Most suited when one is driving on the I-93. There comes a moment, precisely one, when the city looms over. Vehicles streaming into adjacent lanes. The cold air nipping through. The rough sea and calm skies with the sunlight bouncing off them skyscrapers onto your face and suddenly you’re underground. From up above, descending steeply into subterrainia. Speed. Lights. And a time flows liquid like, in slow motion as a million lights flash past by.
No bohemian atmosphere. Prudish and not ashamed of its intelligence. The subways teem of students reading Neitzsche and Proakis. Taking the “T”, walking among buildings whose collective intellect could shame some entire nations. Looking out the seafront, walking the freedom trail. Losing yourself in the north end among cobblestoned paths and ancient houses. Freezing in the cold longing for vendakkai curry and digging into hot clam chowder at Quincy market. Walking through its numerous squares with a gaping mouth, taking it all in. Looking down at the city from the Prudential tower at the brilliant autumn foliage. Cheesecake at Copley square. Gourmet Indian food at backbay. For a relatively young nation, this city oozes history. And snobbish aristocracy.
Suburbia is eye piercingly beautiful. Suburbs have no right to be so. Lakes with roads cutting through them, almost apologetically. Streams and forests. Homes, schools, malls are extremely incidental.
Cities like Mumbai and New York are made of real stories. Of grit and struggle and of hard life. These cities command a sometimes silent, sometimes bloody struggle and compensate magnificently. None of that shit here. No immigrants looking wishfully at plenty. No gangsters and pimps, certainly no one smuggling stuff into its exceedingly cold harbor. One is born rich, becomes only richer and dies in a golden grave. Buried amidst oaks and holly, on the Charles riverside.
Elitist. Cold. Old. Home for the past three months, and maybe for the next five. Boston, MA.
*Paper planes- ARR, Slumdog millionaire. Listen to it. More importantly, watch the movie. A lesson on how to laugh, cry, be shocked and be amazed. More importantly, a lesson on Mumbai.
I started the piece of junk my bike had become and parked outside the station. Had a nimbu-paani just before I got in. At Durga’s. Set up by an enterprising housewife outside the local train station, slaking the thirst of a million commuters since 1975. Tickets in place and the 4.31 CST fast. K’s office in 25 mins sharp.
Khau galli in Ghatkopar is a small lane. Full of stuff to eat, obviously. All illegal carts parked flush with great food. The Gujrati palate meets South Indian. Half a kilometer of pure hedonism.
“1 Jain spring dosa and we’ll leave ok man?”
“Sure”
And we take Best bus 385 in the aftermath of the Jain delicacy to Sion circle.
Sion Circle is a circle. Surrounded by decrepit businesses, 3 restaurants all of which are mysteriously called Peninsula and the Cinemax theatre. Printing presses and small businesses thrive. S joins us there in all her bohemian glory. Kurti. Purani jeans.Cigarette and a sheaf of papers. Always the girl carries those mysterious papers. I wonder.
L calls and says she will be 10 minutes late. We wisely take that to be an hour and proceed.
Cutting chai at the tapri. Awesome.
“Let’s take a taxi to Matunga circle I say in a moment of inspired lukkhagiri”. They acquiesce.
Lounging around Matunga circle is very pleasant. Matunga circle feels right, anytime of the year. Old buildings look disapprovingly at newer towers. Maamis mingle with Bawas and trees overshadow humans. All round great places of learning (VJTI, UDCT) and tons of other not do great placesabound, with their inexorable campuses. Mumbai was a surprising 20˚C that day. Browsing second hand books under wide peepal trees, politely haggling to buy books and a relaxed filter kaapi at Madras café.
“Oooh…lets go to the temple” S says. “It’s been ages since I went to one”
The Asthika Samaj stands in Matunga, a former tam-brahm bastion perhaps as a testimony to more peaceful times in Mumbai. It’s very south Indian, from the gopuram to the flower vendors mouthing invectives in unchaste Tamil outside. Inside, S outdoes herself by correctly recognizing 3 Gods and we are rewarded for her religiousness by hot dollops of chakkara pongal by the priest. Lucky day!
Out again and this time R and C join us. R is very very hep and frowns upon us for having eaten at all the aforementioned “sad” places. C is meeting a friend at garnish for notes. We all giggle. C admonishes us, chastises us and proceeds to blush when a hunk of a man hand her ‘notes’ to her. Meanwhile K and S are gobbling dabelis outside at a cart as I pounce to bite my rightful share.
“Philistines” R announces.
L calls “Yaar yahaan koi nahin hai! Kahaan ho tum log?”
Oops. L is politely asked to come to Matunga. She politely replies (as polite as a string of four letter words across three languages can sound), and finally agrees.
7.00 pm and all of us finally outside New Yorkers. Facing bad bosses, personal prejudices, exams, placements, errant moms, global warming and other such vagaries finally we managed to meet at the same time. In we go and do what we do best. Eat.
“I’m not having this Jain pasta. What Rubbish ya”
“Oooh look look chocolate fondue!”
“Thu parakkadhe...saniyane!”
Hour and a half later, with bursting bellies we tumble out, laughing raucously.
“Desserts?”
7/11 near Matunga station. Ice Cream.Bliss.
And like most meetings conversation had almost staled. We needed alcohol and since Murphy was our patron God, we couldn’t find any. So the awesome day ended with a pursuit of cheap alcohol. Ashish beer bar, Roshni deshi Daru and Laxmi wines later all we had managed was a little beer. Split among five (C lectured again). Time to say goodbye. S took a western line fast train. R borrowed fistfuls of notes form all of us and took a cab. C whistled for her chauffeur and magnanimously decided to drop L. K dropped me at Ghatkopar station and I hesitated a little before I plunged into a crowded fast train, heading homewards.
In the train I thought a lot. Of the awesome food I had had. More about the people I had them with who had changed through the years, yet stayed same in essence. More importantly I thought about the city that had fed us. The city that has seen us grow, fall, stumble. Love, burp, eat, puke and sweat. The city that in all its doom could not stop its benevolence. The city of tired nights, weary days and crowded noons. Of spicy chaats, dirty iced golas, filling vada-paos nurturing the immigrant. Seaside cotton candy, corn in the rains and pizza by the bay, with jazz. Wine soirees and beer drinking binges. Pav bhaji with chikoo milkshake in the rains. Mumbai in all its infinite gastronomic glory.
11pm.
Thoughts flew as I was pushed onto my destination by harried people and the station was awash with vegetable vendors selling wares at half price. Getting rid of stuff before they too caught the last local home. I got a bunch of badishop in a Rupee. I delicately plucked them enjoying the taste as I burped and kicked my bike to life.
Happy new Year all. I'm home. And i shall not dispense with needless adjectives to describe it. It is as all homecomings are. A mixture of feelings and mostly the anticipation of awesome food. Today as I was digging into my computer I came across classics (kuan ma, page 3; deewane by the awesomely awesome shweta shetty; lootela ... the likes) . I also found several things in my hidden folders (not that I have anything to hide, windows just creates them meaninglessly) and I shall post one of my earliest writings from there, for the benefit of my intrepid readers.
Here goes
Rain
It was more sudden than the most sudden thing one could think of. One second it was swelteringly hot, sweatily oppressive, a world of shimmering concrete, and just a nanosecond later it began to rain. Even before I could soak up the smell of mud, or rejoice in the coming of the monsoon, I realized I had not a scrap of anti-rain clothing with me, and sprinted to a nearby bus-stop. Unfortunately, half of my city’s population was in the same predicament and had the same idea, so I found myself a wee bit cramped. The bus stop, which had never been used as one before, (people here just wait around aimlessly, and when the bus arrives, there’s some sort of a mini-stampede cum id’ kill you to get in type scuffle) was suddenly home to about twenty-five of us, all in various degrees of wetness…
There was the bone dry man…he belonged to that rare breed of people who can sprint in the rain without getting wet. My idol, maybe because I get drenched even in a washbasin. Then there was the anxious human, ready with a half-unfurled umbrella, pants rolled, cellphone carefully wrapped in his handkerchief, prepared to beat the rains at its own game, staring at the sky with part awe, and part worry. Occupying the driest corner was a large family. The men stood in a protective circle around the women and children, resembling a herd of wildbeest on the African savannah, and all of them were eating noisily passing snacks from one end of their circle to the other. Their brats, unmindful of nature’s vagaries, were engaged in various activities and without much ado bawled, screeched and made enough noise to make you wish you were born deaf. The rest were a motley crowd of office going women, jamming cellular networks by frequently calling home barking thousand confused instructions to their children, ranging from the mundane “shut all the windows, no I don’t care if you suffocate, I’m not going to have pools of water everywhere” to the slightly bizarre “its raining, throw away all the food and start stringing the hall with clotheslines”
Our peaceful existence in the bus stop however, was rudely interrupted by a troika of ‘babes’, snobs, right down to their branded heels (sounding something like shooing a dog away). The babes cursed the rain, the clouds, and their fate (I just got my hair permed! Drat this *swear word* rain…What? Why do farmers want it to rain?) .Another one was seeing a bus stop for the first time”What’s this structure? Isn’t it cute? I’m going to ask papa to build one for us in the balcony”. Their leader had the sense to keep her cellphone dry and was frantically trying to reach her driver…The uncles of the large family had stopped crunching chips, stopped minding their little brats and were unabashedly looking at the ‘babes’. Their wives sensed the danger. Gathering their various children they began glaring at the babes, hard enough to burn a hole right through one of the babe’s freshly permed hair (which suspiciously resembled a wig, the girl’s tense expression and precarious demeanour only fuelled doubts).Working women’s association weren’t too pleased either, and began issuing a fresh set of instructions home “don’t get out unless you are wearing a burkha…”
By now everyone was getting fidgety, the intrepid slowly ventured out, and then began moving about, the safe ones decided to wait… Meanwhile a big car pulled up, as one of the babes uttered a shriek and ran pell-mell into it. The other two followed suit, looking immensely relieved. Slowly the rains abated. The world looked clean, and fresh. I stepped out, leaving behind me the human exhibition the bus-stop had become, with the delicious realization of the rains having arrived…
Minutes later, as the sun shone, the bus stop was deserted…as if it had never housed people in it.
The sun shone in the mellow way that it sometimes does. It was a cold morning and a little boy was excited. For this was the day Santa brought gifts! He had carefully hung out socks and an old muffler. They did not possess stockings and mittens, in fact,he actually had no idea what a mitten was. Since he was only eight, we excuse him for thinking it was some kind of a kitten. He just hoped that Santa would accept a sock and a muffler as a suitable receptacle for placing goodies.
Vimalambal woke early. It was margazhi, the holy month and it was said that getting up early would ensure a spot in Vaikuntha. She was getting old and did not want to take any chances. Savitri, her arch rival had most conveniently expired on a holy day and if savitri was in heaven, then by hell (pun unintended) she was going there too.Plus It was Vaikuntha Ekadasi. After her bath, she mumbled prayers and fiddled for the light switch in the hall and her hand hit something.
"Aiyyo" . Her screams woke the entire household. Appa thought she had fallen and broken her hip. Amma chastised appa for thinking that way and guessed (rightly) that some blasphemy had occurred. "I have touched socks..Which fool has placed them here? Chah..im all impure now! fie fie*"
A few strong cups of coffee later the mystery was cleared. I was reading to many Enid Blyton's and in all my naivete had believed Santa mama to come bearing gifts. Also I have never seen my parents laugh so hard. Ever. The events also sparked off a series of cheap jokes on me and socks. To this day it rankles. Most children rejoice at the thought of Christmas. I cower in fear of lame jokes and people dangling socks under my nose (smelly ones at that).
To be fair to Vimalambal (name changed to protect identity) and the others, I shall narrate this too. Later in the day she called her grandson and gave him a 100 rupee note. for Christmas, from Santa mama. His parents also got him gifts. Awww..happy family moment. His parents also later discreetly cautioned him against getting such ideas during Easter. He was expressly forbidden to get eggs of any sort, lest Viamlambal throw a royal, purple fit.
*replaced. This is a family-friendly place. And words uttered by old ladies sometimes put the most reprobate to shame, notwithstanding holy months or days.
A person without thoughts is not a possibility. The thoughts may be redundant, silly, stimulating, destructive..anything but, thoughts they are! We think about multifarious things in a day. Thoughts triggered by different events, with a varied essence and of varying magnitudes. According to me Maslow's Pyramid of needs helps in answering a lot of questions which are physiological and psychological in nature. It can help each of us identify the pattern of our thoughts.
Maslow's hierarchy of needs consists of five levels: the four lower levels are grouped together as being associated with Physiological needs, while the top level is termed growth needs associated with psychological needs. Deficiency needs must be met first. Once these are met, seeking to satisfy growth needs drives personal growth. The higher needs in this hierarchy only come into focus when the lower needs in the pyramid are satisfied. If a lower set of needs is no longer being met, the individual will temporarily re-prioritize those needs by focusing attention on the unfulfilled needs, but will not permanently regress to the lower level.
So when we actually reach the stage of self-actualization we are apparently materially and emotionally satisfied individuals.
Of the last few months I can visualize myself as an animated stick figure trekking up the learning curve of my organization, Maslow's hierarchy and life on the whole. After a lot of analysis I figured I think I'm in the "Need to Know and Understand" segment.
So where do you think you figure in the hierarchy of needs??
But whats more pleasing than something to blog about is the reception of an award. Its not everyday that one gets to boast about being called most brilliant.
We is happy :) :D and slightly delusional.
The rules of the tag are: Post 5 links to 5 of your previously written posts. The posts have to relate to the 5 key words given (family, friend, yourself, your love, anything you like). Tag 5 other friends to do this meme. Try to tag at least 2 new acquaintances (if not, your current blog buddies will do) so that you get to know them each a little bit better.
Family: They're crazy. They're a hoot and are mostly inadvertently so.I really haven't even begun to write about all the stuff that goes on, but all of them make for posts tagged as humour, satire, and such many varying platitudes. This is an example of things they usually do. This, however was written after much anguish. A rare time no family should have to go through.
Friend: A category that's suddenly expanded to include lot more people. More craziness. Most of my blogroll.The beginning of it all. A rare breed of inspiring friends here.
Yourself: Not much here. Or then, my entire blog. My posts are a very good indicator of what I'm feeling currently and whats eating my mind most. So there.
Anything you like: I suspect this category has been included for the express purpose of shameless self publicity. But then that's what the whole tag manages to do. Oh well. Here go. What I call parent-friendly swearing. And one of my personal favourates.
We are also supposed to tag few more. Basically make them link around their blog (yawn!). We are also giving out to the award to the same people (so that we dont have to choose and be accused of favouratism later). I call brilliant swatimala, elusive, liberal and chocoliciousgal. Newcomer fat-gujju can just do the tag and feel happy.
PS: I am most peeved. humourous and favourates are underlined in red by blogger.
The earphones fit perfectly for a change, snugly, warm and comforting in my ears.
I reached into my pocket and turned up the volume of my iPod. Dido began to sing a little louder than one second ago.
'no white flag, above my door' oh no baby, I thought, no white flag.
'...go down with the ship...' indeed you will, and so will I.
Walking through the aisle, I looked at the passengers on both sides. They stared back mat me scared, faces pale and it struck me a little funny. I positioned myself and began my performance, I'd rehearsed my lines well and knew I would kill it. I realised though, that I was talking a bit too loudly, like headphon'ed' people normally do.
Same can be said true for people with 2 Kg RDX trapped on their bodies. One of my two brothers was done with the praying and he tapped me on the shoulder saying that it was my turn.
I walked into the pilot's cabin and sat in the co-pilot's chair. I smiled at the pilot's blood streaked face which radiated hate at me like a brilliant heater, the kinds we could ony dream of back home on cold winter nights. I sat there looking at the clouds, Strato Cumuls the passanger next to me had called them and the cities standing tall and far far away.
Not for long though.
I did not pray, just skipped to my next favorite song. The clock at my belt slowly ticked to blasting point.
I'm a parody on sanity!! Each person will have a different opinion of me..People centric yet what i enjoy most is my solitude... Am madly eccentric....predictably unpredictable....
