Tulsi

A walk along bandstand is always a peaceful experience with the sea breeze blowing through your hair, the salt air gently caressing your cheek, and the clean, clutter-free walkway, maintained that way by vigilant guards who won’t let you ignore the rules of no smoking and no eating there.
A few weeks ago, I was walking down bandstand with my cousin, taking advantage of my new flat, which is bang on the sea. We were walking along, deep in conversation, oblivious of the various other people walking alongside and past us, when I heard a little voice.

“Didi! Beautiful didi!”

We turned to see a small, pretty little girl, about 10 years old, carrying another child who was about 2 years old. She was obviously begging, and flattery, as we know, will get us everywhere. I looked down at her, and my heart warmed to see her full, open smile. As a rule, I generally don’t encourage beggars, so I ruffled her hair, recoiled at the dirty, oily texture, at once felt ashamed of my bourgeoisie reaction, and told her, “You are also very beautiful.” I tried to keep walking, but she persisted and after she called me beautiful a few more times and my cousin handsome, we laughed and decided to buy her something to eat. We took her to a sandwich stall and asked her what sort of sandwich she would like. She took an earnest look at what was on offer and said, “Saada.” While the sandwich maker was layering the bread with butter and chopping vegetables to put in it, I climbed up on the bandstand wall, and made conversation with the little girl. My cousin was curious about her, so I started by asking her her name.

Me: Tumhara naam kya hai?
Her: Tulsi.
Me: Aur uska? (pointing to the little child she was carrying.)
Her: Neha.
Me: Tumne English kahan seekha?
Her: Hum school jaate hai. Pehle English medium mein jaate the, ab Gujarati medium mein jaate hai.
Me: Idhar kya kar rahe ho?

She looked away shyly.

Me: Tumhare mummy-papa kahan hai?
Her: Papa nahin hai, mummy ghar pe hai.
Me: Woh kya karti hai?
Her: Khana banati hai…. (Then, as an afterthought) Humme sambhalti hai….
Me: Tum idhar kya karti ho? (Hoping for a response this time.)
Her: Paise kamati hoon.
Me: Achha? Paise kaise kamati ho?
Her: Hum didi ko bolte hai bahut beautiful ho. (with the shy, guilty smile of a child who’s been caught by an indulgent adult with her hand in the cookie jar.)

I laughed.

Her: Waise hum phool bhi bechte hai.

I stroked her head again, this time fully aware of what it was going to feel like.

By this time, her sandwich was ready and the cart owner handed it to her in a paper plate, asked her if she wanted ketchup, and in response to the small nodding head, poured ketchup liberally over the sandwich. As we paid the sandwich waala, the little girl saw that it had cost us 12 rupees. She shifted her focus from the food to us and said “Barah rupay. Mehenga hai.” I grinned at the cart owner and said “Dekho bhaiyya, mehenga hai.” He chuckled, and we started walking off. I couldn’t help noticing that the girl was feeding her little sister before herself, and making sure that the little one ate.
We walked off, but I couldn’t resist turning back for one last glance at the two girls perched on the wall, huddled over a little plate of bread, tomatoes, cucumbers and onions.

My cousin was quite affected by the little girl and her way of life. He spent the next hour thanking his stars for his good fortune, and realising how we, of affluent backgrounds have no right to ask for the many things we do. Gratitude for all he had was foremost in his mind.
I, on the other hand, being me, found myself besieged with questions. I couldn’t help wonder what it was about their lives that ensured they grew up before their time, yet maintained that childlike curiosity and innocence that it vital in every child. Why is it that these people, who have so little, don’t feel the need to protect themselves with shells and walls and barriers? They are open, straightforward and completely natural. The little girl made me happy- she was all grown up in a way, and heart-wrenchingly innocent in another.
She touched me- I have not forgotten her, and always look for her when I’m at bandstand.

Yeh hai Bambai, Meri Jaan

The city of dreams, the city where straw can turn to gold, the city where real estate prices compare with those commanded in New York and Tokyo, the city that has no place for the slow and easy….the city you can either love or hate, but never be indifferent to.

I’m currently in that city, and have been here a little over a month. I was working in a film here, called “Migration”, directed by Mira Nair. The experience was a lot of good and a lot of bad; but the one word that encompasses it fully is “intense.” The film taught me about filmmaking, about the practical aspects of my theoretical knowledge, about what it takes to spin a thought into spools of fantasy…and it also taught me about the rat-race, about the dog-eat-dog world we live in, about politics that were beyond my conception, and about survival.

Darwin must have had Bombay in mind when he came up with his theory of “The Survival of the Fittest.” In Bombay, if you’re not enterprising and you don’t have your wits about you at all times, you can, and most certainly will, bite the dust. There is no room for mediocrity and for the laid-back. Sad in a way, but true.
Bombay is also an addiction. Once one settles into the Mumbai way of life, it’s almost impossible to pull oneself out. This city has a quicksand like quality, which sucks you in, and refuses to let you escape its hold over you. Start working in Bombay, get yourself a flat (no one calls them apartments here), figure out the local trains, get used to the terrible monsoons…and you are a Mumbaiker! Then, when your friends come to visit, take them to Café Mondegar, Leopold’s (of Shantaram fame), Marine Drive, Enigma, Poly-Esther, Toto’s Garage, Hawaiian Shack- and send them off beaming, singing praises of a Bombay that they think they have explored. Throw in a couple of film stars at Zenzi or the Marriott coffee shop, and you’re God. In reality of course, they ain’t seen nothin’ till they’ve battled it out on the local railway stations, suffered a monsoon here, caught a nap while stuck in the insane traffic jams, and spent at least a few hours in Asia’s biggest slum- Dharavi.
Ah yes, Dharavi….now that’s a sub-culture in itself. Though it is technically a slum, it’s the hub of a lot of mafia activity, and black money laundering. The residents are people you wouldn’t want to have much to do with, and you certainly don’t want them turning against you. In Bombay, a lot of the economy and power is controlled by the mafia, and Dharavi is a big part of all the activity that keeps the power and money concentrated in the hands it currently is. While shooting the film, we shot for a day at Dharavi, and realised how important it was to know the right people. Because we had the “dada” of Dharavi on our side, the rest of the goons kept their distance and allowed us to shoot; else we would have been lynched, and there’s no saying what the film stars and female members of the crew would have been subjected to. Considering there was a point when I had to be “rescued” by a security chap from the mob, I dare not consider the situation had there been no power play involved. Our tough security men, in their crisp grey uniforms, looking fierce and professional with walkie talkies strapped to them proved utterly ineffective when faced with the rough mob of the slum. Only one of their own can control the Dharavi residents.

All-in-all, Bombay is a city where the slums co-exist with the high-rises, and the destitute with the stinking rich. It can be no other way; one could not exist without the other. It’s one of the few cities where you can live in a flat that overlooks the sea from one window, and the slum from another. Where you pay 15G for a studio apartment that’s 200 sq feet in area, and actually feel pleased about it. Where you can have lunch at a fine dining restaurant with extremely polite company, and step out to be greeted with rickshaw drivers hurling abuses at one another. Where a complete stranger will take time out of his/her busy schedule to help you, an outsider. Where a woman can walk out on the street and hail a cab at 4am, and not have to worry about her safety. Where stepping into a local train is like entering a war-zone, and is still worth it, because it saves you so much time in a city where time is money- quite literally.

At the end of the day, it’s a city that teaches you everything you need to know….about survival.

Ex- Friend

I have wanted to write about this person for a few months now, but kept putting it off. I now know why. Because this is the right time and place for it. Things are clearer to me now than ever before, and I can articulate them as well.

This person was a bosom buddy. Though she had her faults, I always turned a blind eye to them in favour of her loyalty and supportive nature. We shared our lives and were close as close can be. But she wasn’t sorted. She was a drama queen, and seeking advice from her was always a case of the blind leading the blind. Her strategy would always be a complicated, conniving one, leading more often than not to blow-outs. Nothing was straight, and nothing was simple with her. She was and still is a whack-job, whipping up dramas when they don't exist. She stirs things into messes when they are perfectly orderly.
She also had a vivid imagination, wherein she’d imagine complicated strategies being hatched, of which she was the centre. The truth of course, was that noone really cared enough for things like that. She invented a life for herself, in her head, of words, not actions, and eventually all that came out was talk. The sad part is that I think she honestly believed all her fabrication. And I, I’m not happy to say, humoured her, and let her get away with it. Her friends affectionately called her “Psycho.”
She’d been single for a long time, and spoke about it as if it were the high road. Bullshit. She hated it. She hated it so much that she’d make up stories about various men who were interested in her, but far too chicken to do anything about it. Or men who would have snapped her up in a heartbeat, if only some other woman hadn’t paraded her stuff before him. Or men who were just dying to be with her, but oh, if only someone hadn’t poisoned their ears against her.
What really turned me off about her was the moral high horse she always rode. She used big words like ethics and morality, but at the end of the day, she was allowed to do all the things that she condemned in other people….as long as she didn’t get caught. She gave the term “two-faced” a completely different meaning. She’s raised the bar for all her fellow hypocrites. If, God forbid, she did get caught, (which happened often, as she wasn’t really very smart about it) she would defend her actions till the bitter end, and then promptly cut off all relations with the people who confronted her. She is an escapist and it makes me sad to see someone who could be so much, be so little.

I should have wondered what was going on when I realised that she had almost no friends left, because almost everyone had done something to annoy her, betray her, upset her, or offend her delicate sensibilities. I should have wondered why all the people around her seemed to be such assholes. The fault, I know now, lies not with them, but with her.

I wanted to tell her to grow up, to open her eyes and see the world for what it really was, not what she wanted it to be. To stop trying to create a dramatic situation of which she was always the centre. To act her age, and to get over herself. To not make men the centre of her universe, and to get herself a life, which everyone, the men included, would respect her for. To stop licking people’s boots to get them to like her. Unfortunately, I didn’t say any of those things to her, and still haven’t.
But now that things have gone sour between us, I can take a step back, let go of the affection I still felt for her, and say "Wow…what a bloody head case," and be glad I’ll never be the one to set her off again.