I remember the rain in my early childhood days, when the Khurbura Streets would flood. Once it abated, all of us kids would bring out those glossy covers of magazines and make boats out of them. Standing at the helm of our doorsteps, we'd then race our boats in the running water.
I remember that rain in which I, then aged around seven, had walked all the way to our new house in Vijay Park from my school a good five six kilometers away, and in which my family members had thought that I was lost.
I remember the rain which came hurtling along some road near the Mumbai docks in the summer of '95 trip, and Chachu, Dad and I had stopped the scooter and ran to take shelter as it approached us from the other direction.
I remember the rain on our trek back to Govindghat from Hemkund Sahib, when I was in standard eighth, that had come as a dangerous menacing devil on those muddy forest slopes.
I remember the rain which I had seen in Dalhousie three years back that had turned into soft snowflakes as five then-friends sipped Blue Riband Vodka (for lack of any better brand) sitting around a bonfire.
I remember the sweet French drizzle of June' 07, which I walked in as I headed to the internship centre back from a lunch break.
I remember the crazy rain last year on 26th July, a day before I was supposed to fly to NYC, as I had stood outside Phoenix Mills compound, dragging a big suitcase in one hand and holding an umbrella in the other, trying to hail taxis who wouldn't agree to take me home for it was but not more than Rs.30 far.
But, I haven't in my life ever seen a rain like one I saw today. Maybe it was just a normal shower. However, out in Arabian Sea, sitting on top of a ferry to Elephanta, the rain hurtled as a frenzied shower of bullets, and at an almost horizontal level. The drops seemed much bigger than your Mr. Regular Raindrop. In short, it took us not more than two minutes to realize that the premium of Rs10 apiece (over and above the ticket cost of course) which we had paid to sit on top, was indeed quite pointless. Thus doled out a crushing defeat, we sounded the trumpet of retreat, and ran down the stairs back to the sheltered main deck.
It was awesome by the way, the whole goddamn experience. Loved it! (And the Beer at the MTDC Restaurant on the Elephanta top, but that's a different story)
P.S. - Vodafone doesn't follow you wherever you go. The signal didn't. And in the rain, the Vodafone Umbrella a guy was holding, didn't. It just flew off into the services of yours truly, Mr. Arabian Sea.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Of Racism...
What triggered this post is a comment saying that even though what is happening to Indians in Australia is bad, one must also not forget how racist we Indians are. To exemplify this, an article by a lead journo of one of the most popular newspapers in India was quoted. This gentleman in turn goes on to talk about the racism prevalent in Indian blood, of how we prefer fair skinned humans to dark ones, how an archaic Indian word for an African is 'hubshi' et cetera.
Not just this, I was reading the comments people have put under the article, saying that the journo is right, that we are in fact the most racist nation so much so that one of them actually goes on to say that we as Indians deserve it. Amidst this deluge, one tiny comment is that of an Indian actually staying in Australia - who seems to be mortally afraid and pretty terrorized by it. And that in essence sums up the whole issue. Mr. Top Journo has missed the whole point.
Yes, it is good to introspect. And as responsible citizens of the country, it is an essential duty for each one of us. But one cannot keep on applying reverse logic everywhere. Its like saying that we don't have 100% literacy. But the administrative set up is not up to the mark, there is widespread corruption and so the projects do not get implemented well enough. And hence, we deserve it.
C'mon people! Those students in Australia are being singled out and bashed, for having done absolutely nothing to trigger it - let alone doing anything wrong. What kind of justice is that anyway? And what has that got to do with we deserving it because a certain section of our society thinks in a racist manner? Rotten apples exist everywhere. And they would face there end in good time.
But there's blood being shed - simple! And it is unreasonable. Is it so very hard to understand? Its just plain hooliganism. And hooliganism on the part of a certain section of the society over there. Wrong! Pooh poo Mr. Top Journo!
As far as Indians being racist are concerned, well there was open aparthied once in South Africa. Open slavery once in your most developed Uncle Sam's land. And yet Mandela came and created a difference. And now Obama has come. Things change. Things will change. So would the mindsets.
What we need is action, and not pointless cribbing and crying out loud! If you think something's wrong, go mend it. It is at the end of the day, your nation too. Do something, willya?
Not just this, I was reading the comments people have put under the article, saying that the journo is right, that we are in fact the most racist nation so much so that one of them actually goes on to say that we as Indians deserve it. Amidst this deluge, one tiny comment is that of an Indian actually staying in Australia - who seems to be mortally afraid and pretty terrorized by it. And that in essence sums up the whole issue. Mr. Top Journo has missed the whole point.
Yes, it is good to introspect. And as responsible citizens of the country, it is an essential duty for each one of us. But one cannot keep on applying reverse logic everywhere. Its like saying that we don't have 100% literacy. But the administrative set up is not up to the mark, there is widespread corruption and so the projects do not get implemented well enough. And hence, we deserve it.
C'mon people! Those students in Australia are being singled out and bashed, for having done absolutely nothing to trigger it - let alone doing anything wrong. What kind of justice is that anyway? And what has that got to do with we deserving it because a certain section of our society thinks in a racist manner? Rotten apples exist everywhere. And they would face there end in good time.
But there's blood being shed - simple! And it is unreasonable. Is it so very hard to understand? Its just plain hooliganism. And hooliganism on the part of a certain section of the society over there. Wrong! Pooh poo Mr. Top Journo!
As far as Indians being racist are concerned, well there was open aparthied once in South Africa. Open slavery once in your most developed Uncle Sam's land. And yet Mandela came and created a difference. And now Obama has come. Things change. Things will change. So would the mindsets.
What we need is action, and not pointless cribbing and crying out loud! If you think something's wrong, go mend it. It is at the end of the day, your nation too. Do something, willya?
Monday, June 1, 2009
The Lover's Lane...Of Broken Dreams...and more...
Its been eleven months today since I moved into my current apartment. Eleven months of walking every workday evening (at least) from Elphinstone Road Railway Station to my house in Parel Village - on the same path, through the same lane, the one which I now call the lover's lane. The lover's lane is the hub of bollywood-styled budding love stories. As also broken dreams, but that shall follow later.
Anyway, let me describe this lane first. Because this matters a lot.
Imagine a 50 metre, 70-80 feet wide lane with footpaths on both sides, with metal railing along one of the footpaths. Along the other footpath are raised hollow cuboidal slabs of cement (about seven-eight), with trees planted in middle - not to mention a small bus-stop (metallic in structure) half-way along the lane. Along the other side of this footpath runs the boundary-wall of a hospital. And, at the end of this lane is the Parel Village circle. Now now, this should suffice.
For the first part of this piece, its the slabs that matter. For it is these tree-shaded slabs, with the backs of love-lorn souls towards the trunk (and hence the road), that serve as the witnesses to countless love stories. Couples holding hands, couples deep in discussions about the future, couples looking angry at each other, couples, couples, couples throng these slabs and this lane towards the wee end of the evenings, when the sun has set and the light is fading (for the street lights don't turn on till later). At first glance, it looks almost silly. The guys are often dressed up in old bolly-actorish outfits, the gals in simple Indian outfits - almost as in the late 80s and 90s movies of the Hindi movie industry.
Every evening without fail, even while crazy Bom-rains were lashing out last year, I saw this tradition maintained.
Often I think, what would come of these stories? Will they meet the happy ends as Bollywood flicks hint? For obviously this is Bombay-Mumbai - the home of the Indian demi-gods, the ABs and the SRKs et al. The precedents are all in place.
Or will they wither away? Like the left behind sand-castles on Juhu beach?
Anyway, on to the second part of this piece, the one to do with the footpath and which being sad I will keep short. For bitter things need be over-looked as aptly summed up by the most Indian of all phrases - 'chalta hai'.
This very footpath, towards the end of the road (near the Parel Village circle), is the roof-less home of about 40-50 poor people. And sometimes, when I take a stroll at night, I see the listless faces, trying to get through yet another day, adjusting their appetites to few morsels each from a bowl of food being cooked by one seemingly old grandmother.
And at this time, it seems as if the lover's lane doesn't exist, as if it never existed. As if, as if, it is but a lane of broken dreams.
Anyway, let me describe this lane first. Because this matters a lot.
Imagine a 50 metre, 70-80 feet wide lane with footpaths on both sides, with metal railing along one of the footpaths. Along the other footpath are raised hollow cuboidal slabs of cement (about seven-eight), with trees planted in middle - not to mention a small bus-stop (metallic in structure) half-way along the lane. Along the other side of this footpath runs the boundary-wall of a hospital. And, at the end of this lane is the Parel Village circle. Now now, this should suffice.
For the first part of this piece, its the slabs that matter. For it is these tree-shaded slabs, with the backs of love-lorn souls towards the trunk (and hence the road), that serve as the witnesses to countless love stories. Couples holding hands, couples deep in discussions about the future, couples looking angry at each other, couples, couples, couples throng these slabs and this lane towards the wee end of the evenings, when the sun has set and the light is fading (for the street lights don't turn on till later). At first glance, it looks almost silly. The guys are often dressed up in old bolly-actorish outfits, the gals in simple Indian outfits - almost as in the late 80s and 90s movies of the Hindi movie industry.
Every evening without fail, even while crazy Bom-rains were lashing out last year, I saw this tradition maintained.
Often I think, what would come of these stories? Will they meet the happy ends as Bollywood flicks hint? For obviously this is Bombay-Mumbai - the home of the Indian demi-gods, the ABs and the SRKs et al. The precedents are all in place.
Or will they wither away? Like the left behind sand-castles on Juhu beach?
Anyway, on to the second part of this piece, the one to do with the footpath and which being sad I will keep short. For bitter things need be over-looked as aptly summed up by the most Indian of all phrases - 'chalta hai'.
This very footpath, towards the end of the road (near the Parel Village circle), is the roof-less home of about 40-50 poor people. And sometimes, when I take a stroll at night, I see the listless faces, trying to get through yet another day, adjusting their appetites to few morsels each from a bowl of food being cooked by one seemingly old grandmother.
And at this time, it seems as if the lover's lane doesn't exist, as if it never existed. As if, as if, it is but a lane of broken dreams.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
On a local train...et cetera
Been a couple of days and I have been meaning to write about a couple of things - experiences really. The first is about the feeling I get when I stand on the edge of the local train coach's gate in the morning. The second about a funny incident that demonstrated what 'conditioning' is - although this one did not involve a dog, much to the ado of Pavlov's heavenly spirit* (*to those who have never come across Pavlov or his dog or both, please don't hesitate to google up his name. So, lets visit them each, one by one.
The first one first.
About a month after I moved to work here, I remember one of the days I was chatting with a fellow colleague who had joined in my firm itself, albeit in a different division. The topic of discussion was Mumbai local trains. And she had said something that got stuck in my mind. It was that Mumbaikars do not really mind traveling while standing on the train coach's gate, supported only by the iron rod or the part-metallic-part-wooden handles. In fact, she said, they seem to love it just as she was starting to love Mumbai. A while ago, I discovered the truth in her statement.
It really does feel awesome when often in the workday mornings, I stand latched onto one of those supports mentioned earlier (not to mention of course the careful demeanour one needs to maintain in regards to the security point-of-view). Really, as the fresh morning air blows past my face while the train picks up speed, I almost feel at times like extending my arms and giving Mr. Superman some competition. It almost feels as if I can fly without wings. Especially at that particular moment when the train begins accelerating, giving an amazing pull as it hurtles ahead. So ladies and gentlemen, do give it a shot - maybe you get the feeling too.
The second one now.
Its amazing to see how much we humans get conditioned to certain walks of life. Once again I realized this in a local train, except that this time I wasn't in a First Class coach (where only three people sit on one plank, and of course the plank is cushioned - quite a bit for an unlimited travel pass between Churchgate and Elphinstone for Rs260 a month), but in a General coach (where usually four people sit on one plank, non-cushioned, with the ticket costing a paltry Rs4 for one side journey) for this time I was coming via Victoria Terminus, a.k.a Chattrapati Shivaji Terminus, from which I do not have the abovementioned travel pass. So I went and sat upon one of these planks, and since my destination was only 6 stations hence, I decided to sit on the edge of the plank to avoid commotion later, with my feet in the passage-way as is the accepted norm. Incidentally, when I sat, there were two other occupants only on that plank.
People started pouring in, and soon the coach was full, except that for the first time ever in past 11 months, no one really came and sat in the middle on my plank for 5 stations when I finally got up. There was a full General coach seat in there and the middle guy had kept his bag on the seat (rather than upon the stand above or his lap or the floor) and no one came to sit. And I realized as I got up, it was simply that no one had noticed that seat, for why would someone sit on the edge if there was a full seat anyway; when I did get up though, two standing passengers realized this and asked the erstwhile middle guy to put the bag away. And I was quite taken aback, at how sometimes we do not even realize, failing to see what's there just because - we are conditioned in a particular manner. Amazing!
The first one first.
About a month after I moved to work here, I remember one of the days I was chatting with a fellow colleague who had joined in my firm itself, albeit in a different division. The topic of discussion was Mumbai local trains. And she had said something that got stuck in my mind. It was that Mumbaikars do not really mind traveling while standing on the train coach's gate, supported only by the iron rod or the part-metallic-part-wooden handles. In fact, she said, they seem to love it just as she was starting to love Mumbai. A while ago, I discovered the truth in her statement.
It really does feel awesome when often in the workday mornings, I stand latched onto one of those supports mentioned earlier (not to mention of course the careful demeanour one needs to maintain in regards to the security point-of-view). Really, as the fresh morning air blows past my face while the train picks up speed, I almost feel at times like extending my arms and giving Mr. Superman some competition. It almost feels as if I can fly without wings. Especially at that particular moment when the train begins accelerating, giving an amazing pull as it hurtles ahead. So ladies and gentlemen, do give it a shot - maybe you get the feeling too.
The second one now.
Its amazing to see how much we humans get conditioned to certain walks of life. Once again I realized this in a local train, except that this time I wasn't in a First Class coach (where only three people sit on one plank, and of course the plank is cushioned - quite a bit for an unlimited travel pass between Churchgate and Elphinstone for Rs260 a month), but in a General coach (where usually four people sit on one plank, non-cushioned, with the ticket costing a paltry Rs4 for one side journey) for this time I was coming via Victoria Terminus, a.k.a Chattrapati Shivaji Terminus, from which I do not have the abovementioned travel pass. So I went and sat upon one of these planks, and since my destination was only 6 stations hence, I decided to sit on the edge of the plank to avoid commotion later, with my feet in the passage-way as is the accepted norm. Incidentally, when I sat, there were two other occupants only on that plank.
People started pouring in, and soon the coach was full, except that for the first time ever in past 11 months, no one really came and sat in the middle on my plank for 5 stations when I finally got up. There was a full General coach seat in there and the middle guy had kept his bag on the seat (rather than upon the stand above or his lap or the floor) and no one came to sit. And I realized as I got up, it was simply that no one had noticed that seat, for why would someone sit on the edge if there was a full seat anyway; when I did get up though, two standing passengers realized this and asked the erstwhile middle guy to put the bag away. And I was quite taken aback, at how sometimes we do not even realize, failing to see what's there just because - we are conditioned in a particular manner. Amazing!
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