Sweating in an Air-conditioned Bus in Andheri (East)

Andheri. The name means “darkness” and darkness it is. Today Andheri has been taken over by IT majors, BPO companies, and outsourcers of Bangalored business from the shores of the US of A. One would assume that Andheri is some futuristic area of office complexes, well laid out roads, gardens, and wide-open spaces where people could enjoy a relaxed working style.

The opposite is true, as darkness pervades like a shroud over this area. As I disembark from the train I see that platform no. 7 is dirty and several puddles of water has collected on it. Moreover, it doesn’t have an exit system which results in the whole train of some 10,000 odd people queueing, moving slowly, looking at each others’ feet, agonising, impatient to get to their office. There are some zombies listening to music and talking, talking, talking on their cellphones as nothing in the world matters. How out of touch can you be? Once you are finished with this ordeal, you are into the exit on the East side, where a rivulet smells suspiciously of sewage and, yetch, I am not talking of the average everyday sewage of the bathroom variety. This is even more serious. It stinks badly but nobody flinches, except me, I guess. Still glued to their mobile devices. Mobile phones are going to create a generation of cynics, I am well aware. After all, I am new to Andheri (having worked so far in other parts of Bombay) and am a new kid in this block, so to speak. Welcome to Andheri (East)!

Over here are several layers of people standing, just standing doing nothing. It is tough extricating yourself from this crowd, and if you do, you are into a crowd of rickshaws and the cramped depot of the BEST bus service. If you are a new kid in town (remember the song?) then you would amazed to find that this mass of people consists of queues for several buses: 415, 422, 531, etc.

“Where is the queue for 415?” I ask. I am directed to a plastic sheet under which are stand a mass of sweating humanity, with flies circling over them and the hordes of pan-bidi sellers, tea vendors, mobile cover sellers, diary and knick-knack sellers, etc. Why don’t the government throw these people out and make the station accessible? I ask myself as I sweat and board the 415 bus.

This long queue of suffering humanity creates a traffic jam outside the station that extends well over a few kilometres into the Marol area. What a mess? I board a 415 air-conditioned bus and am sweating all over. The bus is crowded and hot and again nobody is complaining. They charge us 10 bucks for such a short journey and there isn’t even the promised air-conditioning. Oh, God!

But then that’s Andheri (East), the area of darkness. In the evening rickshaw drivers, those angels of the night do not deign to drop you at the station. You promise them double the fare and they don’t budge, and you stand and stand by the piles of garbage, enduring the stink, the heat and the vehicles that seem to run you over for your impudence of waiting for homeward transport.

As I said, this is Andheri, the software technology capital of Bombay, the area of darkness Naipaul mentioned, the shining gem in the outsourcing map of India.

Et Tu, Manil? "What a Waste!"

Manil Suri confesses about being gay and about his love of mathematics in this article in New York Times:

"And there was something else. I knew I was probably gay, which was completely invisible in India at that time.

"I had obtained a fellowship to Carnegie-Mellon in Pittsburgh. Immediately, I was surprised how easy it was to set down roots here. Unlike immigrants from other parts of the world, I had the language. I’d seen American movies and had read Mad magazine. There was no culture shock.

"In America, I finally had a chance to investigate my own sexuality and take small hesitant steps in that direction. Today, I’m with my partner of 18 years.

"One thing I was shocked by was how much Americans hated mathematics. You almost needed an antidefamation league for mathematicians. People actually took pleasure in explaining how bad they were at it. There’s a doll here that says, “I hate math.” You wouldn’t be able to sell such a doll in a sari."

What's this thing about being gay and writing. Seems Seth is gay and now Suri. As Shobhaa De once famously remarked, "What a waste."

Smirk!

Zigzackly is Back!

Writes Peter alias Zigzackly about his recent heart attack:

"...I got a bonus life.

"I have no business being here, actually. Providence, sheer dumb luck, call it what you will, fact is that if one was going to have a 95% blocked artery leading to a massive heart attack that left one, for a while, with a heart functioning at about 45% efficiency, the only way one could have planned it better would have been to go check into the ICCU, get tucked under the blankets and then let 'er rip.

"Even so, I pulled through this only thanks to enormous amounts of help of various kinds from not just close friends but even from folks I don't really know all that well, some that I've never met in the flesh.

"Many friends want to know exactly what happened, and how I am now, and so on. This post attempts to answer some of those questions."

He is recovering and has started I wish him godspeed!

India: the Place of Sex

In this article in New York Times' book section website titled "India the Place of Sex" the following is what William Dalrymple has to say:

"As James McConnachie makes clear (in his study of the Kamasutra in his book Book of Love), the Kamasutra was in many ways an act of resistance against the growing tide of Hindu and Buddhist ascetic puritanism that was beginning to question the libertine lifestyle of the third-century nagarikas—or young men about town—at whom the text was aimed. These polygamous and hedonistic nagarikas sound a little like characters from a classical Indian version of Sex and the City. They "incline to the ways of the world and regard playing as their only concern," writes Vatsyayana. Such a man, he writes, chooses to live in a city "where there are smart people" or "wherever he has to stay to make a living." He sets up the perfect home, "in a house near water, with an orchard, separate servants quarters, and two bedrooms." One is for sleeping. The other is devoted entirely to sex. Inside he keeps his vina to strum, implements for drawing, a book, garlands of flowers, a board for dice, and cages of pet birds. His bed should be "low in the middle and very soft, with pillows on both sides and a white top sheet." His orchard should have a sturdy swing.

"In the early evening the nagarika should attend a courtesan's salon, to discuss art, poetry, and women. Later he should visit a musical soiree before returning home to await his lover. If she arrives wet from the monsoon rain he should courteously help her change, before retiring to the frescoed bedchamber which has been festooned with flowers and made fragrant with incense. Dancers and singers will amuse the lovers as they chat and flirt. Only then are the musicians sent away—and the lovemaking begins."

So, seeing all the prudishness prevalent in our cities (remember the moral brigade that swooped on lovers holding hands in parks?) one wonders where all the nagarikas have gone?

Exploitation in the Gulf, What I have Seen With My Own Eyes

Read this article by Sonia Faleiro on the exploitation of household helps in the Gulf countries. Something I have seen with my own eyes (when I worked there for a multinational, which wasn't good enough) and have written about in my novel. Loved Sonia's detailed exposition on the subject, her talent for investigation is unmatched. Keep up the good work!

Two Worlds Within One Country

The Affluent, previleged ones are queueing up outside this stall to have a free shave, and a free razor.

They materialised out of nowhere, and squatted on the platform, the underprivileged ones.

They materialised out of nowhere, by stealth, like guerrilla fighters in the jungle, except that this was the urban jungle. There were unwashed and their shiny, dark faces had a beauty of their own, something gypsies and troubadours have.

They sat on the platform in Andheri station as I was waiting for a train to CBD Belapur, and I, too, quite stealthily took out my mobile phone and captured them and here’s the result. None of them seemed to have an iota of education, and none of them would qualify for a job, except that of scrounging for plastic in garbage bins and selling them to businesses that recycled plastic, which is what they seemed to do as they had metal hooks they used as implements. They were well built and able-bodied with well-shaped arms and legs and seemed dangerous. I guess even the black-coated ticket checker daren’t ask them for tickets as they knew the consequences.

In this relentless monsoon where will they stay? Who knows? May be in plastic hovels held up with sticks in some dumping ground. This is one aspect of India that remains hidden from the television cameras, the movie cameras, the one that the privileged do not even acknowledge. This is the truth of India.

If I ask them there would be a story that would shock and awe me. Truly, these are the sort of people who are at the receiving end of globalisation which the diametrically opposite faction is tom-toming as the future of India, the India of “India Shining”, “Twenty-first century India”, and “Yuppie India.” And they aren’t going away anywhere. They multiply like the opposite camp does and democracy has taught them that they too have rights. They may have been displaced for dams and expressways, but they survive all right, even if it means eking a precarious existence by selling plastic scrounged from garbage bins.

Two days later I was in Centre One in Vashi, New Bombay. I saw another face of India, the consumerist face. People are buying, buying, buying! Trolleys are full of snacks, fruit juices, anything and everything is available. I can’t even believe it is India because I see tinned baked beans in tomato sauce, sauerkraut (cabbage something or the other), and a whole lot of stuff; I don’t even remember what they are.

On the other hand, exercising my grey cells, as I am rarely wont to do, I do remember: scented candles with candle stands, wine and champagne glasses, rows of shampoos, and vitamin enriched shaving foam (this one’s a marvel at Rs 100 for a can, the last one I bought from Reliance Fresh was Rs 250 a can), at prices so cheap. Which makes me want to kick Bush for saying India is consuming all the world’s food, when his country is dumping baked beans and sauerkraut on us.

I digress, and when I digress, I digress bad. Damn! Coming back to the mall, this is the affluent India of call centres, mercenary marketers and brand managers, and FMCG executives who offer you a sachet of shampoo and comb with every pack of the fairness cream, etc. etc. The men all have harassed looks, and the women a glow from all the freebies on offer. Such as the following:

Free razors if you have a shave (several unshaven guys queuing up here); a free pack of cappuccino if you taste one for free; two packs of potato chips for the price of one. And a sign says blithely in bold 250 sanserif Arial print: “The Only Way to Save Money is to Buy More.”

Buy… buy… buy….

A salesgirl sidles up to me as I am admiring a John Miller shirt and we start talking. I like the design, the colour, the stitching, the works, except that the price is Rs 1125, for which I can buy two decent shirts of a lower brand.

“But sir, it’s the brand. You will stand out in a John Miller shirt.”

“Oh, will I?” I ask and she isn’t bad looking too.

“Yes, sir, this shirt will look very good on you.”

Then I have my doubts and I look her in the eye, smile and thank her and walk away. Suddenly, as if on cue, her face droops and she loses all interest in me. Gosh, I thought she liked me.

Now this guy John Miller (with whom I share a first name) must have been some very inventive guy to sell shirts at double the price. “Wot men,” my friend Anthonybhai would have said, “aaj kal, aisaich hai, no value for money, men. Those richie-rich buggers who throw money have it so good, no men?”

He should know because he is neither the privileged one, nor the forsaken one. Neither am I.

Why Such Hype Over Arushi?

As I sit here an excited reporter is ranting, raving, screaming on Star TV about the Arushi murder case. His voice is hoarse, breaking, he is obviously working very hard. Or is he so emotional because he is feeling sorry for Arushi, then what about the thousands of girls who go missing, are threatened, beaten, and starved if they don’t go into prostitution in the country? How much should he cry for all of them?

Why has the media invested so much time and effort on one murder when there are a hundred rapes that have taken place today, yes, this very day?

(For those who aren’t familiar with the case, here’s the low-down on the Arushi murder case. Fourteen year old Arushi was found murdered in her room in a tony area of New Delhi, and her father, a doctor, was the prime suspect. The reason: she was suspected of having an affair with a servant, who was also found dead on the terrace of Arushi’s house.)

The anchor at the studio is acting, no, hamming it even more than Shammi Kapoor in his heydays. On second thought he was aping the ponytail who conducts “San sani” and doing it quite badly at that.

“Mobile phone… blah… blah… blah….”

“Hatya Kand… blah… blah… blah….”

“Kya kaun doshi hai… blah… blah… blah….”

He goes on and on and on… I have lost track, switched off.

Admitted it is a sensational murder case and the truth must be found out. But then what are the police for? The anchor is acting like the compere of an award ceremony, and he is quite animated and involved, pointing his finger at the screen, screaming into the camera, repeating words unnecessarily, in fact, making a complete ass of himself.

The channel is overdoing it, somebody must tell this man off, I am getting irritated instead of informed, and they are replaying statements as if the audience was some dummy who can’t understand the language.

Will someone tell this man to shut up? Will someone stuff some cotton in his mouth, gag him and throw him out of the studio? Why is he breaking the rule every journalist is taught in elementary journalism class one of “objectivity”?

I think something bad is cooking. The whole edifice is coming down like a pack of cards. What is on show, so spectacularly, so vividly is the ham-handed way in which things are handled in India, where emotion is rife that even the once suave anchor is made into a screaming, platitude-spouting idiot.

So much for objectivity in journalism.

Colaba Goes Without Water!

Says Shekhar Kapur in this post on his blog":

"My assistant went out and shot a little video in Colaba, in Mumbai. There's no water in the taps in this area. It is served by Water Tankers, that come once a day if you are very lucky, and you queue up for hours to get water. A few burly guys are pushing and pulling people, bossing them around - (and they have a kind of a barricade for the tanker that is carrying water) - I'm not sure who those guys are. They certainly don't look like government employees to me. They look like local goons."

What? The posh area where celebrities like the Ambani brothers, Ratan Tata, Sobha De live is facing water problems? I can't believe it. A couple of politicians also live in the area, and if they can't do anything to ensure that their children and missus can't have a bath in the morning, I have grave doubts about their ability to govern over me. So now they know what it feel like to stand in a queue for water in the slums of Dharavi.

Trousers Creased at the Sides

Trousers ironed with the crease at the sides (instead of in the centre) make even the smartest man appear like a village yokel just rolled out of bed after a particularly bad binge in the night. Wonder why it’s a range among young people these days.

As you must have guessed I absolutely HATE trousers creased on the sides instead of in the centre. Awful.

I saw this guy today; well dressed by all accounts, clean shaven, wearing a tie, a good physique, all in all, good-looking executive material of some multinational. Then my eyes travelled down to his trousers. Holy cow! It was ironed with the crease on the sides, instead of in the centre. There goes my esteem of this guy, the ignoramus. I could catch him by his neck and throttle him. Doesn’t he know that trousers are creased in the centre and not on the sides, the idiot?

My dhobhi (washerman) brought my trousers creased on the sides the other day and, cool guy that I am, completely lost my head and shouted at him. I blasted him so badly, the poor guy looked befuddled. He couldn’t understand what it was all about, this creasing at the sides or at the centre. I made him take it back and crease it in the centre and bring it back, the good-for-nothing.

What’s the difference between trousers creased in the centre and at the side. There’s a great big chasm of a difference. A chasm that only a generation that has lived in more gentler times, who valued tradition and culture would understand. What culture you ask?

The culture of formal wear, the culture of respect for elders, the culture of being gallant towards women, the culture of sensitivity to the needs of others, etc. I could go on….

Lady Catches Thief in the Act! What about Morality?

Read this story about a brave lady who caught a thief in his act. Seems she has a knack for catching thieves while they are mighty busy deciding what to shove into their cloth. What’s amazing is that the thief remained unrepentant and said it’s not his mistake and that, on the other hand, it was hers as she had left her car unlocked.

Imagine!

And an airline employee actually told her niece not to bother reporting it to the police and she didn’t.

Imagine!
Seems we, in our over-zealousness, are out to guard the thieves against punishment. Have we become so cynical and world weary? What sort of a system have we created? Where’s the long arm of the law that is supposed to stop theft, where is the morality, where’s the airport security? Where? What?