Mumbai Chronicles - I and II

This is my third visit to the city.
The first time I was in Mumbai was in 2004. I was with a group to participate in Mood Indigo, the annual fest of IIT Bombay, arguably the best fest in the country. I was only writing poems then and I did write one called 'Lonavla - An invitation'. I must say the city was love at first sight.
The next time I was off to Mumbai was for my summer internship with BPCL in 2006. Two months. What I realised during this time is that one values leisure the most when one has limited access to it. So, whenever I got an opportunity in Mumbai I wrote. In local trains, at the train reservation counter, at the reception counters, at fuel outlets, at cafe's, near the marine drive and some other places I don't remember. I called these pieces - Mumbai Chronicles. I wrote them all on diary, could never put them on a blog.
But now, since I have a blog which I update at some intervals I present Mumbai Chronicles. They are not exactly meant to give you an idea of the city, not as a tour guide, they might tell you about the culture or the cuisine. what they are going to tell you is what I saw, felt and wrote down.
And a promise here - These writings are two years old, and I would not change the language, style or words. I am going to present them as they were written.

date/not/recorded
The world that she could not see and the enigmatic smile

I was looking for a seat near the window knowing that Andheri is some distance ahead of Bandra, and the sweltering heat of June is going to affect your sense of distance. I was lucky to find one seat in front of this little girl to the window of the local train. She was bright, of fair complexion, neatly dressed and wore a fake jewellery. The best and unusual thing about her was her spontaneous and unbridled smile. Then I noticed something more.
Her eyes were damaged. She was very beautiful otherwise but her eyes betrayed. I paused for a moment and my mind crept back into the realms of deep thought.
It really amazed me that she could smile. No touch, no smell and nothing else that se could sense without the sense of vision, but she could find reason to smile.
A stark contrast to all the people around her, who had one more sense organ than her but could not find enough reasons to laugh or even smile.

Is her world more beautiful than the one we see around us ? Is she able to see something beautiful. Looking at the general turmoil and strife all around, I had to concur that her world would be more beautiful in a different way,
She is spared of all the horror that we are forced to see daily with our eyes. She is spared of the unfriendly glances and frown on the faces of men. She is spared of the look of disappointment and helplessness, the stares filled with lust and carnality, the faces painted green with jealosy and uneasiness, of sugar coated bitter hypocrites, of blandishments and above all of falseness. She doesnt see all this.
She is definitely deprived of the loving glance of a mother, the reassuring sight of a father, but then these are relations that were established even when one did not have the distinction of eye, ears and limbs. These relationships do not need the faculty of sight for their existence or fullness unlike many others that we get into as we grow older in life. The balance tilts in her favor I thought.
How many people do we meet who walk with a jump while returning from or going to work, who smile just at the mere sight of birds, who love the paintings made on the canvass of the sky or just when the first drops of rain fall on their faces.

What does she see with her closed eyes then. What light guides the darkness all around her. I could not imagine. I was lost and moist.
Then she got a new seat near the window. A gush of hair kissed her face, ruffled her hair and that gave birth to a smile on her face that I would never forget. The man sitting right there on the seat a while before her could not get that joy. He did not deserve it. She did. Truely !! Fully !!


date/not/recorded
The nightlife at VT - onto thy hands I commend my life

We were walking out of the VT station ( I am going to call it VT only, sorry Shiva Sena and co. but that place was VT, is VT and would remain VT). It was quite late by our standards, midnight to be exact. We saw a somewhat large group of women sleeping on the footpath. It was quite a large group. I doubt they were probably a bunch of travelers or daily laborers. Their children and husbands were all sleeping there on the footpath tiles. They just managed to put something under their heads, mostly their own hands. I was sad at their plight. Now, as I write this I have put on a T-shirt just because I have had a Butterscotch ice-cream today and am fearful of catching a cold.
But those people! No roof, no cover, no protection.
They were sleeping right there where thousands of people and even beasts walk by. Come on, that is called footpath for god's sake.

Suddenly one woman caught my attention. She had her hands raised in salutation to the Great One. She was just about to sleep and in fact had already lied down. I can say with the hunch of a seeker that that she was not complaining. It was a prayer that in the true sense asked for nothing and thanked for everything.
There she was, sleeping on the footpath alongwith her children having nothing yet she could find enough reason to thank god and offer her prayer dutifully. What about us?
How many time we do that - Asking for nothing and thanking for everything.

I remember my grandma or 'Mama' as I called her, even in those days preceding her death would always say her prayers aloud in the evening. She was just another village woman whom you would dismiss as mundane or worldly. She had a very hard life, details of which I reserve. But the regularity of her prayers, her dev0tion to Lord on a regular time was absolute.
Now, who would do with such regularity and for so long if there isn't any sense in it. Who knows what thoughts she had during those few minutes, what blessings she received, what curses she was saved off, what sins were purged or forgiven by the ever-merciful Lord.

As I passed by - I could hear the voice of the woman "Unto thy hands my Lord, I commend my life".



are two years old, and I would not change the language, style or words
03/04/06
The beach at Juhu and the sea

It so happened that I woke up at 5 AM in the morning at did not get back to sleep.This time there was no shock or awe but the city still amazed me with it's joire' de vivre', its magnanimity, its vastness and its pace. Truely 'Amchi Mumbai' has a charm of its own. I meditated or so to say tried to meditate and bring back the broken and shattered pieces of mind together and then went put to the balcony. There waves were barely visible but the noise was ringing in my ears. The lure was compelling. I put on my denim trousers and ventured out to the sea, my feet unaccustomed now to such morning raunches were not in sync with the mind which was speeding past to the sea faster.
Somebody said the last day that Mumbai beaches are nothing compared to the beaches back home at Puri, Orissa. The beaches they said are small, black in colour, filled with dirt and people and that the entire sewage wastes were left out to the sea without any treatment.
The first thing I saw was the sea , and then the sky above it. Colour of both was greyish. I wondered which of these changed its colour to match the other. There was a ring of red colour surrounding the entire skyline. The sea, the sky, the redness; they are the same everywhere. The beach may look different at different places. God made the things same everywhere. Infinite Justice.
The sun rays are impartial to one and the other. The sea wind soothes one and all. The great god and his nature never differentiates.

Then I saw the people. People young and old, mostly old couples walking hand in hand on most occasions. There were a few people who were there alone but most of them came there in groups. Young college students, middle aged men concerned about their ever-increasing waistline, health and fitness freaks, old men troubled by some chronic problems, all were there. Like death, the sea seemed to be a great leveler. All there were walking across the beach, running, exercising and jogging. I wanted to sit there and be a silent observer to the quintessential observer-the sea. But they were all running around me, so I did the same - strolling past the beach with disinterested steps.

Then again I looked at the sea. It was calm on the surface, there were no high waves but it was dynamic and moving nevertheless. Planes were flying past above at regular intervals.
People say that the sea is calm and I thought the same way, but today I saw the sea as an ever-moving, ever changing fast and dynamic being. Beneath the calm extrior there lies a whole world of activity contrast with the lives of men where you find lot of activity outside but little within.
Truely the sea gives you a new lesson each time you visit it.
Let our lives be like sea. Calm, staid and steady outside but a pool of silent activity within the soul. Beneath the calm mind and sedate body let there be ever speeding current towards God. Let the soul fly away and touch the divine shores everywhere.

The city was gearing up slowly for its daily routine of speeding vehicles, noisy horns, running people, busy malls and offices. The city was stretching itself to activity. The giant has woken up.

दो गज कांक्रीट - एक कब्रिस्तान की कहानी

अभी मुंबई आए हुए जुम्मा-जुम्मा दो ही दीन हुए थे | दो ही दिनों में सात घर , चार एजेंट्स ( क्या यह शब्द ' ब्रोकर' से कुछ ज़्यादा इज्ज़तदार है ? ) और तीन लोकेशंस में अपनी शाम इन्वेस्ट करने के बाद मैंने अपनी ' खोली की खोज ' को एक दीन का युधिव्राम देने का नीर्णय ल्या

guys i tried my best........but this translator in blogger is simply not good enough....
i had written in Hindi after a long long time...and this was about a cemetery in Mumbai and the conversation the graves have among themselves....i started with humor but then the discussion veered to sth serious and then it ends in dark humor again....but but..
i really wanted you to read this ...but look at the attempt above ...disrespect to the national language...
so i stop here..till i get better technology or learn to use existing ones better .....
if you want to still hear the piece of writing... call me up or ask me to !!st

Chronicle of a Death Foretold

It's a pleasure to read a book that is not so well known, not a part of 'new arrivals', not a best seller and perhaps not the best work of an author. Gabriel Garcia Marquez is a name that is synonymous with magic realism, writings from the Carriebean, Buendias(from 100 years of solitude), Love at Times of cholera but 'Chronicle of a death foretold'? Well to begin with those who said said do not judge a book by its cover should take a look at this book if they have read it somewhere else or should read it if they have already seen it.This is a very good looking/reading book!
All that a typical Marquez book has to offer, is offered here - the smell of beer, the glory of the protagonist, the wit and insight into the core of the characters, the beaches, the mystical women, the disheveled linen sheets on beds, the shrouds, the solitude, the the blood and the sweat, the earthiness and rawness of the whole writing.

This book recreates a murder that took place in Colombia in 1951. The character who gets murdered - 'Santiago Nasar' is based on a good friend from Márquez's childhood. The other characters, as with Marquez are too based on people whom Marquez knew during his lifetime; one can find similar shades in his other novels. The plot in the book moves backwards: it starts when a reporter, a native of the same town starts documenting the murder, and tries to recreate everything 27 years later when Santiago was murdered and tells who kills them: the rest of the book moves moves back and tells us why, when and how. The writing style is a delightful mix of journalism, detective story writing and quintessential realism of Marquez. Blatant accounts of the murder have been taken from several people - his friends, casual people on the street and even his murderers. Just like a journalistic account. The book also maintains suspense till the end and keeps the reader on the edge, eagerly waiting for the truth to unfold-as with detective stories.
But where Marquez departs into a class of his own is the interwoven realism of the book where the weaknesses of the characters, their strengths, their one-mindedness and repentances are described with brutal honesty. Their reflections and observations on each other provide clues into the thick of the skin of the people. The analysis of the motive of the murderers, their intentions, their hesitations and derived from them the insights into their deepest characters leaves one sympathizing the murderers as much as Santiago. The forcefulness of events and the destined way in which fate acts is portrayed breathtakingly to the point where the reader is left praying that the murder somehow doesn't happen.
After reading the book though all but one questions that still lurks in mind is - WHO ? (and we already know who is the murderer!) The novel was also adapted into a film by Spanish director Francesco Rossi.

transformation

Transformation: Is it a process of evolution, a strategy to grow, an em-betterment, an improvement on the past ? It could be, but most importantly, it is not a matter of choice, it is something we all have to go through, whether we want it or not, whether we are aware of it or not, whether we are currently ready for it or not, it is a process that happens by itself but sometimes it is even a matter of survival.

There is no option but to shed the scales of past and crawl out of it, no matter how painful or long the process might be, how much unfriendly the environment be, how much the odds be stacked against; into a new beginning. The process eventually opens up new realities and makes newer dreams and brighter hopes possible. Could the caterpillar ever dream of flying in the open air, without the process of transformation without the wonderful wings of a beautiful butterfly?

Transformation is essential, and hence the environment that incubates transformation becomes critical. The whole effort is to create an environment conducive and as helpful as possible for that transformation to take place. To put many signboards that would help the builders, the planners, the observers and anyone willing in any way, to find their respective ways to create such a large pool where thousands of caterpillars would find the right impetus to turn into butterflies and get their rightful wings to soar in the skies, at their own will.

well i had written this poem some time back and posted it too..but it has relevance here...

different will

Gratitude in the eyes
of those differently willed,
The touch of acceptance
obtained with patience,
The smile mingled plainly
with the tears on the cheek,
tell a story.

Of courage to face each day
that arrives like a hangman,
ready to perform.
Of hope, despair,
their relation and co-existence.
Of a will preserved with determination
like a pearl,
amidst the portent sea.