Life under the flyover

The bus stop near my office overlooks a parking lot beneath the Big Bazaar flyover in Lower Parel. Every evening as I wait for my regular bus there, I see atleast 2-3 couples camped there. The parking lot is clear of vehicles by this time and is fairly dark. So these couples stand near the pillars, the guys resting against them and the girls gazing up adoringly at them and sometimes doing more. Reminds me of the movie Piya ka ghar. In a city starved of space and privacy, any and every remotely empty space quickly gets occupied.

But privacy starved couples are not the only ones who prefer the somewhat dark and damp surroundings beneath flyovers. A whole world exists beneath Mumbai’s flyovers. The flyover near the Dadar West station for example. Flower vendors, clothes hawkers, cobblers, vegetable vendors – you name it and you can find them there. That flyover is always bustling with activity. There is even a full fledged, fully operational successful restaurant there. Optimum utilisation of space is something that one should learn from Mumbaikars. Of course, this flyover is also congested and the pungent smell of spices makes it almost difficult to walk past it. But the constant activity and hustle and bustle leave you amazed.

Flyovers also solved one of the biggest problems that south Mumbai faces – decent parking space. Parking slot leases earn the flyover managers a tidy sum every month. As you walk past, you see the weary drivers lounging in the expensive gaadis of their bosses who have gone for a meeting or are busy shopping. One door of the car would be open and the driver’s leg would be jutting out of it and Himesh would be playing loudly from the stereo. Or else you would see them chatting up other drivers and maybe playing cards. There is even a second hand vehicle dealership shop under one of the flyovers in Parel.

Then there are the homeless. Families that beg on the signals also live under these flyovers. Their children can be frequently seen running around naked and playing under the flyovers. Even children from chawls use these spaces for their cricket matches on Sundays. With most of the recreational grounds encroached upon by high end clubs or slums in the city, these spaces beneath the flyovers are also alternate recreation grounds. In some places, even slums have come up underneath the flyovers. There have even been drives to evacuate these encroachers, but more often than not, they return in a few days.

At night you find these spaces taking on a different and somewhat dangerous hue. At night, these are gambling dens. Drug dealers wait about and some of the flyover spaces also serve as pick up points. The weary daily wage labourer who doesn’t have a roof over his head also comes here to rest. The chaiwalas who sell chai and bun on a cycle all night can also be found near some of them. But at the crack of dawn again these spaces are bustling with activity and the cycle starts again.

Then there is also the life along the flyover, which I had mentioned in my first post on this blog. The life in the homes whose windows overlook the flyover. Homes that stand naked in front of the traffic buzzing past, a traffic that hardly cares to look into these open windows, so atleast that way, the privacy of these homes is safe. These spaces again are a distinct feature of Mumbai’s somewhat crazy, somewhat distinct lifestyle. All this can happen only in a city like Mumbai :-)

The Parting

They were sitting on a bench at the seaface. The twilight silhouetted their bodies and added to the gloom. She looked up suddenly and said, “Maybe it could have worked. Maybe I should have done it differently.”

“No Seema, some things just aren’t meant to be. It was probably just destiny that brought us to this stage. Nothing you could have done could have prevented this.”

“But why did it have to be like this, Jatin? I did try, trust me I did; though it may seem to you that I didn’t, but I did try. I had never believed I would fail like this.”

“I had never believed I could turn out like this too. Things that were so beautiful, so endearing in the beginning, I never really thought we would drift apart. But sometimes we just have to move on in life. I know both of us tried, but it simply didn’t work out for us.”

“Maybe you are right, its just destiny. We should forget all this and move on. We should start afresh. This day is over, but another would dawn soon.”

“Yes, come on, let me drop you home. By the way, what will you tell them about vanishing to the seaface, so soon after your husband’s tragic death?” He laughed bitterly at his own joke.

She smiled, a smug smile. “Its simple, I had to get away from the memories you see. The memories of seeing him come home wearing a different scent day after day. The memories of his ridicule. It was good that you told me about those guys. A builder being shot is not so uncommon. I am rid of him now and yes it feels good.”

“Was the least I could do for you. Your husband, he was just like Sheeba, both of them just trampled all over us. I didn’t want anyone else to suffer the way I had. So when I arranged for the top class socialite Sheeba to be murdered by a so-called stalker, I thought an underworld man could rid you also of your problems.”

“Good riddance then. When is your train?” She asked as she was about to enter her house.

“I am leaving tomorrow. Its goodbye to this town and to that horrid past and yes to you too. Do take care of yourselves and I hope you find someone better.” He smiled and then they went their own ways.

Rasam

She watched as the reddish brown liquid slowly trickled down the drain. Her tomato rasam had gone wrong even this time. It never tasted like she wanted it to be. Never like her mother’s. No matter what she did. She knew she couldn’t ever manage to make it like that, but she had to try, if only to face the failure again and again.

She remembered the countless days, as a child when she rushed back from school because she knew her mother had made rasam. She used to have it with rice and then drink up a bowl full like it was some therapeutic soup. She absolutely loved it. Everyone in her family knew her love for rasam. Aunties and grannies at times tried to entice her with promises of rasam at their homes. But no one made it like her mom and so she never had rasam at their places.

Then she had to leave for higher studies. Every time she returned for holidays, her mom greeted her with rasam. Then she got a job and the prospect of returning to her hometown and to her mom’s rasam dimmed by the day. So she got the recipe from her mom and started making it on her own. Her rasam was a hit among friends. At every house party, she was the official cook and she would call up her mom and thank her for teaching her such a beautiful thing. Her new friends had become her new life. And one day Abhishek walked into this life. Abhishek with his shy demeanour and soothing voice. It started with cute smses. The smses became long phone calls and the phone calls translated to long walks by the beach and soon they were in love. Abhishek told her later that she entered his heart via a bowl of rasam. Nothing could have been more beautiful.

She couldn’t imagine life without him. But her parents wouldn’t hear of it. She tried convincing them. Abhishek tried to pacify them. But they wouldn’t budge. Her mother who had never raised her voice at her, had raised a hand. Still she thought that maybe they would agree after a time. She married Abhishek.

It had been ten years and every week she tried to cook rasam. Abhishek had always liked it, but it never felt right to her. So after a year she had stopped serving it to him. But she still made it, hoping to get it right. If only the masala was right, if only she had waited some more for it to boil, if only the colour was a bit darker, if only the tomatoes were juicer. If only, her mother took her calls. The rasam drained away…

Closure

It just hits you from nowhere. This feeling of closure. One day you are sitting and wallowing that there doesn’t seem to be any goodness left in the world, and then suddenly someone manages to show you the light and you are left counting your blessings. That was how she felt now.

For a year now, she had been living like a zombie. The end of her relationship had made her suspect she would never feel again. There had been the usual damp pillow stage, then the determined, put it aside stage and finally the getting on with whatever is left stage. For quite sometime now, she had just been getting along. She had stopped doing a lot of things. Not that any of them reminded her of him. Just that so many things had stopped making sense to her now practical mind. And it helped that the we-are-so-grown-up world around her, wanted her to kill her exuberance and appear as practical and professional as they were. So she played the part well now. No one she met knew that she had any kind of life other than her job. No one knew the dreamer that once lived in her and those who could sense it, despised that quality in her, because it didn’t fit with her practical surroundings.

Life was a home to office routine and it didn’t help that she had always been a loner. So much so that she no longer knew how to interact with people and as she had no desire to make a fool of herself, she just kept away. Aloof in her own world, battling her own demons, trying to make loved ones understand her innermost thoughts and failing each time. She had forgotten that she was young; that she could breathe. Everything was on autopilot. She shuddered at the thought of having someone else share a day with her. She was afraid that if she had fun today, she may have to pay for it later. So she modeled her life after everyone’s expectations. How ironic then, that these burdensome expectations would be the catalyst for her.

She was expected to attend that function. Not because of her own love for music, but because it was a social call and no one else in her family could make it that day. It was there that she got her closure. As the band belted out song after song, all old numbers, it was as if all the years of her life were being played out in the screen of her mind. There was the song that was the first ever song that she sang, the one that reminded her of that one evening at the amusement park, the one about the time of her first serious crush, the one when she had started taking lyrics seriously, the one that had fired her ambition, the one that accompanied her on lonely nights. The songs kept coming one after another, just like the tears that were flowing from her eyes. She once again felt her eyes fill with dreams. Dreams that those songs promised, dreams that were hers in the past, dreams that she had deliberately buried under the tears. Today they were all flowing out. It was like she had just been cured of her amnesia. She could remember who she was now. The zombie born of others’ expectations had died. With her vision cleared, she could see her own expectations now and she knew she had to live for them now. Even if it was a gamble, it was worth taking and she was ready to play now.

Touchy Indians in Heaven

(This is the second installment of the adventures of the very eclectic group called Touchy Indian who specialise in the vocation of protest. Check this link http://ibnlive.in.com/blogs/kajaliyer/1157/3520/touchy-indians-inc.html to know more about them)

No one ever knows when luck would turn against them. Even Naarenathji, head of Touchy Indians Inc. had no idea that death would come to take him, that too on the very evening that he had successfully beaten a liberalist in a debate on artistic expression. His car crashed into a ditch and so Naarenathji and some of his loyal associates were now standing in the chambers of Chitragupta, the divine book keeper waiting for the verdict on their sins.

Just next door, Devendra, the king of heaven, was getting ready for his nightly entertainment. Devendra was really excited tonight. Finally, Vishwakarma, the divine architect, had managed to install a dolby stereo system in the Indrasabha. Today, he would listen to the divine music on an improvised system, watch the beautiful apsaras shake a leg and also enjoy the freshly brewed somaras (an alcoholic drink). But as Devendra started walking towards the divine auditorium, it was not music that welcomed him, but sounds of crash and boom.

Aarghh thought Devendra, that bumbling Vishwakarma must have messed up the new sound system. Just then, one of the guards came running to him.

“Devendra, Devendra, there is an emergency.”
“What happened? Did that Vishwakarma break my new system? I swear I will suspend him from his divine post.”
“No O Lord, its not Vishwakarma, but some earthlings who are destroying your precious auditorium and molesting the apsaras.”
“What? How dare they? And how did they get in? Where were all of you?” Devendra asked rushing towards the Indrasabha.

All the crystalware in the Indrasabha had been smashed. The brand new Dolby system was broken to pieces and Menaka, Urvashi and Rambha were on the floor, their clothes torn and noses bleeding. And in the midst of all this stood 4 earthlings in flowing white kurtas and Gandhi caps.

“Who are you?”, thundered Devendra.
“I am Naarenath. I have just come from the earth and what I see in your sabha is completely unacceptable. How can you, being God, indulge in such activities against our Dharma?”
“What dharma are you talking about? And who gave you the right to vandalise my sabha?”
“Don’t you know, I founded the Touchy Indians Inc. Halla Bol is our motto. We do not tolerate any insult to our precious Bharatiya Sanskriti. And you are abusing our culture. All this western stereo systems, these dancing girls clad in revealing clothes and so much alcohol. Do you think there are no saviours of the culture around to question you? It was good that we heard about your plans and managed to slip away from Chitragupta and end all this frolicking.”
“What do you mean against the culture? We have been doing this forever. Much before your kind even learnt the meaning of culture. It is the way of Indrasabha to indulge in the pleasure of the senses. And all your ancestors have also done so. Come on, you guys worship Shri Krishna’s raas leela, Kunti’s polygamy and Lord Shiva’s love for bhang. What culture are you talking about?”
“Don’t try to mislead us, Devendra. We don’t acknowledge all these arguments. You are citing the interpretations of some western historians and some of those damn liberalists. How dare you throw all this falsehood at us? Now that we are here, we will cleanse heaven, in the same manner as we cleansed the earth and we will vandalise your court till you cleanse your mind.”

Devendra was so irritated that he didn’t know what to do. He was tempted to use the Vajra, but he didn’t want to waste it on these trivial earthlings. Just then Chitragupta entered, “Devendra, I have gone through this earthling’s records and I know why he is so anti-fun. You see he had a very uneasy adolescence. He was not allowed to view certain videos and literature that every boy grows up with by his strict father. The father felt that his son should indulge in all these things only after a certain age, but this irked Naarenath and he became increasingly violent. He developed this sadistic streak and decided that if he could not have fun, he wouldn’t let anyone else have it and the first thing he destroyed was his father’s VCD collection. From then on, he has been on a rampage, vandalising any symbol of entertainment that he could not have access to.” His past exposed, Naarenath was speechless for the first time. “Oh,” said Devendra, “that is the problem. Chitragupta, Naarenath and his associates deserve hell but if we send them there without some treatment they would trouble hell dwellers. So Naarenath, we shall imprison you and your associates in our special video cell. Now you can cleanse your mind of all the sadism with these special videos. But you will have to promise you will mend your ways.” A grateful Naarenath promptly went to the video cell, never to damage any auditoriums or art halls.

Journalistic ambitions

As a journalist, every one of us probably wants to be an Anderson Cooper or a Christiane Amanpour. We all want to do the high profile stories, bust rackets, hob nob with those who matter. The power trip seems important to many, which leads to the misconception that if you are not there, then you are nowhere. In my short career so far as a journalist, I have seen that view being reiterated many times. You cannot be just a reporter, that’s not done is what you are told. You need to be seen with the right people, appear to be leaning on the acceptable side (no matter what your personal views are) and have a slightly if not totally elitist approach. The last because as a country we still have a colonial hangover and we believe that it is fashionable to say that ‘I can hardly speak Hindi/any regional language.’

And when you are way down in the corporate hierarchy, all these issues seem to have the potential to ‘make or break’ your career choice. I firmly believe that talking things out with other experienced people, with people from other professions and also reading up and watching movies help a lot when anyone faces such problems that are common to youth all over. So it was not a surprise when I found some of my answers in the movie Bruce Almighty. Jim Carrey plays a journalist who does happy go lucky stories about blood donation camps and cookie making contests. But he is not happy even though his editor says that he has the rare gift of making people laugh. He wants the anchor job and that’s all he cares about. He messes up his first live opportunity (which he gets at the age of 40, my boss would probably say look we give you these opportunities much earlier), because he gets to know that his rival has been given the anchor job. He messes his relationship, when Jennifer Aniston goes to dinner with him, expecting a ring, Carrey quashes all her expectations by saying that the party is for him getting the anchor job. Carrey is so blinded by what he doesn’t have that he fails to consider what he has. It’s a habit we all get into. Eventually God comes in and straightens things out in true Hollywood style and Carrey is seen telling his editor in the climax that he is ok with doing the funny stories and making a fool of himself, because that’s what he is good at.

Watching that movie, I realised how many times we all fall into this trap of aiming at something we may not be. In some ways, we never grow out of high school, always trying to fit in with the ‘in’ crowd. It is a trap and many times we know it, but fall into it nevertheless, because we are conditioned to believe that our self worth depends on what others think. Maybe its not that important to get that exclusive, maybe its not that important to boast about an address book with contact details of the who’s who in the world. What is more important is whether you were happy when you did that story. Whether you were satisfied with what came of it. This fact was reinforced for me by an assignment that I got this week. A story on how a group of owls were rescued by some rock climbing experts from a crack in a building wall. It was a totally random story, something some may even scoff at. But it was by far one of the most interesting and enjoyable stories I have done. I met interesting children, interesting rock climbers and some homemakers, one of whom I interviewed later on for another hard news piece. So it was a win win story, even though I may never get an award for it.

Over time I have realised that though ambition is good, it should not be to the point that you lose your own sleep. There is a need to draw the line, know how far you should go. I know I don’t want to be Christiane Amanpour. I know I want to be just me and want to be remembered however faintly, by whatever non descrepit story I do. Its easy to get disappointed that one is not among the ‘chosen few’, but maybe one would start a creed of one’s own :-)

(These were my feelings after I realised the enormity of 26/11...when death comes so suddenly you realise the meaning of the philosophy that life is just a mirage.)

Passing through the streets

Looking at people and things

But seeing nothing

Like a numb zombie

Days and nights pass

And you can never see

Whether you are living

Or is it worth dying

You wait for something

You crave just anything

That would make you

Feel again

And it takes death

To realise that you live

Standing as a witness

Unmoving, immobile

As the specter hangs

In the night air

You see how little

Do things really matter

Those trivial fights

Those trivial tears

Fade with the blow

Of the fatal hand

How small and delicate

How inconsequential

In the cycle of times

One life and its troubles are