A
friend sent this graphic about Mumbai/Bombay the other day on a chatting app.
I
personally don’t like to differentiate between these names and often use them
interchangeably, especially when talking to different people. Out here in
Australia, I tend to go more with Bombay because not necessarily everyone knows
it is now officially called Mumbai.
Although
I associate myself with Pune (because I was born there), I grew up in Mumbai. I
may not have been proud of this fact before, for bizarre reasons (like
overcrowding, too fast), but my recent visit to Mumbai changed this completely.
I don’t know what it was, or what I saw and sometimes it’s just so damn
difficult to portray an emotion in the right words, but something happened that
I now want to be associated with Mumbai more so than Pune; a statement which
makes my wife chuckle, given my previous strong disassociation with the
metropolis.
There
I said it. I love Mumbai.
“Dhanda” is the only word that
defines the city
I’ve
always known it and I’ve read it innumerable times, but like with each year you
become older and wiser, you see the world through a different lens. Sure, the
population in Mumbai may have exploded beyond control, but that has also given
way to opportunity. The city is known to be one that never sleeps and although
that might have sounded trite earlier, it meant so much to me this time around.
We reached our friend’s place quite late in the night and after settling in, felt
hungry. I was amazed we could order any sort of food (not just burgers or
pizzas or fast food) at midnight and they delivered it past the Cinderella
hour. We were gorging on fresh rotis, paneer masala and dal kadhi at 1 am!
During
my 2nd visit to Mumbai, I decided to travel on BEST bus/es from the
swanky new international airport terminal to Borivali, simply for the thrills. The
new T2 terminal is spectacular (at least from the outside) and it only affirms
our faith in Mumbai being the financial ticker-joint of the country. This particular
bus journey was not without its share of misdirections though. On checking with another passenger on Western Hwy underpass, I was told with great confidence
“Haan, Borivali ko 40 aur 348 bus jayega”. Another bus with a completely
different number rocked up with Borivali Stn as the destination and I was told
this would take me there, so on I jumped. When the bus conductor approached me
for a ticket, I confidently said “Borivali National Park”. His reply came via a
typical lack of emotion that conductors have mastered over the years “Yeh bus
Aarey Milk Colony tak hi jaata hain”. I had to walk a km to get back to the
next bus stop to board the right bus to Borivali.
Along
the Western Hwy, now gloriously uplifted (pun intended) via a network of
well-built overpasses/flyovers, I saw many a number of local businesses –
welders, marble craftsman, small shops, mechanics, curtain makers, timber
shops, tailors all open and operating way past 10 pm on a weekday. I suppose
Mumbai has always been like this, but after living in Australia for well over a
decade, this was a shock. The entrepreneurial spirit of the city (or maybe it
was desperation to work and earn a living) surprised me no ends. When a
customer wants something done at 10 in the night, there will always be people to
do it at that hour. The whole of the path along the highway was buzzing with
activity, with industry close to midnight. “Dhanda” is clearly one word that
defines this city perfectly.
Memories
Memories
are strange things. You think you may have forgotten something or at least
won’t remember all the details exactly as you’ve experienced decades before;
but the way memories quietly bide their time in some dark corner of the brain,
waiting for that one little stimuli to respond (just like a Mimosa plant
responds to the slightest touch) is astounding.
I
went back to the same place I grew up in when I was in Borivali and it all came
flooding back - the sights, sounds, smells. Even the people and their
interactions with me. I haven’t been back to this place for over 18 years, but
it was as if I never left. Sure it had changed a little bit in terms of
renovations, clean-ups, but the soul of the place was exactly what resonated
with my memories all these years. I was even fortunate enough to stay in a
neighbour’s apartment, on the same floor where I lived all those years back.
Perception
is also another peculiar thing. The very roads, buildings, rooms that seem huge
when you are a kid are generally not that. I walked around a few places and
what seemed to take ages back then only took a matter of minutes!
Walking
through those lanes again and meeting people from my past was a remarkable
experience. Conversations flowed as effortlessly as if they had stopped only
the previous night and continued on from there. The small garden where over 20
boys played cricket 18 years back was a bit worn down and even discarded. The tabela where a school friend lived was easily replaced by a high-rise, but the local open spaces where the
whole community gathered to celebrate Diwali, Ganpati and Dandiya-Garba were still
around. Although public transport has made a few inroads into the area, it
still remains the quiet locality it was all those years back though.
Each
year, I try and meet different people when I am in India. My wife reckons this
is the best way to build relationships and network and I totally agree with her
on this (amongst a horde of other things). It was no different this time
around. I met and chatted, over countless cups of chai with friends from a very
distant past.
Alma Mater
One
of the most compelling reasons to go to Mumbai was to visit my school – a place
which I haven’t seen since I finished my Year 10 in 1996. The walk to school
was admittedly a bit tearful and quite literally a walk down memory lane. A
little bit of urban development has admittedly got in the way of this memory,
and I had to take a rather circuitous route to get to the school premises. Gone
were the 2 small pedestrian traffic-only gates on either side of the Western
Highway. The school building has survived the rapid pace of development and
although there was an entirely new wing built into the school building, it
still looked pretty much the same. I wasn’t expecting to see a lot of my
teachers around, but surprisingly, I did get to meet 3. One of the teachers who
taught us Geometry was now in charge of the school as the Headmistress. The 2
other teachers, who taught us languages were still around and looked pretty
much the same to me, as if age had nothing to do with them.
Given
that it was a working Saturday, the school classes were on. I stuck around for
the school assembly with the primary students and even joined in reciting the
school prayer. This was followed by the national anthem, short speeches, public
announcements and then a host of patriotic songs, a student accompanying the
choir on a Yamaha keyboard. Not sure if the student was simply bored or
was a creature of habit, he cheekily struck the keys on his keyboard to the
tune of “Kyonki Tum Hi Ho (Aashiqui 2)” while no one was paying attention.
As
the students rushed to their classes, I sauntered out to the school canteen and
dug into 2 Wada Paav’s and a cutting chai, as the clouds rumbled overhead in
the sky and a few drops caught me unawares. Yes, it rained in Mumbai in
February.
Last-benchers reunion (of sorts)
Later
in the evening, I caught up with a few friends from school. For years, we nutted
it out through the school together enjoying the immense benefits of gracing the
last benches of our classrooms. Teachers may have given up on us academically,
but ironically, 1-2 of the class toppers were often from this group of no-good
souls, or “chikne ghade”/”shame-proof” people as one our teachers described us.
Time
and space are non-entities when it comes to catching up with school friends.
Some of them don’t even look as if they’ve added 18 years to their lives. I
could have started a conversation with any of them back in school and could
have continued it 18 years later without pausing for thought. A few of them are
even better looking and fitter than they were in school. Sadly, I can’t say
that about myself! Although age may not have affected looks, it had certainly
toyed with the brain-cells of some schoolmates and it took half an evening to
carefully bring them on the same page, when it came to recollecting places,
faces and incidents from school. It was almost comical to see some of us gently
goading our brains to wander into pockets of memory, while our mouths were busy
attacking Dum Aloos and Chicken dishes with gusto.
I
felt even a tinge of jealousy, because unlike me, some of these friends can
regularly meet while they are in Mumbai. It’s in these moments of
introspection, that I sometimes wish I was back in India.
The
evening had to end, like all good things have to, with one friend having to go
on to another party later in the night, which would have seen him and his
partner return home well into the next morning.
Mumbai
is that kind of city. It never seems to sleep. It never needs to, for some. It
never does, for some unfortunate ones.
Aapki yatra safal rahe
Commuting
in (and out of) Mumbai is an experience into itself.
Citing
adventure (and fascination for our little one) as our motivation, we caught the
Deccan Queen to get from Mumbai to Pune. It was by far the best and most
pleasant journey we ever had. Our little one greatly enjoyed the build-up to
the train journey, amazed by the sea of humans descending on the train station
and was excited with the whole process of loading bags into the compartments.
However, as we pulled out of CST to head to Pune, he was fast asleep by the
time we rolled past Dadar!
While
in Mumbai, I was fortunate enough to catch autorickshaws to get to a few places
in a hurry. I say fortunate, because until that moment when I got out of the
rickshaw, I had no clue that the F1 Corporation was secretly recruiting and training
rickshaw drivers in Mumbai. I was to meet a friend in a mall for coffee in
Kandivali and got into a rickshaw, giving myself a liberal 45 mins (on a
weekend) to get from Borivali to Kandivali. The moment I stepped into the
rickshaw, the driver coolly plugged into his earphones, reset the meter and set
off at a pace I’ve only seen Vettel, Alonso and co. race at. Exactly 21 minutes
later, I got off at Kandivali! I had never experienced Mach-1 until then.
I’ve heard people in Mumbai are always in a rush and the city has a frantic
pace. I was witness to this, thanks to the rickshawwalla.
I
boarded the Shivneri bus at Borivali the next day to get back to Pune. The
MSRTC has certainly come a long way, from those red rattling STs, to the
semi-AC “Asiad” to the current lot of good looking, sturdy Volvos commuting
people all across Maharashtra with a winning trifecta of affordability, speed
and convenience.
As
I hopped into a window seat of a largely vacant Shivneri, a woman conductor
(yes, MSRTC has come a long way) came along to issue tickets to the few handful
of passengers dispersed throughout the bus. By the time the bus picked up the
last of the passengers and made its way out of Sion towards Vashi, I glanced at
a wall near a traffic signal. It simply said “Save the unbreakable Mumbai
spirit”.
Mumbai
is that unbreakable city.