The Young And The Wise

Once a week I go to a nearby commercial complex and wait.

My daughter attends a coaching class there and has a class till 9 pm. Sometimes the class goes on almost till 9.30.  Although the complex is pretty close to home there is a slum in the area and I do not feel very comfortable letting her walk home alone.

 The complex has a few eateries. There are some coaching centres. There are also some other shops and the place is generally very vibrant and alive at that time. It is a nice place to watch people. Last week when I was waiting for my daughter to finish her class a very interesting episode happened. A street urchin, a boy of nine or ten, started begging people for some money. He said he was hungry and had not eaten anything that day. He said he wanted some money to buy food. He looked unkempt, though he wore rather decent clothes. He also wore shoes. For some reason, shoes are important to me. In my mind, that is a measure of poverty. A completely shoe less boy or girl always evoke greater sympathy. Perhaps because he noticed I did not carry any purse, the boy did not approach me. And even if he had, I doubt I would have given him any money. But he did ask a well dressed man who alighted from a swanky car. The man did not even spare a second glance at the boy and moved away. And that set me thinking. Are our rich less sensitive? Are they completely immune to other people's pain? And am I also slowly losing my empathetic side?

India has a thriving middle class. There are quite a few people in the country who are capable of giving a lot to the needy. But for some reason, we do not have the culture of sharing our wealth. We are so focussed on making our own lives comfortable that we have forgotten the joy of sharing. When I had gone to the United States for a visit, I was amazed at their culture of giving back to the society. Every where I went, the museums and the parks, the libraries and the community centres, I saw people willingly and happily sharing their time, their money and their energy to make things better. Here, looking at the man shunning the little boy, I wondered what kind of future my own country had. A country that has forgotten to share joy with others has no place amongst other great nations.

Just then, a young boy and his girl friend, perhaps in their late teens spotted the urchin and called him. They took him to a tea stall and bought him a vada-pav, Mumbai's favourite all time snack. Looking at the young couple, my heart filled with joy. I forgot all about my earlier ruminations. See the young people of India! How different they are from the earlier generation! The youth of our country indeed have their hearts in the right place. They have plenty of empathy, and they do care about their poor fellow country men. In just a few minutes, my dark thoughts had changed colours. My India was on the right track and I was upbeat and optimistic once again.

What do you think happened next? The moment the young couple turned away, the small boy without any hesitation, fed the vada pav to a street dog. He was not hungry, he just wanted some money... perhaps to gamble, perhaps to smoke. May be even to buy drugs. He definitely was not impressed with the young couple's generosity. A few minutes later, he started begging again.

So tell me, was the man in the swanky car heartless or was he just wise? Were the teenage boy and the girl naive? If they knew the young boy made a fool of them, would they ever give anything to any body again? And what about the boy? Did he even care? 

The incident upset me, I do not know why. May be because it reminded me that I live in a metro where a lot of people do not care how the other half lives. That I live in a metro where a lot of people tend to think it is all right to con others. Or may be because I was reminded that I live in a metro where a lot of caring people stop giving just because they can not tell whether they are being taken for a ride...

Saddi Dilli And Aamchi Mumbai

Every time I open my mouth to say I grew up in Delhi, most Mumbaikars exclaim with horror, "But isn't that an awful city to live in?" That  question is generally followed by," Didn't you feel horribly unsafe there?"  then, " Were you ever, you know, molested on the roads?" And then, "Aren't you glad you stay in Mumbai now?" And of course the icing on the cake," So which city do you think is better?"

 I used to answer them pretty honestly once. No. I didn't find the city awful, in fact I loved it. Yes I did, but very rarely.  No I did not have my butt pinched or anything like that every time I went out.(It did happen once in a bus, but I pinched back. Hard) Yes I am glad I stay in Mumbai. And well, to the last one, that question is so stupid it does not even deserve an answer.

For some reason, people tend to think that you can not love two cities equally. That you must prefer one over the other. That the preference better be Mumbai because no sane person will ever prefer a city known for the Punjabi culture of over the top display of show-sha  and name dropping. And what about the danger lurking at every corner? A testosterone laden Jat male just might grab you, rape you and then leave you to die. It is pathetic that some of the people I know, all well educated, well read and fairly well balanced, tend to be so biased. Earlier I used to get angry. Now I just laugh.

Because there is humour to be found in every corner of both these Indian cities. When I came to Mumbai as a young bride in the early nineties, the city's breakneck pace amazed me. No one had time for anything superfluous. When I went for veggie shopping, I invariably asked the wrong question. What's more, I took too long to ask it. Now of course I have become wise. "Bhai-saab, pyaaz kya bhao de rahen hain?" has been replaced by " Kanda kitne ka?" Short and crisp. And you get the same answer. Amazing.

It took me some time to get used to the city's brash language. I used to cringe every time I heard the Bombaiyya version of Hindi. Once, while selecting some footwear from a particular hawker at Linking Road, I was told, " Leneka hai toh loh nahi to jao, khali-peeli apunka bheja mat kharab karo. Apun ke paas itna time nahi". Coming from the land of the traders who always said, "Dekh lijiye behenji, dekhne ka koi paisa nahi lagta," it was a rude culture shock. My traumatised self almost needed therapy to go back to Linking Road. Now when I venture out there, I make my purchases and quickly get away. Honestly, who really has the patience to deal with fussy customers?

Of course shopping in Delhi could be equally mind numbing, specially for those lost souls who are not used to the North Indian twang. Like my husband. He was more at home in Mumbai, where the strictly vegetarian Gujarati shopkeepers did not stock anything even remotely connected to animals, except milk. He was used to asking the grocers whether they kept eggs. He did the same in Delhi once. " Kya aap ande dete hain?"  The grocer without blinking said " Sirji main toh nahi deta par murgi deti hain. Aapko chahiye?" He was speechless but he bravely went ahead and chose what he had to buy. While making the payment, the grocer said " Aap ji chaliye, saaman ghar bhijwata hoon. Bas yehi kafi hain ki aapke ghar mein kuch whore bhi bhejoon?" This time it was my husband who needed the therapy.

Now, you tell me, when they ask me which city I love more, what do I reply? Both cities have made me what I am today. Delhi is beautiful, gracious, old world charm and wide open spaces. Mumbai is spunky, funky, glitzy and modern. In both cities I have a home. And I love both of them unconditionally. It is unfair when people compare these two cities and find one lacking.

So when I am asked which team I am cheering for this IPL, I say unabashedly the Kolkata Knight Riders. Because sadly, some people, even those who are well educated, well read and fairly well balanced, tend to be biased about their home state.

 Disgraceful, isn't it?

I did not translate the Hindi sentences into English as I thought the humour would  perhaps be lost in translation. If some one wants it translated, I will do it.

Rootless In The City

A city still commonly referred to as Bombay has been my home for the last several years.

 This city was perhaps not what we had in mind when we planned a home for us. It was crowded, it was dirty and it was a chaos. On top of that, it was expensive as hell. We never thought we could bring up our children here, in this city, where land was at a premium. There was no open space for my children to run and play. No place where we could walk hand in hand. No place where we could sit back and relax and watch the time go by. Constantly moving, constantly bustling, there was never a moment of peace here. A lot of time we felt hopelessly out of depth. But slowly, I do not know when, this city seeped into our blood. The city became so much a part of us that it became hard for us to imagine living anywhere else. It became home.

But lately I have been wondering about our decision to stay here. After all, as some people claim, the city belongs to the Maharashtrians first and Indians later. As my name suggests, we are clearly not Maharashtrians. Having grown up outside the state, my husband and I also do not speak the language. We are outsiders here. We have taken the place of some locals who perhaps would have stayed in our flat. My husband perhaps has taken the job of a Marathi who would have got the job otherwise. Education, ability, skill; they all take a back seat. The fact is that we are not Marathi Manoos and we do not belong here.

So where do we go? Do we go to Delhi where I grew up? But we are not really North Indians. I can not speak Punjabi either. Does Delhi belong to the Punjabis anyway? We can go to Patna where my husband was born and brought up. But neither are we Biharis. We are both products of parents who trace their roots to East Bengal, now in Bangladesh. So do we go and stay there? May be we should migrate to Kolkata, after

all we are Bengalis even though we have never stayed there. We do not know the city as well as we do Bombay. Or for that matter Delhi. But that doesn't matter, does it? The fact is that we are Bengalis and we might as well go and live there.

Imagine how peaceful India would be then. No fighting for land. No fighting for languages. No fighting for culture.We can then fit our lives in to neat little labels. Chchat Puja in Bihar, Ganeshotsav in Maharashtra. They can keep Sachin Tendulkar, we will be happy with Sourav.  Dosas in the south, parathas in the north, rosogullas in the east.There will not be any friction over culture, speech or festivals. Sheer bliss.

But the trouble is that when I see Sachin play, I do not see the Maharashtrian.. Just like when I hear Kishore Kumar, I do not hear the Bengali. I do not label APJ Abdul Kalam, Lata Mangeshkar, Amjad Ali Khan. Amitabh Bachchan, Narayan Murthy.... when I see them, I simply forget which region they come from. I only see the face of an Indian. But perhaps I am only one of the few who think like that.

So currently, I, with my fondness for Kanjivaram sarees, Sachin Tendulkar, Hindi movies and aloo parathas, am rootless in the city I call home. When I hear Raj Thackeray say that Mumbai belongs to the Marathis, I start  to think, where do I really  belong then? What label do I use for myself?

I am still thinking about it. I also keep thinking about one more thing. How many of you, while singing the National Anthem, ever think the song is in Bengali?

Come Soon, Monsoon

Before you guys cringe at my tacky header, let me clarify that this awesome line is not my creation.

Yesterday, when I went to the school to pick up my daughter, I heard some 6 year olds chanting this masterpiece.

Come soon monsoon,

We are tired of watching cartoon,

When you come we'll play in the rain,

The summer heat is such a pain.

As I have not heard this before, I am assuming some budding young poet or poetess has recently penned these lines. Nature has been such an inspiration to us writers over the years. Think Wordsworth.

I can't help agreeing with this new young talent though. Everyday, I am doing the Lagaan act in Mumbai. Any sign of a passing cloud, I am rushing to the window. Is it raining yet? Just when the Ghanan ghanan ghana ghir aayee badra starts playing in my mind, the clouds disappear. Bummer. Apparently cyclone Aila has sucked out all the moisture and the rains are stranded somewhere.

The heat has been unbearable in the meanwhile. The kids look drained when they are back from school. The thick, 'protector of all virtues' uniforms do not help either. Their brand new umbrellas are yet to come out of their original packs. To add to their woes, I have started keeping them indoors till late evenings. So they grumble about the loss of playing time. What's more, the water supply is playing truant. As I refuse to let them bathe in muddy brown tanker supplied water, the poor kids have no option but to wait till late at night when fresh water comes, to wash off the accumulated grime and sweat. Yuck.

People all across India have a special fondness for rains. Come monsoon, we all shed our inhibitions and turn into peacocks. As a child, I remember dancing on our terrace , getting completely soaked . The lunch would consisit of khichdi and in the evening, if it still rained, we would all sit in a circle, have tea and pakodas. What bliss. In Kolkata, where I spent my summer vacations, the Kalboishakhi would cause a lot of cheer. The gusty wind signalled the onset of monsoons and we would all welcome the rains with glee.

Ayee brishti jhepe,

Dhaan debo mepe,

Dhaaner bhitor poka

Jamai babu boka.

( I am pretty bad at translations still I shall try. This is a popular Bengali limerick that invites the rain. Pour down fast and furious, rain. We will give you rice grains. The grains have insects and the brother-in-law is a fool ! See ,I told you I am bad at this. Please help me someone to authentically translate this.)

Delhi, a city where I grew up, rains often come as late as August. There, the monsoons,which last for may be around 15 days, are like the quintissential Punjabis. Passionate and loud. Accompanied by frightening lightnening and thunderstorms, the torrential rains would often uproot trees, cause waterlogging and bring cheers to thousands of children. The parched land would spring to life, there would be some peacocks dancing in the ridge area and the Punjabis would celebrate with spiked gol-gappas.

Baarish ayee chcham chcham

Lekar chchata nikle hum,

Pair phisalkar gir gaye hum,

Upar chchata neeche hum.

Mumbai rains are more sedate. There is a continuous, steady drizzle.The monotonous sound of rains falling sometimes act as lullabies and sometimes cause immense irritation, depending on how your day went. We initially love the respite it brings from summer heat but soon grow to resent it. The dug up roads can't handle the pressure. Water logging ruins many evening plans and housewives get increasingly angry about the wet clothes perpetually drying inside the house. The four months of continuous downpour finally starts to get on our over worked nerves and we start offering our fervent prayers to the rain gods to just leave us alone. After four months, the roads are hardly recognizable. Our houses permanently wear the aroma of mildew. Our leather shoes and bags are ruined beyond forever. And the kids have grown bored of paper boats and have started watching cartoon again.

Still, come June, next year, we will eagerly look at the sky and pray. We will still buy new umbrellas and loathe to throw away our old ones. We will pack away our cotton clothes and expensive shoes and take out our tacky, synthetic ones. We will keep a change of clothes in office just in case we need to stay the night there. And the latest, we will keep a hammer in the car so that just in case, there is a repeat of 26th July, we can escape from our cars by breaking down the windows.

As I am adding finishing touches to my post, I can hear the faint grrrr sound of thunder. It has become cloudy again. May be all of us should sit in front our computers with some coffee or tea and some pakodas. We can swap our favourite rain stories.

What do you think? Shall we?

Heartbreak Hotel

The first time I saw the hotel, it was from the Arabian sea. I was about eight years old. We were returning to India from Muscat by ship. The journey was long and tedious and after sailing for almost three days we were desperate to see some land.

My mother shook me awake at about 2 o'clock early morning. "We have reached Bombay. Come and see the lights." Standing on the deck, rubbing off sleep from my eyes, I stood watching the twinkling lights in the distance. "That's the Taj - the famous hotel in Bombay." My mother sounded proud - as if it was something that belonged exclusively to her.

The year was 1976. The Taj Tower, whose lights had warmed the hearts of my parents, was almost brand new. It was majestic and tall and stood proudly towering over all the other buildings of the city. Next morning fresh and completely awake, I saw for the first time the Taj Mahal hotel, clearly visible from the sea. Glorious and elegant, it completely overshadowed it's much taller and newer extension. It created a lasting impression on my young mind.

Years later, when I came to Bombay as a young bride, I would often go to the Apollo Bunder, where the Taj was located, with my husband. We would walk on the promenade and admire it's old style architecture and elegant facade.

The last time we went to the Taj, it was with our friend who came from New Jersey. We took her and her son to the Elephanta caves and stopped at the hotel to refresh ourselves. Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt were staying there for the shooting of A Mighty Heart. The hotel and the surrounding lanes were full of curious onlookers. The polite staff never expressed any displeasure over any of this. They attended to us as if we were celebrities ourselves. I still remember the beautiful flowers in the lobby, the magnificent archways and the exquisite artwork on the walls. The sheer grandeur of the place was breathtaking..

On November 27, I sat glued to the television set, watching the the Taj again, this time on fire. Few young men, with evil on their minds, had set out to destroy this iconic structure. They mercilessly killed the guests spraying them with bullets. Innocent men, women and children caught completely unaware, lay there dying, spending the last day of their lives in fear and agony. Shards of glass, thick smoke bellowing over the domes, helpless guests frantically waving for rescue from their windows, the fire fighters working tirelessly and the marine commandos valiantly trying to save the people and the building from total destruction. The images were mind numbing. I was a mute spectator, along with the entire nation, feeling helpless and violated.

The elegant hallways of the Taj will no longer be the same. I will no longer be able to enter the hotel with a spring on my step and joy on my mind. I will hear the heart wrenching sobs of the victims every time I go there. Even after the renovation, when the hotel reclaims it's former glory, the image of it burning would always stay in my mind.

But go back I will. When this grand old beauty is ready to face the crowd once more, I will go back to the Taj defying fear and sorrow.

After all, I owe it to the people who needlessly lost their lives in this bloody carnage. I owe it those who valiantly tried to rescue the hostages, sometimes even at the cost of their own lives. I owe it to the people who saved this heritage structure from crumbling down. But mostly, I owe it to the hotel whose distant lights were once the symbol of a homeland for an eight year old.