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.
Monday, June 1, 2009
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