Bombay Diary

* It’s amazing how religious fervour can bring a city to its knees. ‘Don’t even think of stepping out today,’ I was told almost every alternate day of the first week that I was in the city. Mumbai’s preoccupation with the immersion of Ganesha threw my carefully ordained plans into a tizzy. Friends fled home from work and plans for a night out in town had to be postponed. On the 11th day, I headed off early in the evening to a friend’s place in Mahim (or ‘may-hem’ as my aunts used to say). There was not a soul on the street. It almost felt like a ghost town. We stepped out later in the evening, and it was a dramatically different scene. We found it interesting to watch the throngs headed back after they’d immersed the idol. Some seemed to have a glassy-eyed, bewildered expression, and they walked back heads low, almost as if the lights all around were too bright for them. “Like stepping out in the night when a disco shuts,” said Ara. Ah, we said, the expression becoming completely clear to us.

* Riding on potholed roads ought to qualify as a low-intensity aerobic workout. Further, riding the stretch from Hill Road to Mehboob Studio in Bandra can prove to be a better and cheaper option to the physiotherapy one was undergoing in Dubai. Honestly, my back has improved considerably in the last couple of weeks.

* ‘You’ll be surprised by the Western Express Highway,’ says Ana. There are lane markings and it’s a comfortable drive, she convinces me. She’s right. There are lanes marked out quite clearly and for the most part, seems to be a smooth ride. I can’t help noticing that my auto driver seems to drive right on the line, rather than within the lines. Oh well.

* Some things are comfortingly familiar. Like travelling by the local train. I step in and my eyes automatically scan for a seat opposite to the direction of travel – an old habit. If there’s no sitting room, I head to the window where I can stand in relative comfort. The other day I was making my way to the window when I inadvertently stepped on someone’s foot. I was awarded a generous shove which sent me flying to the window. I bit back a retort – another old habit. A dozen stations later, the same lady called out to me and offered me her seat. Are you getting off, I ask her. No, but I’m getting another seat at the next station. You’ve been standing all the way, so you must sit down. Some things are comfortingly familiar.

* My old book haunts bear a haunted look. Crossword at Bandra has a cosy coffee shop, but little else. The one under the Pedder Road flyover is no better. I mean, there are books, but I miss the days when you could spend hours browsing through the expansive sections, and reading the little recommendations hand-written by Sriram. The recommendations these days are printed, and rather yawn-inducing. Most of the books I asked for were out of stock on each of the three occasions I went there. Surprisingly, Strand Book Stall also proved disappointing. There seem to be more management and self-improvement books than quality titles. Ara tells me Landmark is the bookstore to visit. Next trip, perhaps.

* Metal detectors in malls, a swanky domestic airport, the high cost of parking (25 lakhs per year in Nariman Point!!) - it’s taken a bit of getting used to some of the changes in the city. But one new occurrence that still has me gobsmacked is that Alison can read. Two weekends ago, we were in the B.E.S.T bus, when she leaned over and peered under the seat for a few seconds. She then turned to me and waited. What, I asked, unnerved by the steady gaze. Leela, don’t be an idiot. Before I could narrow my eyes, she pointed to the poster above the window of the bus – “You’re not an idiot if you look under your seat.” It was a public service message to warn against explosive devices. Make sure you check next time, she told me before looking out of the window.

The city’s changing too fast for my liking.

Idol Worship

In all the time I’ve lived in Mumbai, I’ve never had a first hand view of a city going completely berserk. In the last 48 hours, I’ve witnessed it twice over. Two nights ago, I was at Shivaji Park watching the city come to a standstill as hordes of believers carried their favourite god to the sea. And yesterday morning, quite unwittingly, I got stuck among the masses waving to their cricket demigods, quite unmindful of the weather or the inconvenience. Some images from an idol crazed city:

Day 1

Day 2

A day in Bombay

Spot of green on a grey day - at Marine Drive

Shades of rain

Love that weathers

Shelter from the storm

A caged beast - outside Churchgate Station

A riot of elephants

Night lights - from a friend's window

Open-air kitchen

Rainproofing - Bollywood style

God in sight

Old train-ing kicks in

A few things that made me smile

• The inflight announcer faltering over the pronunciation of Mumbai airport – Chit rappety Sewage Airport, Membai.

• A co-passenger exclaiming at the conveyor belt, “Shining new trollies?!”

• My wrestling match with the taxi door before I remembered I had to push the button and not yank the handle.

• The rows of lights and Ganesh pandals along the highway.

• The customary wrangling with the taxi driver over the fare.

• Parents who ask you if you want bun and tea for breakfast.

It's possible...

… to read every single article in every single newspaper, travel from blog to blog assimilating first person accounts, updates and pictures, and feel sadly disconnected from it all.

It’s possible…

… to feel a wave of admiration for the unyielding denizens of my city and anger at their ‘resilience’ born out of helplessness.

It’s possible…

… to be shamelessly grateful that none who perished were my own, and feel a strange ache for the friend’s friend who wasn’t so lucky.

It’s possible…

To be relieved that one is far from it all, and feel a faint sense of betrayal that one is far from it all.

In (extended) Absentia

A blog friend recently mailed me – "Blog silence usually means a hectic offline life… yes?"

Right on target. It's been unimaginably hectic catching up with family, meeting old friends, shopping, trying to unwind, plugging a leaky nose and remembering to check the wrong side of the road before crossing. I was in Mumbai for a couple of weeks on a trip that was as unexpected as it was welcome. The timing was exquisite – close family from abroad was visiting, as were old friends from College who I hadn't met in years. Going back this time had happier reasons, and all I could do was count days and hours until I touched down in Bombay

The days zipped by, as they're wont to do when you're having fun. But there were moments which stood out; the kind you want to store and replay at a later date. Some of them were funny, some poignant, and some others which made me smile and think, 'Only in India…'

A day after I returned, I was walking back home, up the narrow slope leading to my lane, when I heard a symphony of blaring horns. An empty autorickshaw stood in the middle of the road. The driver was standing beside the vehicle, insulting the women folk of the driver in the green Santro, and also trying to assess the damage to his shattered taillights. He seemed in no hurry to stop either of the two activities, despite the fact that the BEST bus behind the Santro seemed ready to steamroll both vehicles and their respective drivers. The four autorickshaws, one motorbike and two cars behind the bus had no idea what was holding things up, but they hoped their strident horns would create a clearing in the snarl ahead. The spectacle was amusing and comfortingly familiar. I walked home with a smile.

There was nostalgia of another kind when I took the 5-year old 'bess friend' for a movie she wanted to see - Hanuman. The last movie we'd gone for - Polar Express at the IMAX Dome Theatre - had been a bit of a washout. Ten minutes into the movie and she was thoroughly bored, and kept looking longingly at the exit. Hanuman turned out to be a surprise package. The animation was excellent; the soundtrack, delightfully peppy and the narration, engrossing. I was relieved to see Alison dancing in her seat. When war was declared on Lanka, I was hooked. The arrows flying thick and fast reminded me of Sunday mornings many many years ago, when we used to run home from Church to watch 'Ramayana'. (The irony hadn't sunk in then.) It reminded me of those entire episodes devoted to those incredible, flying arrows - the single-arrow-mutating-into-many arrow, the lightning-head arrow, the midair-shape changing arrow... It all came back vividly, right down to the dismayed expression on the face of the archer whose arrow was annihilated. I was enjoying myself thoroughly, when a plaintive voice rung out, loud enough for the whole theatre to hear, "Leela, when does the movie get over!" Goldfish and Alison have a lot in common.

A pilgrimage to the Strand Bookstore was mandatory. Books, when one can find them in Dubai, are prohibitively expensive. Besides, there's only one incredible Mr. Shanbag. I can't remember a single time when I haven't been treated like a VIP customer, even if I've only gone there to browse. This time, I came away with a sizeable haul, but without the slightest twinge of guilt. Dirhams be praised! The ever-courteous staff not only weighed the books to ensure I wasn't going to ground the aircraft, but also reminded me that they could ship me me consignments of up to 5 kgs. for just Rs. 500. I spotted another VFM (or value for money, in ad lingo) offer on a poster in the shop window. This should explain why friends will receive, 'Love poems by Love Poets' in lieu of a Christmas card this year.



Five months is too short a time to make statements like, 'Nothing's changed back home', but I was surprised at how easily I slipped back into old routines. Like sipping my mother's strong tea in the afternoon, cornering the PC at home and wearing down the remote with my frenzied channel-surfing. Old allergies returned to torment me as well, and I spent many a precious day sniffling and clutching a heavy head. But there were huge departures from my prior experience as well. Like the time I handed over a Rs. 100 note to the person at the Borivli Station ticket window. My eyebrows shot right off my forehead when the teller first apologised, and then, very politely, requested me to check if I had a smaller note tucked somewhere in my purse. I managed to locate the requisite change, when the teller from Mars continued, "Actually, I shouldn't be asking you for change. But I feel helpless right now. Thank you for helping me out." I looked around for hidden cameras or for Cyrus Broacha to jump out from a corner with the funny cap. This certainly wasn't the Western Railway I'd known for years!

There was another interesting episode at the ticket window at Churchgate Station. The queue, made up mostly of men, was inching
forward, when a woman of formidable girth jumped the queue. The men hissed disapprovingly, but intimidated by her size, said nothing. Until one braveheart called out from behind, "Excuse me Ma'am, we are in queue. This is not fair."Ma'am coolly replied, "It's fair. If you want, I'll buy your ticket as well."The braveheart sputtered at this unanticipated offer, "That's not the point..." But by then she'd collected her ticket and walked away, delivering a gem of parting shot, "What's your problem? Don't you know how to respect a lady!"The braveheart hasn't recovered, I suspect.

My 'Priceless Pictures' collection grew a bit in Bombay, thanks to gems like these.

Spotted above a ticket window at Borivli Station.



Spotted outside a building complex at Bandra. Canine literacy must be especially high in this area...



There are still some places in Bombay where you can avoid the rush hour completely, where crowds are conspicuous by their absence and where the only sounds you hear are the lapping of the waves and the rustle of the wind in the tall grass. One such place is Manori. Not the popular beach area, but a little way ahead where the craggy rocks end in the sea. I had the good-fortune of going rock-climbing here with a friend, who regularly organises getaways of this nature. (His website if you're interested.) It had been almost two years since I'd done any climbing, but it still felt as good. The muscles protested fiercely the next day, but the vacation felt complete.






Ambivalence ruled when it was time to leave. It had been a wonderful trip, but I was also looking forward to getting back to the Muddle East, which was slowly beginning to get a little un-muddled. The official at the check-in counter frowned when I offered my bags to be weighed. I'll never shop at Strand again, I swore fervently. I got away with an injunction to "Carry less than 8 kilos in hand baggage next time."Whew!

Stepping aboard the Indian Airlines flight, I was confronted by a sizeable, pot-bellied Steward who greeted me with a gap-toothed smile. It took me a few moments to recover, but I told myself I wasn't going to be judgemental about the national carrier. Still, I was reminded of Rhyncus's experience a few months ago, and wondered what else was in store. I didn't have to wait long.

I was engrossed in one of the new books when they announced that the film 'No Entry' would be shown. I was curious to know what had made it such a hit, so I plugged in the earphones, and looked at the single screen in front of the middle aisle. The opening soundtrack began. The screen was blank. The dpening dialogues began; Anil Kapoor, I could tell. The screen was blank. I looked around, wondering if I was the only one who had a problem seeing anything on the screen. Nobody else looked nonplussed. I leaned as much to the right as I could without giving the person in the next seat any wrong ideas. Finally, it sunk in. No Entry was a no-show; the entire film was going to be played only on the headphones. No one else was complaining. Indian Airlines regulars, I thought and went back to the book.

Speak up, Mumbai – II

When I wrote this post a few weeks ago, a few had commented that nothing would ever change in Mumbai. Once the hubbub had settled down, all the issues that it raised about disaster management, responsibility etc. would also recede.

But there are some who are not going to stand by and wait for the next cloudburst, to swing into action. Citizens who aren’t waiting for the government to get their act together, but who’ve decided to be part of the solution.

One of them is my pal, Zigzackly. And he needs YOUR help for his project.

Tell us your cloudburst stories
Here's a chance to tell your story, and make a difference. Do help him out.

Speak up, Mumbai!

Everyone has a story about the Great Deluge. My mum wrote a long missive about the two narrow escapes she had – once when an electricity pole crashed in front of her, and another, when a tree slammed the earth a few feet away from her. My usually taciturn brother wrote a detailed account of being accommodated in the Hyatt by his office – 20 to a room – and of sheepishly traveling by the ladies first class in order to get home. A hyper busy ex-boss wrote a long email updating me on her escape from Tedious Tuesday and Wet Wednesday - ‘It’s not a normal working day,’ she wrote on a usually furious Friday.

Mumbai can’t stop talking about the rains. Stories, like the damp laundry, are refusing to dry up. Stories of survival and courage; of indignation and outrage; of silent Samaritans and quick-thinking messiahs. Bloggers have, figuratively speaking, taken to the streets. Collablogs like Cloudburst and MumbaiHelp have sprung up. Rediff.com has gritty, unedited testimonies from scores of stranded travelers (which make for more interesting reading than dry articles with two-line sound-bites.) People have become very vocal, indeed.

Which is really the best thing to happen to Mumbai.

For far too long, people have either bitten their lip and suffered, or else whined helplessly, knowing fully well that they were only shouting in the wind. Now, there’s an ominous mood building up. People who’ve spent days in darkness and damp rooms aren’t willing to swallow excuses. The huge loss of life cannot be explained away as the hand of God. What’s the government doing, people are asking hands on hips, looking belligerent. A schoolboy on a debate on NDTV yesterday asked the same question. People are looking up from their daily struggles to demand accountability from a sluggish administration. Nobody is buying it just because the Chief Minister grandly claims, “We are working on it; we are a responsible government.”

It appears that Mumbai has reached the end of its tether and its denizens are ready to holler, ‘I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore.’

Sitting miles and miles away, I feel for Mumbai like never before. I want to believe that Mumbai will come out stronger from this near-death by drowning. I want to believe that all the questions that this calamity has raised about lack of infrastructure, non-existent disaster management and sheer negligence will be answered comprehensively. I want to believe that the voices raised in protest will not run out of steam once the sun comes out.

We don’t need any more proof of Mumbai’s indomitable spirit. What we need is change, visible change. If, without prompting, direction or even expectation of material gain, Mumbai’s citizens turned up in full force to save the city from going under, what’s stopping us from rallying together and demanding a better way of living, for all? If residents can stay awake all night watching over the marooned passengers in a sunken double-decker bus, why can’t they also give their local representative sleepless nights by demanding accountability?

So speak up, Mumbai. Tell your story, get mad as hell and don’t take it anymore.

Cinderella at the Ball

I’m a bit of a disgrace to the media fraternity (and sorority). 7 years of working in high profile advertising agencies and a media behemoth, and yet I cannot claim first name familiarity with any ‘celebrity’. Some of the biggest pashas of print sit less than 20 feet away from my work desk. From time to time, friends in other news agencies update me on gossip about them. My customary excuse to pass up most late night schmoosing is that it conflicts with my bedtime.

As it happens, in media, all virtue is a vice. Proclaiming utter disinterest in the Who’s Who, Who’s with Who and Who did What Last Summer can be bad for business. If not for these tantalising details, what are people going to buy your newspaper for? The news? Uh-uh, it’s no good being high brow with high society.

Luckily for me, redemption came in the form of a wicked looking black envelope. Two passes to THE ultimate crash course for social ignoramuses – The Bombay Times 10th Anniversary Bash. Months of gaucherie could be purged in single night, I thought gleefully as I set off with a photographer friend.

I came away suitably enlightened. Presenting the 10 invaluable lessons gleaned from the Bombay Times 10th Anniversary Bash:

Lesson No. 1
High fashion is remarkably low cost. All you need are sequins worth Rs. 20 from Crawford Market. Tack them onto a lacy bedcover or curtain or laundry bag, and voila, you’re haute tamale!

Fashion for men: Anything tight and tacky. Allowing Calvin Klein to peer over the top of your trousers is vital. If you’re really cool, sport a thong and show it off prominently.

Lesson No. 2
Never ever question people’s fashion sense. If the high priestess of fashion, Rekha and the ultimate gay style icon, Imam, sashay in wearing tent like robes, well tent-like robes are in.

Lesson No. 3
Be careful, be very careful at the food courts. Ask detailed questions about each item even if it makes you look foolish. After all, it’s better to eat crow figuratively than to come away with a mouthful of raw oyster.

When it comes to cheese, follow a sniff and nibble routine. Do not pop a sizeable chunk like the woman next to you, especially if the cheese is ‘Gorgonzola’, unless of course you like the taste of rotting flesh. (Still gagging)

Lesson No. 4
It’s possible to have 5 margaritas, 2 tequila shots and one Vodka with tonic and still be unnaturally sober. It boils down to a simple technique: Lift long-stemmed, wide-mouthed margarita glass from counter, steer yourself across narrow corridor teeming with sozzled, flying limbs, reach your corner, spot one remaining sip of margarita, down it. After 20 minutes, repeat the process.

Lesson No. 5
When Abhishek Bachchan, up in the DJ console, suddenly points at you with a look of recognition, do not instinctively entertain hopes of being the Next Big Thing. He’s merely waving to your photographer friend. Make a mental note however to keep in touch with photographer friend more.

Lesson No. 6
Tall, dark and handsome is soooo out, so last decade. Old, bald and iconic is in.

If you are a male model, learn to deal with loneliness or hang out with other model buddies. And watch as guys blessed with a face that only a mother can love, dance with a bevy of bootylicious beauties.

Lesson No. 6
Hah, to all you atheists! There is a God and his name is Alyque Padamsee. Else explain how a 75-plus, concave-postured relic can part crowds on a packed dance floor with a statuesque teenager clutching onto him like he was a Baywatch lifeguard? Oh no, there is a God and I’m a believer.

Lesson No. 7
You can be Andre Nair, chairman and CEO of the most powerful media network in South East Asia and still cut a ludicrous figure on the dance floor, especially when you dance with actions to ‘Yeh Wada Raha’. Note to self: If you intend to stay in media it’s a good idea not to let him catch you laughing.

Lesson No. 8
You don’t need cricket records to tell you Michael Slater is a gifted player. He’s a natural when it comes to scoring.

Lesson No. 9
A family that parties together stays together. Take for instance, the Vengsarkar family. Perhaps the current day team picked up the famous ‘huddle’ from this foursome.

Lesson No. 10
There is a certain advantage in being a Who’s Not. Nobody notices that your blue handbag and black shoes don’t quite match…

Two for the road…

Over the years I've used several euphemisms for the Bombay Curse. 'Reading time', 'thinking time', 'nap time' – I've called it. But there's no escaping the tedium of the daily commute. On most days I stoically submit to the three-hour bedlam, but on two occasions last week, I was almost grateful for it.

Episode 1: Taxi Philosophy
Time: 9:00 p.m.

A steady drizzle pounded the pavement. I made a dash for the solitary taxi parked close to the office entrance. When he heard my destination was the nearby railway station, he disdainfully waved me away. I was about to mutter darkly when impatient honking interrupted me.

Another taxi had appeared and the driver was craning out of the window, beckoning me. Half-expecting to be refused, I belligerently called out the destination. He nodded and turned the meter.

His uncharacteristic willingness already had me on the back foot. And then his next statement knocked me over.

"Insaan apni maut nahin chun sakta, to savari kyon chunta hai?"
(A person can't choose his own death, so why get choosy with passengers?)

Coming from a Mumbai cabbie – a species known for their hauteur – that was profound. I checked for signs of inebriation, but he seemed sober. If anything, he was lost in thought as he negotiated the traffic.

"Madam, Bharat ki aabadi kitni hogi?"
(What's the population of India?)

I had barely recovered from the previous statement.

Uh..er… 1 billion, I blurted.

"Billion matlab? Mujhe karod samajh mein aata hai."
(What does billion mean? I can understand crores.)

I wrestled with the numbers a bit and then said, 'Billion matlab sau crore'.

"Aur Amreeka ki aabadi kitni hogi?"
(And what's the population of America?)

I felt like an unprepared contestant at Mastermind.

"Tees karod," I bluffed confidently.

He mulled about this for some time, while I braced myself for the next salvo.

“Sirf tees karod? Wahan ki gaurment har aadmi ki acchi dekhbal karti hogi, na?”
(Only 30 crores? The government must be taking good care of the people, mustn't it?)

And then having worked it all out, turned around and triumphantly told me, "Aabadi his sabse badi majhboori hai, madam."(Population is the greatest disadvantage.)

I was expecting a rambling debate on politics, but his simplistic deduction was beguiling. I couldn't help smiling. The conversation would've been interesting if I didn't have to alight just then.

I was pulling out the change, when he started honking again. A couple with a sleeping child had just been waved away by another fickle cabbie. He beckoned them. Without waiting to hear the destination, he turned his meter.


Episode 2: Auto Philanthropy
Time: 1:00 a.m.

I was headed home from a dinner that had gone on a little too late. We were passing a deserted stretch when I noticed the auto driver peering at me in the rear view mirror. I've done a few late nights in advertising to know how to handle creepy drivers. I stared back coldly.

He anxiously asked, 'Madam, time kya hua?'

Without taking my eye off him, I told him it was one in the morning. There were icicles hanging on every syllable.

He looked almost relieved, "Mujhe do bajhe tak vapas ana hai. Mera kutta biscuit khane aayega."(I've to return by two a.m. My dog will come for his biscuit.)

Was this some sort of code, I wondered?

I didn't have to speculate for long. He happily told me. He usually parked his vehicle outside the colony, from where I had got on. At 2 a.m., he'd make his way to the tea stall and when he returned, he'd unfailingly find the driver's seat occupied by a stray dog!

No amount of prodding dislodged the dog. Finally, he'd pull out the biscuit bought at the tea stall. The dog would climb down onto the floor of the auto, munch on the biscuit and then go off to sleep. The driver would squeeze into the back seat.

What happens if you get a passenger and can't return in the night, I asked?

He smiled, “Woh mere liye subah tak rukega. Isliye main wapas aane ki dekhta hoon.”
(He waits for me until the morning. So I make sure I return.)

Of claws and paws

Episode 1: Fair-feather foes

Murphy, I stand corrected.

A couple of weeks ago I blamed Murphy for my delinquent Net connection. I had switched from a dial-up to a cable connection, expecting salvation to follow. But three excruciating weeks later, I was still beset with the same woes. I’d log on for a couple of hours and suddenly find myself bereft. From gnashing of teeth and wringing of hands, I graduated to choice cuss words. The carefully cultivated composure would evaporate every time I found the cable operator’s phone switched off. Finally, one morning, I got him on the phone…

He hurried over to my house before I could chew off his other ear. He set off tinkering with the wires while I scorched his back with the ferocity of my gaze. He examined the cables studiously before turning to face me and stammered, “I go check cable box outside."

I waited. The eyebrow stayed arched, the foot continued tapping. He came back, looking like he’d been in a scuffle. “Well,” I asked icily, “did you fix the faulty cables?”

“Medem, wire was ok. But pigeons had put off switch.”

I snarled.

He took a step backward and continued, “Pigeon make nest in cable box. They was putting on-off switch. But now I take out them and lock the box.”

He picked out feather bits from his shirt cuffs and then pointed to the screen, “Net bees working now.”

I stared at the screen dumbfounded and deflated. A conspiracy by pigeons!

And I thought the worst they could do was aim their droppings at you…


Episode 2: Chivalrous Canine

Sometimes I almost forget I live in a city. My house is surrounded by not one, but two gardens. Now, garden is a lofty term. It might conjure up images of rose bushes and manicured hedges, picket fences and such… Nothing of the sort. The area is overrun by towering Asokas, mango, jackfruit and papaya trees, a coconut palm, some wildflowers, some colourful shrubs, a few willful vines and some thrilled weeds. In short, it’s a forest. Albeit, a well watered, well maintained one.

Naturally, one third of those who got off the Ark have taken up residence here. Over the years, our guest list has included dogs, cats, rodents, squirrels, lizards, frogs, bees, bats, birds, earthworms, slugs and on a couple of occasions, snakes.

Recently, however, the stray dogs had begun to assume ownership of the building premises. And they had somehow figured that the best time to settle disputes was somewhere between 1 a.m. and 3 a.m.

A compound wall was built and heavy metal gates were put in place, so that our building came to resemble Fort Knox. Still there were a couple of strays who inevitably found a gate ajar and slipped in to reclaim lost ground. One of them was Tawm.

Limpid eyes, wagging tail, brown and white fur, Tawm. His sole daily agenda was to find a comfortable spot outside our door and stay immobile there, no matter what the provocation. There were times when he was chased outside Fort Knox, but he inexplicably found his way back.

Last week, I was as usual, rushing off to work. I slammed the door shut and geared up for the leap up the stairs, when the indolent Tawm beat me to it.

“Outta my way, Tawm,” I growled. But he sauntered ahead right up to the gate. I clucked impatiently, when a slim paw landed on the gate. Holding the gate with his front paws, and hobbling on his hind legs, Tawm swung open the heavy gate before my astonished eyes.

My jaw was hanging almost as much as his. “After you, woof woof,” he said, still holding on to the gate while I stepped out daintily.

All daintiness was forgotten when I spotted the auto. Arms flailing, half-yelling I thought I’d got the driver’s attention. But just then, another office-goer charged out from the building ahead and leaped into the auto. Pretending he hadn’t seen me flag it, he studiously examined his hands as the auto trundled away.

I was about to spew a string of curses when I spotted Tawm watching me calmly.

“It’s a human’s life”, he drawled and moseyed back to the gate.

Live commentary...

I love cricket. Totally, completely, absolutely love cricket.

But to assume that I’m a rabid fan who watches every match, knows every obscure statistic and worships the boys in blue, would be quite erroneous.

The truth is I haven’t watched a match in years, no, not even the World Cup. Whether India wins or loses, I enjoy a good night’s sleep. And I never ever care to ask, ‘Score kya hua?’

So why do I say I love cricket? Simply because I enjoy watching the incredible effect it has on people.

Take yesterday, for instance. My cricket loving brother was up at an abnormally early hour (read 8 a.m) just to watch the pre-match commentary. Knowing that I wouldn’t get any writing done through the day, I decided to step out to complete some chores.

I walked out into a deserted street. I could actually hear birds twittering. A sound normally obscured by impatient honking and the roar of exhaust. Forlorn shopkeepers beamed when they saw me approach. At the grocery store, a few other stragglers entered and started an animated conversation about the day’s match and prospects of winning. Perfect strangers until a minute ago.

‘Ohhhh…..’ a gasp went out in unison from several windows in a building. Some batsman probably had a near miss. It was incredible to think of families, friends and neighbours all sitting together, their voices and fervid prayers commingling with each other.

It reminded me of my office which has a rather hierarchical order. A cricket match and all the structures temporarily fold up since the director’s cabin has the only TV set on the floor. It’s fun to see people troop in under some flimsy pretext or the other. After a while all pretences are dropped and people unabashedly plonk themselves on the sofa. The transformation of serious, no-nonsense executives into raving, whooping fans is a sight to behold!

The latest tour of Pakistan has meant a brief and welcome respite from the bizarre political and filmi shenanigans. From the ‘India Shining/India Whining’ debates. From the mind-numbing soaps and go-to-any-lengths music videos. For just a little while, there’s just one religion in this crazy, troubled country. My favourite moment is when the players all stand in a row, hand over heart and with passion in the eyes sing the national anthem.

Finally, there’s one more reason why I welcome cricket this year. Since my exit from mainstream advertising, I haven’t had to ads that somehow ties in cricket with cosmetics or department stores or banks. No cricket metaphors, no clichés, no stale puns. Whew!

Cricket? I’m game for it…

Gentleman Pandu

One of the advantages of me living in the far-flung suburbs is that it brings out the chivalrous side of ‘gentlemen’ colleagues and friends. “How are you planning to go home?,” they ask, solicitously, after a long evening at work or a late night movie.

“By train,” is my unvarying answer.

Eyebrows shoot up. “But is it safe to go alone?!”

“Who’s alone?,” I counter. “Pandu will keep me company.”

Pandu, of course, has been my dutiful travelling companion for a few years now. The moment I spot his reassuring khakhi presence in the near empty ladies compartment, I immediately feel secure. And knowing that he’s keeping watch, I lose myself in a book, and on occasion, even grab some shut-eye.

Pandu has given me the freedom and confidence to travel on my own. But I can’t help wondering: Does Pandu really relish his role as ‘Protector of the Non-Peak Hour Female Traveller’?

For starters, he has to travel the entire rail strip thrice every night, in a compartment that says, ‘LADIES ONLY FOR ALL 24 HOURS”. Secondly, he has a ringside view of ladies at their un-ladylike best. He has to helplessly watch their graceless lunging and clambering, clawing and fighting, shoving and shrieking… Why, if he isn’t nimble enough, he might just get steamrolled by the juggernaut at each station!

Pandu’s presence serves as a deterrent for urchins, vagrants and other dubious sorts. But exceeding his role as an impassive guardian can sometimes prove awkward. I once watched Pandu help a ticketless traveller with two small children and two large suitcases into an already cramped compartment. The resentful women unleashed such a tirade that a lesser man would have flung himself in front of a passing train. But not Pandu! Despite their venomous looks and vicious taunts, he stood by the lady and even helped her alight at her stop.

Recently, I got into a conversation with Pandu. I had dozed off and when I awoke I found Pandu observing me nervously.

“Where are you getting off?”, he asked politely. When I told him, at the last stop, he looked relieved and said, “I didn’t want you to miss your station.”

To my surprise, he then apologised for asking that question. “Some women think I’m being nosy and snap at me. But I only don’t want them to go beyond their stop.”

We got talking and the different facets of a railway constable’s life tumbled out. I learned that he had to do 15 days railway duty in a month. And that after an entire evening of shepherding women home safely, he had to spend the night on the platform.

Sensing my interest, Pandu went on to tell me about his life, his training, even of the time he single-handedly nabbed a notorious, elusive criminal. The train pulled in at my station just as he finished his account.

As I thanked him and got ready to leave, he politely asked me, “Can I have your number?”

I was dumbstruck for a moment, but then old conditioning set in. I mumbled a hasty apology and retreated, feeling vaguely guilty for suspecting the motives of someone I regularly trusted to escort me home. Better safe than sorry, I reassured myself feebly. Perhaps Pandu would understand after all…

Ghost Town

The closest that Bombay came to resembling a ghost town was on January 2 this year.

Three friends and I had decided to meet. B and A were on vacation from their universities abroad. So, it fell upon P and me - the locals - to show the out-of-towners just what they’d been missing.

Our first halt was Hawaiian Shack, an unpretentious, inexpensive nightspot tucked away in a bylane in Bandra. Also one of the few places which played undiluted, ear-numbing Rock, minus the annoying remixes. Naturally, people swarmed the place until there was no room to stand. Why, on a Saturday night, you could pass out cold and still not hit the floor!

‘It’s going to get real crowded’, I warned A and B with the air of a regular.

‘I LIKE THIS PLACE!’, hollered B over Bon Jovi. I gave him a pitying smile and looked at my watch. It was 11 pm. The hour when all differences between the Shack and a peak-hour Virar local cease to exist. But hang on! The floor was uncharacteristically empty. There were empty tables. And the usually harassed looking waitress was actually humming along with Bon Jovi. I hoped A and B were wasted enough to not notice the absence of the promised hordes.

‘Let’s check out this other place,’ P piped up. ‘My company is allowed free entry there.’ We were taking turns to show off. The ‘other place’ was a celebrity hangout with the extremely hep, extremely phoren name, Tres Botas Tapas Y Musica!

‘Is it pronounced Tres Botas or Thray Bota?,’ asked A, not wanting to make a gaffe. But she needn’t have bothered. The place was Tres Empty! Except for two sots at the bar and one bored female dj.

‘Either this place is usually like this or we’re missing one heck of a party somewhere else,’ murmured B. He was less wasted than I expected.

We decided on one last halt before calling it a night. At 80s - The nostalgia bar. Just the setting for old friends. By now, we’d gotten used to walking into near empty watering holes. The manager looked almost grateful when we entered. His smile faltered a little though when P suddenly announced, ‘Soup! I want soup.’ His face fell further when she added, ‘Make it one-by-two.’ But the poor fellow hadn’t a choice. We could have asked the waiters to tap dance on the table and gotten away with it that day.

As we tittered, B pointed out that we’d all met first at a college festival in Madras, exactly 10 years ago! We marvelled at the discovery. There was no ‘how time has flown’, no ‘gosh, we’re getting old’…. Just a thrilling sense of timelessness.

So while Bombay’s die hard party animals recovered from the excesses of year-end jamborees, 4 old friends lived it up that night.

A date with fate

Call it curiosity or quirk or just plain cessation of thinking, but yesterday I went to fortune teller.

Up until now my attempts at discerning the future had been limited to reading Marjorie Orr’s predictions in the Sunday newspaper. But something irrational took over when I walked past the palmist on the pavement three days ago. Dressed in dhoti and kurta, he could have passed for a vegetable vendor. But for the board which said ‘PALMISTRY AND ASTROLOGY’ in a chalky scrawl. A few sheets with complex geometric patterns completed the picture. And on a whim, I turned back.

I found him watching me patiently as though he EXPECTED me to turn around. Clairvoyance? I wondered.

‘I want my palm read,’ I said, squatting on my haunches and peering at his paraphernalia. If he was surprised, he masked it well. He solicitously pulled out a crumpled plastic bag for me to squat on. I felt a little foolish, but gamely complied.

He opened a tattered book with pictures of deities. ‘Pranaam karo’, he said. I cast around for what that meant. He coughed softly and clarified, ‘50 rupees’. I fumbled in my purse feeling like the person in the corner of the classroom with a conical cap.

What’s your name, he asked and then flipped through the well worn pages of an almanac. He stopped at a page and nodded as though it all seemed to make sense.

Traffic roared by. I leaned in so as not to miss a single word.

‘Your stars are good,’ he said. ‘You’ve got determination and can do things you set your mind to.’ Well, that’s a good start, I thought.

‘When you were born, you brought your parents good fortune.’ That part was partially true. I arrived on the same day as their paychecks. Unlike my siblings who chose the inconvenient end of the month to make their appearance.

‘You’ll get a good match,’ he continued. ‘In fact, you’ll be married into a raj ghar.’ I translated that to mean royalty and a vision of Prince William floated into mind. I had to stifle the urge to giggle.

He took on a more serious tone then. ‘But your mind is not at ease. You work at things but they don’t seem to work out. Even your body grows weaker by the day.’ A mild alarm gripped me as he continued. ‘There are certain influences at work. But they can be countered if you wear a certain ring.’

The counters finally tumbled into place. ‘How much for your ring, I demanded. He dismissed it with a wave of hand, ‘Not much, just one hundred and fifty rupees but…’ The roar of traffic drowned out the rest. But it didn’t matter. I knew I’d been had.

As I walked away ruefully, I realised he’d scored a bullseye at least on one count. He’d said, money doesn’t stay for long in your life. I thought of my fifty rupees and marvelled at his soothsaying.

Trainspotting

Every day I have 2 ½ hours of the most unusual entertainment. I travel by train – Borivli to Churchgate and back.

Last week, I was hurtling down the overbridge as usual, when I saw the 8.36 Churchgate fast pulling in. Double damn, I thought, no seat today. As any seasoned peak hour traveller knows, you’ve got to take your position BEFORE the train arrives and then adroitly lunge in and grab a seat BEFORE the train grinds to a halt. So you can guess what my chances were.

But wait a minute… there was a whole section, including a luscious window seat lying absolutely empty. Hallelujah! There is a God, I exulted as I made a triumphant dash for it.

A woman’s hysterical shriek stopped me mid-air. As I turned to her, she screwed up her nose and pointed to the floor near my coveted seat. Some poor (pathetic, perverse!) creature had emptied the contents of its bowels between the seats. I mentally kicked myself for my premature euphoria. 13 years of travelling and I still hadn’t learned, there’s no such thing as a free window seat.

I glumly settled for an uncomfortable 4th seat, casting unclean looks at my ‘saviour’. (I had to blame someone for my discomfort, right!) Strangely enough, it turned out to be a good vantage point to watch the drama which followed.

Ms. Saviour began relishing her role of rescuing people from ‘shit street’. At every station, it was déjà vu. Eyes would pop on seeing the empty window, women would swarm in, Ms. Saviour would screech, they’d recoil as if they’d been stung. Then they’d press a handkerchief to their nose and squeeze between other sweaty bodies.

One woman bravely announced, ‘We should pull the chain. Get the Railways to come and clean this.” Newbie traveller, I thought with a smothered snort. As if the Railways gave a shit about our genteel sensibilities. As long as the trains reached on time who cared how the sardines within it travelled. The other women too hissed their disapproval and Ms. Chain Puller melted from view.

Some stations later, I discovered the women caught on faster. They did the brisk mental math: crowded train + seemingly vacant space = definitely chee chee. So no herd-like lunging, they’d only peer in to check the extent of the damage.

Finally, one woman who’d been battling with the decision, gingerly squatted on the edge of the 4th seat. A chorus of gasps followed at her audacity. She quickly pulled out her prayer book and transported herself to another consciousness.

Another woman looked at the mound warily, in case it unexpectedly lurched forward, and squeezed in next to Ms. Prayer Book. A third braveheart fished out an old newspaper from her bag, gritted her teeth and placed it over the odious stuff. Obscured from vision now, another two women slid into the opposite seat.

On the other side, some college students began a game of Antakshari. Ms. Saviour, her rescue mission aborted, pulled out her knitting. Someone started grumbling about her maid. As I got ready to get off, I heard a woman quip, ‘We’re lucky it wasn’t someone with loose motions.’

Ah, how I love the spirit of Mumbai.