MUMBAI REVISITED

I have now lived 2 full years of my glorious life in Mumbai. Looking back at my early experiences, I can’t quite believe that this is the city that I loathed so much, one that I swore I would never come back to.
I can almost hear a bunch of voices gasp in astonishment- “Ada Paavi, neeya ipdi solre” (My my! I can’t believe it is YOU who is uttering these words. How could you….).
Am I a sellout? Well, the answer is probably yes. But it is the how and why that never ceases to amaze me.
Yes, the infamous local trains are crowded and sticky as ever. Yes, there is pushing and shoving that only worsens by the day.People still come up to me asking for directions like the very first day I landed here.

The queue for the BEST buses after office hours is excruciatingly long and the wait is only getting longer as days pass by. Do I it like it? Not one bit. But, there is something fundamentally pedestrian, warm and comforting at the thought of being able to travel from Sandhurst road to Powai Lake at 2am on public transport. Or the fact that, on a rainy July morning at 4:30am an immigrant taxi driver hailing from Gorakhpur would ferry you from the airport in Santacruz to a residential suburb in Thane. And strictly adhering to the meter without kicking up a fuss. In a city full of imperfections, these little wonders have sufficed to make my heart swell.
I long for those rainy days at the bus queue- my wet shirt sticking onto my cold body, puddles of muddy water all around liberally splashing on my polished formal shoes and a badly battered umbrella that hangs smugly over my head.
One could say that I was the stereotypical man who never asked for directions (I never asked for anything anyways!) and tried to ‘figure out’ the route- often from incomprehensible station codes and similar looking confusing platforms. The introvert that I was (I still am) I wallowed in my pitiful condition waiting for somebody to come and help me. The wait was long and frustrating. Day after day, I would walk through a sea of unknown faces, of people hurrying across to nowhere, of people chasing their dreams, of people who couldn’t care less for some random bystander. And to all of them I would silently look up with an expectant face. But I remained a faceless soul.
Slowly and steadily I learnt to speak up, to think on my feet and to make bold moves (like, launch a courtesy shove on co-passengers that signals that you need to alight at the next station and that you mean business!). I went after the city, the city that I was unsuccessfully attempting to shake off my back. And it embraced me – a shrewd mentor that it was. Though I’m still the silent kid that I was, I realize that silence is not always golden.
As the waves gently lap onto the concrete rocks on marine drive, it never ceases to amaze. Watching the long row of people seated at the promenade, one can feel the enormity of thoughts, feelings and aspirations floating in the air above the water. This is the place where countless anonymous souls, away from their distant homes find freedom, this is the place where they discover little reasons to celebrate and sink their sorrows into the sea. It is here that they gather strength to see another day.
I remember my first visit to marine drive. It was on the top of my ‘30 things to do in 30 days’ list and I couldn’t wait to strike it off. Despite the monsoons, I braved it across the city in the harbor line to reach VT. As I stood on the road, waiting for a taxi, the steady drizzle wet my head. I could feel the heaviness of my damp hair and it pissed me off to no end. I was half cursing myself for putting me through it, when I flagged down a taxi and barked away orders to take me to ‘intercontinental on marine drive’ - the lines in Hindi, practiced and perfected meticulously with help from a local friend. That day was a forgettable one to say the least. I was in a foul mood and everywhere I could see pretty much the same thing- foulness. The air smelt foul, the weather was rotten and water – black as dirt. It would take the passing of clouds and a warm winter afternoon to change my opinion.

Much of what I’ve come to love as Mumbai is derived from experiences in the eastern suburb of Chembur. Of late I dream of pleasant things - of gliding up the elevator at K star mall, ordering food from Mc Donald’s and looking around for a free table amongst the ‘family crowd’ at the perennially crowded food court.
I’ve visited Mc D outlets across Mumbai, Delhi, Hyderabad, Bangalore and Chennai, but the burgers served at the Chembur outlet are the tastiest. Maybe it is more than just taste buds or olfactory senses at work. Hotel Naveena is a small eatery in Chembur run by a Christian migrant from Thanjavur. The soft parotas and spicy kari-kolambu served here more than compensates for the sweet sambhar dished out by innumerous Udipi ‘Bhavans’. (Which are not surprisingly flocked by sweet loving Gujjus). The flavor is straight out of the Tamil heartland and surpasses even the delicious Parotas available in good ol’ Madras. As I sit at a table watching lungi clad men whipping, lashing and kneading the maida dough with oil, talking in thickly accented Tamil, I’m starkly reminded that it is Bombay when a chotu from Jharkhand takes down the order, his speech peppered with broken Tamil.
The first time I witnessed the grandiose scale of ganesh Chaturthi celebrations, I felt alienated. People made merry all around and the loud drum beats and men dancing along the procession whipped up some of that old regressive fear. Wafts of mari-attha songs in Chembur offered succor during the winter season. But come second year and my heart raced with excitement when I heard the drum beats, almost wanting to break into a jig.
A lot about the city remains much the same as it was- filthy, crowded and harsh. The streets are filled with boys sporting fluorescent tees and crinkled jeans and girls dressed in halter tops, chequered shorts and oversized shades parade the latest line worn by this Bollywood star in that movie. Driving around Bandra or Colaba at night, scenes of young men and women, outside popular hangouts, engaged in animated conversation and smoking with gay abandon greet you. The pretence of cosmopolitan air chokes you more than the thick nicotine flavored air.
As June approaches, the wake of the monsoon fills the air with the stench of the city. But it is the same stench that reminds me of sweet memories of a season long gone by.
For it is the wonder of human experience- the joy of hearing voices that you’ve grown to love, of simple memories that now mean the world to you, of unasked favors and unspoken promises, of uninhibited laughter- that has woven an invisible net around you which tugs at your heart’s strings every time you look back on the city. It could happen at any place- but it happens a lot more in Mumbai for ‘This is Bombay man’.

A slice from my journal....

August 25, 2009
1158 hrs

A guy came up to my cubicle at office and asked for ‘Kavita Madam’ (the loud-mouth) and I actually directed him to her! I was a novice here and hardly knew anybody by name, and yet I pulled off this one. It just reminded me of how people always ask me for directions at stations. I was traveling to Andheri on Sunday night and was accosted by a man who wanted to get to ‘saanthakarooz’. Just as I was done with him another guy came up to me – his savior who would tell him which side of the train, Khar road platform would be on. I invariably gave him the wrong answer. Then a third asked me if he was on the right platform for the Bandra train and I safely nodded. Even on the night after dinner at China gate, I wasn’t spared. It was 12:30am and the station was pretty deserted. Yet, a guy came up to me in search of the train to Churchgate! Today’s travel from Versova to office was so fucked up. It was drizzling steadily when I walked out and I wanted to get into an auto at the earliest. But, I couldn’t get one even after a 15min wait on the main road and that’s when I took the fatal decision of travelling by Bus-249 to Andheri (w) station. It was quite reasonable until I got off at the station. I got on to the overhead rail bridge connecting the west and east, and suddenly found out to my horror that it wasn’t meant to be a public passageway (An I used to think only Kurla had that fucked up rule). I was stopped by a ticket collector who asked me for my ticket-
“This is a railway bridge. Where is your ticket? Or do you at least have a platform ticket?”
I was like “Oh Oh”.
I put on my best show of an innocent guy trying to get to the other side. In fact, I was so optimistic that I thought he would let me off, if I explained things clearly. But, I guess he has seen hordes of such cases and remained unmoved.

He said “give 260 rupees. You should’ve seen the notice. This is the railway bridge not the public passageway”.

I profusely apologized and told him I wouldn’t repeat it again (like a kid!). He seemed to pause for a moment, and I thought I had him there. But, he handed me over to his superior and told me to try my reasoning with him. I almost gave up at that point, and was like “ok, take the damn money you morons; this is like the last reason I want to get held up for”. His boss, a burly guy with a no-nonsense attitude barked at me-“You given 260. You first given 260” and motioned me to pay-up. He was in no mood to listen to some lame story of mine. I reached into my wallet and pulled out 300 bucks. He took the money and was about to hand out the change when I asked him the way to get to the public passageway. He shrugged his shoulders and said “you ask that person”, pointing to his sub-ordinate. That was it. I flew into a frenzied rage and literally yelled at him and at the same time my voice choked and tears welled up in my eyes.
“I’ve given you the money. I’ve paid the fine. Now, all I’m asking you for is directions to get to the public bridge. And you tell me ‘ask that guy’. I’m only asking out for help. How can you be so heartless? Aren’t you supposed to guide people like me who are lost in a new city?”
He was gaping at me open-mouthed and stunned. He stuck out the 300 bucks at me and said “300 no need. You go buy platform ticket for Rs.3” and patted me on the back. I too was stunned to say the least. But, it wasn’t really the end yet. The queue for tickets for a hopeless serpentine one and I set off towards the public passageway. En route, I stepped into sewage water and muddied my shoes. I couldn’t avoid this despite taking a circuitous route through the parking lot behind the station. I hate it when my socks get soggy and I can’t get out of them till evening. I was reminded of those painful days at Mukand Steel. And it was at that moment, when I was coming out of the crossing into Andheri (e), braving the steady drizzle and dodging muddy splashes from vehicles zipping by, that I swore to myself. I hate this fucking city. And even more strangely I was reminded of Chennai and I felt homesick after a really long time. It felt like my first couple of weeks in Bombay- “fuck this shit. Fuck Bombay. Fuck TISS” .Hmmm. When I look back in wonder, a faint smile comes across my face. But, the thing is, it is not funny!

One of the toughest things to accomplish in Bombay is to get on an Auto from Andheri (e) station during peak hours. If you think otherwise, do let me know how you do it (drop me a mail!). Ok, this is how it basically plays out. There is a steady stream of autos ferrying passengers to the station. Now, there are twice as many people who are waiting on the roads to get onto one of those autos. So much before the auto stops or the passenger alights, you need to chase the auto, negotiate with the driver to take you to your destination and most importantly out-smart at least 3 other passengers who are doing the same thing- chasing the same auto, flagging it down and barking off orders to take them to a different destination. The most pissing off thing is, when you finally manage to do all of the above, the auto guy refuses point blank.

I’m like “Chakala?”
He’s like “Are you out of your mind?” The polite ones tell me “Sorry sir, too much traffic”
But, this is how the majority react.

I’m like “Chakala?”
He’s like “Vrooommmmm…..” spewing petrol fumes on my face. He doesn’t even look in my direction. It is like I’ve uttered the unmentionable. What’s wrong with Chakala anyways, huh?

LIQUOR RUINS COUNTRY, FAMILY, AND LIFE (and the whole of the next day!)

Kudi Naatukkum, Veetukkum, Uyirikkum Kedu!

That was the message embossed on a metal plate outside the Leather Bar, welcoming patrons into the supposedly happening hangout at ‘The Park’ Hotel in Chennai. As I walked in on a Saturday night way past the legal closing time of 11pm, taking in the pumping trance beats played by the DJ, my mind was faintly asking, “Now why do people drink?" I was afraid that the old dissonance was coming back again.

Being a teetotaler, I have always faced tremendous peer pressure to conform, to pick up that bottle of beer (It’s just beer; now don’t act like a sissy!). Why are we fixated with the idea of losing control or is it just about having a fun time (And a little groping*) ? Is the idea of escapism inherently built into the social structure? Is it related to the idea of ‘freedom’? The powers that control society, those which provide for norms and values – also provide the means of escapism. But why is there such a stigma associated with alcohol. Maybe, people aren’t comfortable with ideas of sexual promiscuity in their normal behavior states or any state for that matter. Alcohol helps reduce the dissonance that comes with the desires of the libido.

People have often quizzed me, “you don’t drink? So what DO you do to have fun….you know like go out and stuff?” Truth be told, I have no answer to that question. You can probably take me for a little guy who refused to ‘grow up’. I’ve just been doing the same stuff that I do to enjoy, since I was a kid- watching movies, go out for dinner , have a fun outing, play outdoor sports, sing, dance and play the fool. But, along with the teetotaler tag come the experiences of being an alienated soul. Suddenly, all the childhood friends you knew are not the same anymore. All they want to do is drink up and create a boisterous scene. The culturally disapproved rites of passage are here to stay.

But, is it really the rebel yell? Isn’t it ever so common? Isn’t it conformance to the conventional identity of a “youth”- (Flaunt your guts and flout the rules). Are youth being deviant during binge alcohol sessions? I feel it is more the opposite. It takes a teetotaler to be a non-conformist, to stay un-cool, to resist social pressure to hit the bottle. And yes, it takes a teetotaler to be the real Rebel.

MUMBAI MERI YAWN….- Random thoughts of an ‘outsider’

Mumbai is an immigrant city. A city filled with homeless people and a ‘home’ to none. It is very easy to feel lost in the sheer number of humanity. The vast expanses from Colaba to Kalyan dwarfs the sense of distance travelled in other Indian metros. Ironically, the city also offers a sense of privacy and it is quite easy to revel in your own sweet world. Jostling for an extra inch of space on the crowded local, it isn’t strange to experience a feeling of infinite personal room.

The monsoons are something that is a quintessential part of the city cycle. It never rains in Mumbai. It drips, trickles and drizzles insolently & incessantly for days together. The rains are as unpredictable as the English weather. (Not that I’ve ever set foot in England! But still…). The first piece of advice I received in Mumbai goes thus- “Bombay rain& Bombay girl. Dunno when it come, when it go” .Coming to think of it, that’s the best counsel I’ve obtained about the city.

There are a lot of blokes who glorify the pseudo-cosmopolitan aura of Mumbai city- the “liberal” values and the “fast life”. The word Cosmopolitan essentially means being free of provincial attachments, parochial attitudes, interests and prejudices. It symbolizes a worldly belonging, outlook not just restricted to one region.But, Cosmopolitan has a very narrow definition for a Mumbaikar – Sporting flea market rollouts of fashion garb and engaging in PDA. They assume a sort of cannibalistic pride in stating that people can smooch anywhere in the city. What’s more, they often challenge unsuspecting outsiders (like me), asking if such a thing is possible in Chennai (or wherever the hell, the stupid bloke came from). What a yardstick to measure the greatness of Mumbai! The reality is, it is not just smooching that is ‘performed’ in public, people eat, sleep, shit, fight, fornicate and solicit in public. I have a nagging suspicion that this might be vaguely connected to the “space crunch” in Mumbai. But, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe, it’s the cosmopolitan nature of the city.

It is appalling to see 5-6 people piling up in a dingy one bedroom apartment and trying to make a life of it. Maybe, it is an outcome of the ‘chawl’ culture that accompanied the cotton mill boom. People swallow everything- their pride, freedom, comfort and happiness for the all encompassing big city. The city in turn consumes them all- without bias, without a trace. But, yes. It is true. Somewhere in this tumultuous existence people find happiness or at least a reason to be happy.
I’m forever trying to fathom- what is it that makes Mumbai, the city it is?
Big Bright Malls
The city is replete with malls and shopping plazas. I must admit that the city is one of the best places to shop in India. There are goods that fit every pocket and every size. But, pockets seldom stay static. There is always space for needs and greed- for the ever expanding bulge.
Restaurants & Bars
One of the few things I really like about Mumbai is the abundance of eat-outs, hotels and ice cream parlors. Due to the diverse immigrant population it is easy to run into modest joints that serve cuisine as exotic as Kashmiri, Marwari or Konkani. There are also plenty of ‘lunch homes’- which are seedy restaurants with an attached permit room. I’m a teetotaler and it doesn’t matter much to me. But, outsiders generally salivate at the abundance of lit-up wine shop boards. It’s a pity though that hardly any place serves authentic south Indian food. The Sāmbhar is painfully sweet and the popular mode of consuming dosa is with a fork (beat that!). Talking about food, vada pav is synonymous with Mumbai. It’s a little bizarre though for a southie like me who has grown up eating plain aloo bonda, to suddenly place it between an innocuous looking piece of bread!
Autos
The auto rickshaws in Mumbai are the best thing about the city (the suburbs, actually). There is no haggling or negotiating. The autos strictly adhere to the fare and almost always agree to take you to your destination. A few basic Hindi words for directions and one would feel comfortable and secure travelling by auto even late at night.
Local Trains
To be truly baptized by the city, one needs to travel in the local train at peak hours. It’s a hellish experience but helps one adjust to the travails of the city. The stations are like any Indian railway station but immensely crowded with a sea of people, swift warm north Atlantic currents flowing in and out simultaneously. When I’m present amidst that sea, it feels like my entire life is similar to living in a prison complex – convicts moving along a line and ticket collectors standing at vantage points- ala prison guards.
A mega village
Mumbai is a city only in parts. Beyond the arterial roads dotted with bright malls and corporate offices, the city largely consists of hundreds and hundreds of villages. It is quite possible to live in parts of the city and feel like being in a remote rural Indian town. It can often be noticed that people from the same village live on a single lane. There are generations of poor families who grow up and live in the jhopadpattis of Mumbai without ever learning a word of English. They live a cocooned life in the cosmopolitan city of Mumbai.
This is Bombay man!
That’s the famous and oft repeated phrase to reinforce the potency of the city. It can be used in any context. If you’ve had a rough ride in the local train, a man who landed up in the city a week earlier would pat your shoulder and say “this is Bombay man”. If you quiz your landlord on why a person needs to cough up a fortune for a dingy room, all he offers to say is “this is Bombay man”. If you’re wondering as to why the filth on the roads have not been cleared for weeks together, everyone from the street urchin to the wily CEO has a simple answer- “this is Bombay man”. I find it really amusing to witness girls wear the skimpiest halters while skillfully navigating lanes replete with slush, heaps of rotting garbage and human excreta. Take the image of a girl walking down the ramp at say the wills lifestyle fashion week and juxtapose it with a street filled with puddles of muddy water, dirt and open sewage. Only a Mumbaikar can live in such oblivion to their stark surroundings. After all, “this is Bombay man!”




Mumbai Dictionary
 *“1 Bedroom Apartment” –A small room where nothing more than a single bed would fit in. In hindsight, a self explanatory phrase.
 “Cutting” – A 1 by 2 glass of tea at the local chai shop. It greatly amused me as fellow ‘southies’ use the word for a more potent concoction.
 “Abhey! Kkkuuuurrrrrrla” – the blood curling battle cry emanating from a fellow passenger on the crowded local when he wants to alight at kurla station. It is often accompanied by brutal shoves and colorful words that relate to an individual’s mother and sister.
 “Haan” – An extremely handy word uttered by ‘southies’ when faced with a strong barrage of incomprehensible Hindi lines. It works best with an unfazed expression and a periodically nodding head.
 “Marathi maanu”- it doesn’t matter what it means, but don’t ever piss off a Marathi maanu. Period.