Pohe

part 1 here

The following days saw a blur of people in Jag Jivan nagar. Sadhus, Mendicants and sahib’s men always, conferring, and plotting. The dattatrey temple that was the focus of the community was abuzz with talk of the next miracle and what the future portended. Men and women held forth on the significance of the God’s appearance at their humble abode. Every Friday evening as the suburban week drew to a close a small respite would be provided to the slum’s residents too. It was movie night. Every week, a movie would be screened at the ground where everyone gathered to worship their screen Gods. This week saw the screening of “ Jai Shakumbhari Ma” (The goddess of vegetables and fruits), a potboiler featuring the right mix of sex and devotion, each facet carefully existing in its own domain designed to please the masses with their equally strong appeal. After the short movie all the week’s happenings were neatly encapsulated by one of sahib’s more talkative men. He also promised a ‘happening’ and of a sacrifice needed to be made to appease the God (Ramlal, who owned two goats involuntarily shuddered).

Sunday in the slum was cricket day. Kids would crown around the ground where the teens played. Competition was fierce and most men dropped in to watch, reading newspapers, squatting to shit, making deals or simply wiling time away. Teams were a mix of both religions for obvious reasons as decreed by the slumlords. Apart from that all other rules were flexible. It was a community gathering of sorts with women sending over their meager fare to each other and a general feeling of Goan sosegado settled over the huts. A week after Sakhubai’s find however, the Sunday routine was interrupted.

“A right trunked Ganpati is not a coincidence and he needs to be appeased sufficiently so as to not incur his wrath” screamed the mendicant cutting a resplendent picture in his saffron robes and all his paraphernalia. The sahib was there too, listening respectfully. Most of the slum dwellers were from Konkan and Ganpati figured high in their priorities of life. All listened agog. A few more minutes of religious preaching later Saheb took over. He was gifted as a speaker, that’s what got him votes twice every decade. As Saheb spoke, the entire populace seemed to be under his spell, his words exhorting them, pleading with them and beseeching them. He would speak in their rustic dialect of Marathi, suddenly switching to high poetic language. He would crack jokes in hindi and come back to pray in Marathi and as he spoke he cleverly wove the words in. For the Right facing god, of righteousness as a blessing and a sacrifice he asked for them to give up their houses.

Most would have been stunned but his entreating baritone kept them riveted. As an atonement for their, nay his and their sins. It was simple. All they had to do was to move to the ‘right’ side of the slum the green side, the other side. At this the slum erupted. And it took all of the man’s efforts to keep the audience calm. Sahib effortlessly fielded questions and arguments. It was the same slum, just the other side. He would build a new temple there apart from the one here. No, no communal violence would be involved. In fact moving to the other side, he guaranteed legitimizing the slums. No Khairnar would come rumbling at odd hours to grind their dwellings to dust. Children would have a proper address to write on their letters. No it wasn’t possible to legitimize this side of the slum because the land was already owned by some organization.

The promise of legitimate housing, with the religious lure of doing the right thing was slowly turning the residents around. What of Salim Khan? The mafia lord who held sway over the Muslim half of the slum? Salim Khan was in fact at that very moment convincing the other half of the slum to move to the left side. Nothing would change he assured his people and his men would make sure everyone moved into huts which were of the same size, no one would be cheated and certainly no one would get an advantage. The slum would remain the same, the people same only saffron and green would diffuse and seep to the other sides. Smoothly. The current Hindu side was owned by Asra Inc, who had decided to donate the land as zakat by its righteous chairman, Mr Salil Quereshi. Legitimizing homes for them there would be no problem. A new mosque would be built and the current one would continue to function too.

The next week was a frenzied sequence of days, nights and noons all marked with discussions. Sahib threw open his home for harried families, they were welcome to drop in any time they desired to talk. His wife was there too gently talking, making things clearer. More importantly they welcomed guests with food and beverages. Saheb himself opened casks of ‘imported daaru’ for the more rambunctious men at night. Tai attended all night sessions convincing the ladies to move, home hearth et all. Salim Khan on the other side spent an equally hectic week doing the same. Slowly even the inflexible relented and the great move started.

It happened in phases, and henchmen were always available to carry across meager possessions. As the populace settled in each was given a token sum of Rs 51/- and a document with the person’s name stating that the legalization process was started. Over two weeks Jag Jivan nagar frothed, fermented, moved, restlessly mingled and resettled. Small disturbances did occur, and fights broke out but were diffused in minutes. Sahib was always there pulling strings and occasionally dealing a stern hand, smiling, scolding and making the move possible. Ramlal the goat owner was discovered to have two establishments, both with 4 children each as the wives proceeded to battle it out for the bigger house. Apart from the catfight and the entertainment it had provided the moving was mostly smooth.

Sakhubai woke up to the cawing of crows just as dawn was breaking. Forcing her arthritic joints into action she rushed to fill her lota to reach the loo before the men took over at seven. Ablutions over, she busied herself in making tea as Surekha came, empty lota wildly swinging. Both women sat to drink bitter tea, chewing on meager onion pohe and readying for the days travails. Not much had changed for them. Up above the slum, in his 14^th floor apartment Saheb smiled as he drank his bitter tea. And as he breakfasted on pohe he allowed himself to smile. He had never believed the move to be possible but he had done it.

“Constitutional boundaries to change after 30 years” the newspapers had screamed and Saheb had nearly had a heart attack that day as he discovered that his part of Jag Jivan nagar would now go to Salim Khans constituency. A day of tense sweating and serious number crunching later he had decided that he could not afford to lose Jag Jivan Nagar. It was crucial to him and had single handedly sent him to the parliament five times. Sahib did not know the meaning of gerrymandering but he knew what it could do to him now. He needed to act and his mind was on overdrive, desperately looking for a solution. Money could be thrown but what could redraw constitutional borders? As he had pondered it one evening his maid Surekha, rushed out saying that some potato that was right-trunked had miraculously appeared in her neighbour Sakhubai’s house. That was all the push his maverick mind had needed.

The move secured Saheb’s vote bank and sent him thumping into the parliament for a sixth time.

The title is because Chai and Pohe are the typical maharashtrian breakfast, transcending all barriers of class and religion. I could imagine both Saheb and Sakhubai partaking of it.

Kindly bear with my attempt to make a story of a flimsy idea. I haven’t executed it to my satisfaction and excuse any errors. Do be amazed though. Anything is possible in India.

And as for the potato, it carefully rested in a wooden casket, on a velvet sheet and surrounded by incense, in Fatima Bibi’s house. Carefully hidden from outside in the folds of her muslin sarees where it seemed to relish the madness of human life teeming outside.

Chai

Sakhubai almost tripped over it. She let out a small curse and looked down and at once she saw that it wasn’t a normal potato. It had a tiny protuberance the shape of a trunk. Turned neatly to the right. ”Ganpati Bappa Morya” she exclaimed loudly, hoped the lord hadn’t heard her cursing and rushed to her house all the while loudly exclaiming. The whole slum was within her house in minutes. A small pooja was immediately conducted to secure blessings and the shapely potato occupied centre stage in her modest hut, appropriately anointed with sandal, kumkum and strewn with flowers. A small trickle of people portly women were praying devoutly. The appearance of a Ganesha provided for a much needed break in Jag Jivan nagar. The nearest festival was months away, the heat had already begun to stifle. For most denizens of this slum in north Mumbai, highs on the cruel plot of life were such, and interspersed amidst a grim, penurious existence.

Jag Jivan nagar was divided into two halves by a large gutter with one bridge. It wasn’t always like that but after the riots in 1993, the police, the politicians and the mafia lords had felt it prudent to divide so that trouble could be contained. One half became Hindu with a temple and a saffron flag atop it. The other half obviously was Muslim. Mosque, prayers, minarets, Id. The dividing gutter was a stinky black morass of plastic bags, human excreta and sewage from the apartment complexes around. It was also only during holi that the gutter actually saw secularism, its blackness lost in a sea of gulal and shimmering silver pellets. Most areas of Mumbai are similar in hiding a dank slum behind the glamorous façade of sky scrapers. For every building sweeping cobwebs off the sky, a real cobweb of teeming enterprise and life existed. Vegetable vendors, domestic help, rickshawallahs and the mass of humans that made for the smooth running of suburban lives.

Fatima Bibi heard of the tuberous manifestation of God. It was time to pray Sakhubai a visit. She too worked as domestic help, as did most of the women in the slum. In a time polarized by religion Fatima was proof of blurring boundaries and mixing colours. Just to be safe though she would go in the night, in a saree. Just in case. With the elections in sight flare ups were common and deep down she felt the appearance of the potato wasn’t a mere accident. But Ganpati she prayed to. And she would go. It was dark when Fatima reached the other side. Slowly she crept up the lane and saw lengthy shadows outside. Shadows of Hindu caps and a trident even. She saw a typical profile and instantly slunk backwards. Saheb was visiting the Ganpati.

Saheb stood tall in his starched kurta, bowed down gently. He had heard of the miracle only some time ago, in his own land and one of his own people and had romptly rushed. A Ganpati with the trunk towards the right! As the evening shadows lengthened Saheb had arrived with his men all around. He looked grim, almost angry as he pushed his way through to Sakhubai’s hut. His wife, Tai was attired in all her Maharashtrian splendor and had an aarti plate with her. Husband wife made a great show of praying and devotion. At once led by his men a spirited rendition of the Ganpati aarti ensured. The spectacle of the Ganpati aarti in Maharashtra is not an ordinary one. The words and the tempo, along with cymbals clanging lend a spirit and a unique high. Ganpati ceases to be a pleasant benign God then, and at once becomes a terrifying avatar, a true destroyer of obstacles. A vanquisher of all evil. A beacon of hope from all dreariness and as suddenly after the crescendo, Sakhubai snapped out of the trance with the last few notes.

The next morning dawned muggy and pregnant. Sakhubai’s home no longer remained a home. It was thronging with people, Sahebs men. Why the Saheb himself had come to pay his respects. After the cursory aarti, he had even touched her feet. Asked for her blessings, she was destined for greatness one mentioned. Several praised her fates and cursed theirs. A right-trunked Ganpati is more demanding it was said. Mere poojas and aartis wouldn’t do many added. Sakhubai was mainly confused, scared and realized that the potato and God no longer figured in the scheme of things. Something greater was brewing.

to be continued…

What the...

Roommate (RM): Dude, I need to talk to you
Me: yeah? (did I forget the rent?)
RM: er…well its
Me: Anything important?
RM: No, no…it’s just that…you need to watch yourself
Me: ? (??)
RM: Well, I’ll come to the point, you keep saying fuck that’s not good
Me: ? What? (what the F...oh no!!)
RM: Well you keep saying the ‘f word’ in front of everyone so, especially in front of the girls
Me: oh…so? (Still confused)
RM: Well, if you keep saying it, then the girls will want to say it too…I mean they might pick up this habit from you. So
Me: eh?
RM: Well, it’s not good for our girls to say fuck and such things and we have to take care of all that so.

I refrain from saying anything. After all I have been effectively silenced. I leave it to my perceptive readers to comment.

Encyclopedia Geographica

Most families discuss politics at dinner. Some well read ones bandy about famous words, and talk of Rushdie and Khalil Gibran. Still others watch soaps and grin at the vamp’s evil machinations. In my family, we talk. But none of that normal stuff for us. Being the dysfunctional unit that we are we talk geography. If this conjures up visions of people talking of Darfur and Patagonia, again dispel those. Let me elaborate.

Appa or Amma will start with where they went that day. The travelling spouse’s modes of transport would be acutely examined and then a long and protracted discussion would occur. Major roads would be discussed, the number of signals computed. The number of panwallahs, gutters to be navigated and the closest relatives abode from the point of destination would all be taken into consideration. Then the weather comes in. Mumbai being what it is, and more importantly where it is, you wouldn’t want to be flushed away in the rains. Hence all previous parameters would be voided in the face of the south western winds and newer, drier routes plotted.

Hinduism neatly divides the year into two halves, one replete with festivals, the other conspicuous by their absence. Travelling secular Mumbai in dakhshinayan compounds life. Amidst all the mandaps, mandals, makeshift temples and human detritus thronging them appointments must be made, offices reached on time and examinations be vomited upon. This is where we really excel. Sample this actual quote by my father to a bewildered rikshawallah: “Don’t take the left at the Church like you normally do, instead take a U-turn, immediately get into the housing society, pass through it and leave form the other gate. Never mind their watchman ill take care of him (!). Then get into the bus depot, circle the lake, go the opposite direction through that one-way and you will see a small gap between two trees, go through that, and you will be the first to reach the station today. Don’t thank God, thank me, and you will live to see another traffic jam”. Needless to say rickshaws avoid us like the plague.

Bandhs and political stirs leave all people scared and wary. My parents call too, but with detailed instructions on reaching back avoiding all the ‘political hotspots’ of the city (usually involving walking alongside stinky gutters, trespassing through several plots of private property and in one case, going through a tabela. No the cows weren’t pleased either).

Records, inevitably are set. “My husband can reach the mall under heavy traffic in a matter of seconds” Amma will proudly boast. In a benevolent mood she might even confide “We take a right turn at the vegetable market. Cuts 13.7 minutes, but watch out for cabbage peels.” These candid confessions sometimes lead to us bumping our rival families on one of ‘our’ secret routes leading my parents to froth at the mouth and devise newer, faster (and decidedly shadier) routes. We could give Google Earth a run for their money any day!

Talents rarely stay hidden and we are the local neighborhoods preferred database. Recently my father went a step further and lectured a cousin on how to find her way. Nothing wrong in it except that she was in Chennai and he in Mumbai. “Don’t listen to that autofellow, no train comes at that level crossing, just go across and you’ll reach home in time for dinner”. I was stumped. Amma, unfazed added for good measure that if my cousin took a particular lest turn she could pass by a temple too (and thank God for geographic mastermind relatives?).

All this knowledge isn’t gainsay. We have an original Rand Mc Nally atlas 1985 edition. It is a work of art no less. Mapping the entire globe form Cambodia to the Caucasus, Buenos Aires to Bangkok (with helpful footnotes on how to get to Juneau from Jakarta). The bloody thing must weigh a ton if anything at all. Then there are countless Indian atlases, from various publications. Also every time we take a vacation, as souvenirs we collect maps. So we have maps of almost all major Indian cities, two towns and some vague scribbles detailing a hidden Shiva temple a few kilometers off the railway tracks at Arakkonam. And then Appa bring maps from his sojourns abroad. So I know the way to wadi Haifa from Sharjah, and that the river through Gloffhausenbach has no bridges on it (leading me to pontificate if all Germans prefer wading to walking, but there is a time and place for every discussion). The digital age taught us to operate Google maps and latest versions of Google Earth are downloaded as soon as they are available.

A few weeks ago, I saw Amma reading a book on the Solar system (National Geographic special edition, weighs another ton and is a beautifully informative book). Houston, be scared. We are almost up there. “Beam me up Amma”

Cadence

Red room presence requested now the message blinked. All round the room there was a flurry of activity. Samir woke up from his deep revere and blinked stupidly, all the others were already on their way. M was there with his ubiquitous sheaf of papers.

Sarika Khanna was trained in espionage. Tall, fair with hazel eyes, every time M looked at her he felt a surge of testosterone. Ususally she prowled Chandini chowk in salwar-kameez, speaking unchaste Punjabi, on her activa.

Aman Khan. Liaison officer. Hard to believe that the soft spoken man could stop hardcore gangsters in their tracks. His Arabic was a definite asset in these troubled times, especially when most trouble stemmed from the near west. It always irked M how it was the ’Middle East’, even though it was clearly to the west. But then lots of things had irked M more lately.

Vani Ganapathy. Msc Physics, IISc. halfway through her Phd. M picked her up noting her extreme analytical skills, would she like to work for the country’s think tank? Sure…did it exist though? Over pav bhaji and lassi he explained to her the intricacies of the organization. How the CBI and the government had created it, sometime in the 60’s. It was hard to believe that even in a country as corrupt and as underdeveloped there existed a think tank to rival any nation’s. Some of the country’s finest brains, heavy funding (some of it illegal, M smirked as he thought of all he had done) and the governments unending support, they had established it. In the mess that is old Delhi, in one of its many ancient mazes was a house no 14 approachable only by scooter and within an seemingly innocuous home lay some of the most sophisticated piece of computers the country had ever seen.

Shruti Deshpande. Weilded the rolling pin and a gun with equal ease. The team loved her food, she loved to cook. She churned out exotic dishes with alarming regularity and most team successes were celebrated at her South Delhi pad.

Samir Sinha. IIT Kanpur. IIM Ahemdabad. No one knew more about contemporary India more than he. With his vast knowledge and experience in espionage he was more the father everyone looked up to. The world often failed to realize just how deeply India was involved. Often it projected itself as a struggling third world nation occasionally throwing out a Pokhran or a Chandrayaan at the world news, a few inches in some papers. Foolish pop-fiction had glorified Jason monk, failing to point out to the quiet Raj’s and Shalini’s laboring away for Indian (and sometimes world) safety. 9/11, the capture of Laden (M’s smile would often turn into a laugh, whenever he thought of this) the eventual liberation of Myanmar planned, the dealing of LTTE, life went on (it was her birthday next week, he had to buy her a gift how would she like the head of the b****** responsible for the Mumbai blasts?).

Shrouds

"So we broke up. I mean it wasn't so much breaking up as..it dint work out ok "
I nodded sagely. The mall around buzzed with activity. Young lovers held hands, leery youths looked on partly intrigued, partly repulsed. Fat aunties splurged their husbands assets seeming to be hep and an anachronistic chaatwaala pushing his cart settled in front of Mocha. She carelessly brushes her hair off her face and looked again. I was listening, coz this was the first time she was willing to talk about it. they had been the envy of the college. She the babe of chiffon dreams, he the life of every mehefil. He wooed her bollywood style, she left him hollywood style. Like a 1920's actress, tormented. Seeking deliverance.

She has always been some sort of an enigma. Not in the girly way and. No femme fatale buisness for her. simply put a mystery. In all those years of friendship none of us knew where exactly she lived, what her parents did (her behaviour most likely suggested a super dysfunctional one). She never asked for love nor gave any away. He was free to woo her and she was free to indulge in him. She did so. And then she gave it all away in a disinterested way.

He drinks like a fish now. Apparently. Smokes till ethereal smoke consume him. In that darkness of tears and the sweat of his weariness only she resonates. And yet in that chaos that one calls Bombay, they met at the local station and looked gravely. Held hands and caught together that fast local to the sunset.

PS:
I havent been smoking anything. True friend. True story. I tried to recreate the mood of the moment. I think its safe to say I have failed miserably.

One

Today is one year since I started blogging. And hence, it is time for the mandatory reminiscence post. I could talk about a year gone by and how seasons fly and all that. I could talk about drafts sitting about, words waiting for release. Of songs and singing, of geographical mishaps and maamis. Of temples, travels and meetings. I could unleash a flurry of cheap jokes or write something really profound (both of which I am capable of).

And then again I don't feel like writing about any of these things, which is precisely why I am doing this whimsical post, hoping that if I linger on those drafts long enough, I won’t have to write them.

Every year leaves its mark in various ways. Some mysterious, some blindingly obvious. And being humans it is a must for us to age and to learn. Make newer mistakes and get over older ones. Fall in love, fall out of it, and go through the entire gamut of emotions (dont' try this alone at home though). As clichéd as it may seem, writing this mush-ridden post is good. Or so I tell myself.

I have always been writing. I wrote for newspapers (my finest hour), wrote for trashy publications, worded pamphlets for Shantala cooking classes and have written introductions for babas and God-maamis. And publicity shy that I am (Ya right!), I never thought of blogging at all. T'was a fine cold day of -17 when she persuaded me to blog, she would have gladly got a gun to my head but a few thousand miles saved me then. She was to whom I cribbed about my blogging ambitions and the Einstein that she is, she created the blog, sent me the URL and left me to post. Thanks are in due. Also to him, My fiercest critic, foulweather friend and intellectual blogger himself.

Thinking back in time and getting a little philosophical this blog couldn’t have happened at a better time. Instead of being a Tom-Riddlesque diary for my misplaced feelings it has turned out rather fine I think. I have read some great stuff in other blogs and rather surprisingly made great friends, got me in touch with some older ones and made my ancient grandfather click his way here to read whatever the hell I write.

So here's to a year of blogging, wishing for more to come and lots more to read.
Cheers!