platform number two. 

The bigger drama unfolded here. 

Six of the most violent-looking men rushed towards the Belapur local and threatened the lonely motorman not to move the train. Being afraid (read: sensible) after observing the gherao on the right hand side of his window, he didn't make a move and stayed put. The born-again protesters felt as if they have conquered Timbuktu and once again diverted their  attention to the train on platform number three. 

The bigger and better drama unfolded here.

As soon as they moved back to the Panvel train, i went to the compartment at the forefront and asked the Tamil-accented motorman to start the train. He seemed surprised and relieved at the same time and hit the alarm bell pronto: a green signal given to the motorman on the other end of the train. As soon as that happened, I quickly ran back and found myself space enough for my right foot to place and hanged (again!) on the footboard from Vashi to the next station.

The biggest drama unfolded here.

On reaching home, i told dad that i saved thousands of people from unnecessary frustration by making a motorman do what he was supposed to—hit the gear and run the train. Funny he listened to me. The funnier part is not many can claim that they've made a train move although many can claim that they've made a train stop. The funniest part is none of the above mentioned episodes is untrue.

The incontinent clouds

It rained earlier and much more than expected, bringing relief from the sun that basically has the hots for Mumbai. During the first few drizzles, romanticism was in the air. Chai dates pakoras. Life turns bearable again. For some days at least. Before the monsoon melodrama ultimately takes over and the following takes form: trains delay, roads clogged with water from the nearby gutter, traffic stagnates, the working class gets drenched, crib and reach office late, roof leaks, little kids fall ill leaving no clue why, couples rain-walking and then reach home shivering, the faceless BMC custodians caught napping as usual, walls create flaky art, filthy spots become filthier spots, football returns to the park, cricket sulks, rainwater fulfills potholes, the stench of damp clothes, sunlight-deprived underwears dying to be dry, people disappearing into manholes, lightning strikes (misses most of the time), cheap Alphonso mangoes, students bag holiday provided their schools reopened on time, photographers delight…

Our city, my life!

The media keeps talking about Mumbai's spirit. Especially during tragedies. A bomb blast here or a falling bridge there. But nobody really knows what Mumbai's spirit is all about. It's like the word 'rehabilitation' in that epic movie called The Shawshank Redemption. Nobody really knows what they are talking about. Unless someone with a voice like Morgan Freeman's tells you what it really means. 

Here's a lowdown (in Naseeruddin Shah's voice, if you may) on what Mumbai's spirit actually stands for and how Mumbaikars inadvertently exude it in their daily life. These are just some of the many instances...

• When an overpacked train arrives at Kurla station, some poor souls alight demoting it from its overpacked to packed status. And amid this spatial trauma, somebody standing next to you on the platform says, "Yaar, andar jagah hai!" 
• When your mother doesn't speak Marathi and your neighbour doesn't speak Hindi. But that doesn't stop them from gossiping. 
• When it's hot like hell outside and still there's no place to stretch your limbs out.
• When vada-pav replaces a meal.
• When commuters quarrel for the imaginary fourth seat.
• When the potholes speak for themselves and Delhi rolls on the road laughing.
• When Mumbaikars read about rapes in the Capital and angry silence follows. 
• When it's too late to let others down and too early to give up. 
• When people fight on the street and more people gather around them because everybody can afford to miss their schedule but nobody wants to miss on live action.
• When couples (both married as well as unmarried) realize that the world is basically turning into Taliban. 
• When Bollywood is considered as a compliment, not a derogatory term.
• When the migrant in you doesn't feel lost. At all. 
• When you unequivocally acknowledge Parsis' benevolence.
• When you have no clue who the Baghdadi Jews were or what their contribution to our city is.
• When somebody asks you "Where are you from?" and you say "Bombay" as the question wasn't "Where are you to?". 
• When you cross track because time is more precious than life.
• When a person falls from a bus and your humanity runs towards him/her.
• When the rent is too high and your gumption, too low. 
• When you have a problem with Big B being a farmer in UP but no problem whatsoever with him endorsing Gujarat tourism.
• When you haven't attended your school reunion nor your school friends' wedding.
• When you wave your hand at the bus even though it's going to stop at the bus stop. 
• When you wave your hand at the approaching train because habits are habits.   
• When you won't get a house for rent if you don't follow the same religion the housing society does or come from the same region the housing society does.  
• When you get down from the plane and you know this is where home is.  
• When Sanjay Dutt is the only reminder of the '93 bomb blasts.  
• When chasing local trains is the only form of exercise you get. And you don't wish to miss it.
• When you respect the three defense forces but don't give a shit about the police force or the traffic policemen although these underpaid 'corrupt' people ultimately serve us more.
• When the heavy rain makes a guy offer to share his umbrella with you. And you're not a pretty girl. 
• When your Tamil colleague is celebrating Mumbai Indians's win against Chennai Super Kings.
• When you've made peace with the pace of life in this devilfostered place. 
• When a Maharashtrian knows there were six Marathi films releasing on a Friday (like it happened on April 19) and still opt for that one Hindi film (Ek Thi Daayan in this case).
• When you wonder why people in SoBo are fairer than you are. Also, you thank god for making them cloth-intolerant. 
• When Navi Mumbai is that fancy place with a lot more space than it actually has. 
• When you know Gateway of India but you don't know that the last unit of British Army walked through it, making us truly independent.  
• When the college students believe more in being socially cool than in being politically active.
• When you don't bother to know who the corporator is but you're damn convinced that s/he is not worth voting for. 
• When the city is crumbling and you're essentially busy doing nothing.

Falling in snow with Bombay

No one seems to get enough of this city. Everybody who’s here remains confined under its unrecoverable spell. They may not completely like it but they won’t quit either. Not all of them may turn out as winners but they don’t mind keeping up with the joneses. Meanwhile, there is a strong sense of aberration that never goes unnoticed though... the ever-expanding crowd and the asphyxiating smells are prime examples.

And at the end of the day, Mumbai is sinking. Metamorphically, at least. The huge rubble of filth that we are helping accumulate on its surface, on land, into sea and in air, would hopefully do the deed. Someday.

Until then, we’ll survive. Anyhow. For this, we’re prepared to come along as dehumanized primates in bursting trains or honking lunatics while surrounded by an inordinate traffic. Also, we’ll litter, hock a loogie, cut queues and stage civil disobedience at individual level wherever and however possible. Despite all of this, we still manage to avoid the much-deserved self-loathing – creating a not-so-smug city full of smugger inhabitants – one day at a time.

Over the past many years, our excuse has been the cliché: chaltha hai toh chalne doh! After all, expecting anything different from us would have been a bit preposterous too given the undermining circumstances a majority of the city-dwellers survive in. There is an utter disregard for law and order, yes. But there is failing governance, rumpled administration and crumbling infrastructure to balance the blame beam. It’s a unique case of two clenched fists shaking hands to make ends meet.

So here’s what I think will put an end to this miserable crap. Snowfall. Yup. Mumbai requires snowfall more than anything else. This city burns throughout summer but then which Indian city doesn’t! The only difference is the excruciating humidity. Expectedly, rain happens every monsoon that leaves us asking for less. Soon afterwards, winter takes place. Now, winter is supposed to be cold but Mumbai has a rather warm winter so basically what we get is a raw deal from Weather God. We are supposed to shiver and enjoy the whims of supercool wind (as long as no one’s homeless) but that’s not part of the ongoing reality.

A regular snowfall might change the whole scenario.

• First of all, it will keep more people off the street and in their school, home and office.
  
• Secondly, as the roads would be layered with snow, the chances of littering and defecating on them shall drop axiomatically.
  
• Thirdly, and most importantly, unchecked immigration may take a belated pause, if not complete shutdown.
  
• Fourthly, India as a nation will wake up and realize that Mumbai alone can’t carry the economical burden of the entire country.
  
• Fifthly, global warming will turn out to be just another myth inspired by Iraqi WMD.
  
• Sixthly, politics might suffer as an eventual byproduct.
  
• Seventhly, Kashmiri snow could end up facing inferiority complex.
  
• Eightly, miracles will be back in business.
  
• Ninthly, Mumbai may not sink, as I SO want it to.
  
• Tenthly, I might score better (read: sensible) topics to write on.

I’m sure there are more than ten reasons/outcomes why we should be having snowfall in Mumbai but I don’t know what.

Numbai

Mumbai is a strange village. It’s either hot, hotter or hottest in this part of the planet. Sweating goes hand-in-hand with breathing. It can be unbearable at times. For the record, about 70% of Mumbai’s population lives in slum and the remaining 30% complain about harsh living conditions. Interestingly, poverty adds to the equation. It is like the most glaring cosmopolitan feature but somehow gets camouflaged by people’s never-say-die attitude. The very faceless folks who know nothing other than the hard learned art of survival under sweltering sun. It’s like a never ending struggle against one self. Against time. Against space. Coincidentally, the crowded local trains are one of those devil-kissed marvels where every single millimeter of space matters and people literally breathe into each others’ lungs and you are just a fart away from asphyxiation.

It’s safe to say that Mumbai is bursting not only at the rim but at the very center. It just can't wait to get back to restful evening. In a lot of ways, it’s hopeless but in others, simply incredible. You’ll never hear anyone say “Amazing how people can be so cold in a warm city like this”. Never.

It is a land of chronicles, mostly unbelievable but truer than death. That’s what years of migration do to a place. It fuels passion and ambition giving birth to countless tales of human endurance and triumph. A few stories are repetitive but the moral remains the usual: Resilience is the word.

There were some kids who used to study during nighttime under beacon at Mankhurd railway station. These kids have homes but not the kind we have. I mean, the privileged lot. They live in shanties but dream of getting an education that their parents couldn’t, so as to get ahead in life and make a respectable living. In simpler words, they just want to get the heck out of the shithole they are currently in. In most cases, their fathers are drunkards who created ruckus almost every single night at home, making it almost impossible for them to concentrate on their books. So that’s the reason they used to gather almost every single night and burn the midnight dreams. As of now they don’t do the same as the board exams have ended and vacation has commenced. They’ve got themselves part time jobs to kill time. Yes, jobs to kill time and not by staying online on Twitter or Facebook. It’s a poignant tale of tenacity. These are the kids who learnt the importance of education as well as electricity on their own. I know this coz I know them.

Dawn marks the time when street dogs go back to being pussies and humans venture out to replace the dogs in the street. But what happens before that? Well, these dogs literally rule. They chase every vehicle that passes on the street. It’s not like they wish to take a ride on it or something. They just want you to get out of their 'territory’ ASAP. In that context, we better not talk about rag pickers who start their day pretty early so as to pick their *stuff* before the dump trucks scoop up its daily roll. As one can guess, the dogs can’t bear to share either the street or the garbage fill with them. Amid the barking, we forget what a fabulous (read: hopelessly courageous) job these rag pickers are doing for the society by helping us with the recycling of things we discard as rubbish.

And just like that, a new day begins. Cynical as it is, with sharp sunlight on the face anyone can get an idea that this city has a long way to go before it can call itself what it is already calling itself–a city.

Wake Up Byd (Bollywood)

I’ve been waiting for Wake Up Sid since I saw its promos during Kaminey. It was released on Gandhi Jayanthi and I went to watch it yester-evening. And I knew this movie would have a bit of me in it just like most of my fellow youth out there!
First of all, I was glad that Bollywood is coming out of age and encouraging movies like these which isn’t “family-oriented” in general sense of bollywoodish speaking! The story is about a guy named Sidharth (Sid) who is the only son of a wealthy businessman and is not sure about his present or future, let alone his life. He is just happy spendthrifting his dad’s money on friends and lot. Then he meets this girl named Aisha who had somehow fulfilled her dream of coming to Mumbai from Kolkata and wants to lead an independent life of her.
The boy who is much younger than the female protagonist [which is't a norm yet!!] and has failed in his final years exam of graduation! The movie takes us through the unaware innocence of Sid’s hedonism and also through Aisha’s perceived emotional dependence that she initially doesn’t realize until the day Sid is about to move out of her life! Every guy has a bit of Sid in him and every gal has a bit of Aisha.
So you get the exact picture here. The movie is not the usual B’wood masala. It’s not novel either. If you follow cinema, you surely must have come across such movies where the boy is totally confused and lost about his career or what he wants to do with his life. Karan Johar who produced this movie is one of the “young turks” of Bollywood who will flirt with such ideas that are not only refreshing but even palatable in many ways, at least to the urban GenNext crowd, mostly college going kids!
This deviation started with the success of Dil Chahta Hai (DCH) by Farhan Akhtar who successfully made a movie that not only made college movies cool again but started a trend of sort. And I’m absolutely delighted with this new dawn in B’wood.
Wake Up Sid is a perfect tribute to the essence of Bombay (or Mumbai, if you like) and sings ode to the city with thousands of snaps throughout the movie. I guess its one of the kind, at least to my narrow knowledge where Mumbai is shown in such bright light. The music was awesome and Shankar-Ehsan-Loy rocked again. They did their magic with DCH earlier and this time too, they didn’t disappoint.
Its time Bollywood wakes up to such cinema and am glad she's yawning her way out of stupid formula movie with running around the tree thing!! Wake Up Bollywood!