The Idea-smithy

I remain a Mumbai train loyalist. Not only is the Mumbai Metropolitan Railway, the fastest way to get from Point A to Point B in Mumbai, it also gives you a slice of what I think of as ‘the real Mumbai life’. Frantic students cramming in seat-huddles tell you that the board examinations are around the corner. A bling-ey group chatters away about the wedding they’re off to in the matrimony season. Office-goers - peons, sales executives, doctors, journalists run shoulders (okay, bodies) in the nau-dabbon-ki-jalad-lowkulll.

And speaking of dabbas, how about the other dabbas? The ones carrying piping hot nourishment, lovingly made by mothers and wives and cooks across the city and delivered Just In Time for lunch to their hungry patrons? To the uninitiated, the dabbawallas are a network of deliverymen who carry lunchboxes from homes to offices and back using a never-fail above-world-class system of colour coding. An Ivy League US b-school used them as a case study and the concept has picked up much visibility since then.
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I’ve developed a rather late interest in flowers. And why not? With all the frivolous things that we spend on, a little bit of beauty is much appreciated. Why must a gift always be intelligent or useful? How about just alive? Nothing better than a flower then. Here’s an account of my most recent floral jaunt.

I’m not too fond of big, gaudy bouquets with more plastic and foil than plant. In fact I think the experience of being in a flower shop and watching the nosegays being made is the best part of buying flowers.

The flowers you choose say something about you, don’t they? I love white flowers. Nothing quite like white rosebuds for sheer, intimidating class. Lilies are nice too though a little too goody-goody for my taste…I guess that’s because I associate too many religious myths with them. My favorite white flowers are the unpretentious gladiolas that lurk in the background, bringing a sweet, frilly girlishness to the bouquet. On their own, they are surprisingly appealing.

In ‘You’ve Got Mail’, Meg Ryan calls the daisy her favorite flower, describing it as ‘a very friendly flower’. Zarberas must be an Eastern equivalent of daisies. And slightly more dignified than the over-eager sunflowers. I particularly like the orange variety. There is something clean and colourful about this flower that catches my attention in any flower-shop.

The classic roses always grace flower shops but personally I think they are over-rated and over-used. And what fragrance? I don’t think they’re fragrant at all. For fragrance you need the Indian buds that are knotted painstakingly into ‘ambodas’, garlands and gajras. Olfactory sensations are processed by an area right next door to the central repository of memories in the brain. That might be the reason some smells induce an instant flood of memories. And these fragrant wreaths of Indian flowers always take me back to early childhood with my mother and grand-mother spinning flowers plucked fresh off the vines on the balcony.

The first time I bought someone flowers, I asked around for where I should buy. I visited some of the highly recommended places and was first dazzled by the array of flowers….I never thought there could be so many flowers in the world!!! Dimly, as a concept studied in botany in school, yes but put together in one place like that, the effect was quite gorgeous. Each one had a hefty price tag with a snooty florist quoting the botanical name and which obscure part of the world they were supposed to have originated from. I was quite unnerved. Hmm, that was my mistake.

The flower business like everything else has gotten branded and showy. This time, on a whim, I stopped at a little flower stall I spotted on the corner of a road. Not a florist shop. One of those little outfits that do brisk business off a creaky wooden table on crowded roads. All the photographs in this post are from that visit.

And look at the flowers I finally got!

This is Akhilendra who also moonlights as a production assistant in a shooting studio (I was given a proud preview of his identity card). Akhilendra is not a newcomer to Mumbai. But he had a cheerful ebullience that I missed in all the big florist shops that I visited earlier. He didn’t give me the usual spiel of how many weddings and birthdays he caters to daily and how many dozens people order from him. Instead I was given some expert advice on which flowers I might select and what arrangement might look best.

So the flower business is good?

And production work pays well?

People come buy from you when they are very happy, no?

All my questions met with shy nods and always that quick smile.

What do we look for in flowers? Sweetness, pleasantness, freshness….a modest, unassuming, classy gift. And shouldn’t that describe the attitude of the person who touches the flowers just before us? I found what I look for at a crowded street corner vendor’s table.

Being my own best friend is probably even more powerful than it sounds. I’ve been groping in the dark for faith, for reason, for light. And then, I find this, written three years ago, or slightly longer…by me. And to think I’ve been brooding over bad traffic, space constraints and petty mind games. When I wrote this, my maternal uncle was battling cancer and the family plunging deeper and deeper into the despair of watching a second loved one dying before their eyes, in the space of 4 years. And I was encountering the disillusionment and vileness of the working world for the first time. Surprisingly, I pulled through. When did I forget how to?

This morning I thought that real rejuvenation could only come from the company of the young, untainted by cynicism, unbroken by disappointment. But I guess real inspiration comes from those who have weathered it already. I stand in awe of both, youth and old age.

14 October 2004

Yesterday was voting day and I left home early so I could register my vote before going to work. I felt a little silly especially since all my friends who were working shrugged and begged off and the lucky ones with a holiday decided to ‘enjoy it and chill out’. As I walked into the schoolroom, deserted as it was at the early hour, I realised I must be the only voter there below 50….and one of the few below 60.

Today I drifted back home wondering whether I’d missed a cycle and somehow the nightmare world had got interchanged with reality…I seem to be going through 18 hours in a dazed state and 8 hours in complete comprehension…instead of the other way round. I walked down the road, my vision a blur as I kept dabbing at my eyes and finally I broke down. For the first time in months I cried….and cried…and cried.

A little old lady in snow-white hair and a sleeveless terrycot dress ambled up to me, patted my shoulder and said

Are you feeling alright dear? Is there a problem? Are you not well? You can talk to me.

I managed to shake my head and indicate the phone in my hand. After the call I went to say thank you to her for caring enough to ask…and I had to stop and talk..and listen to her story. So many little things she told me….that she was 80 and loved people and life, that she had lost her husband to cancer 10 years ago and what a wonderful, loving man he had been and how much he loved her…her eyes gleamed as she said,

Cancer is a very bad thing. He was 80 years old when he died. I am 80 now.

She told me how she loved coming out for walk and talking to nice people like me, how her neighbor had taken over her house and was trying to oust her, how she cooked for herself, cleaned her house and walked and talked and was never sick.

Life has come to me in huge, overpowering waves recently.
I am watching a loved one sink into an abyss where no one can pull him out.
I am holding together like a dam against the flood of the grief of the people around me.
I am fighting battles that everyone says are routine but rough nevertheless.

Yes, there is a lot of pain in this world
There is injustice and grief and jealousy and manipulation and cruelty and sadism and weakness and terror.
But there is also hope, blind optimism perhaps but hope nevertheless
…I have seen it in slightly breathless but determined faces of the senior citizens who believe that this country is theirs to respect and run.

There is courage and compassion and inspiration….in the eyes of an 80-year old widow who fights worse battles than mine and more bravely.

Yes, life has its miracles.

I’m thinking of F who gave me my first lesson on my work at my interview. At an office lunch, shortly after, she skipped dessert. Diet, I assumed, till I saw the others pass on their plates to her for inspection before digging in. She liked looking at sweets and sometimes smelling them, she said. At the traditional cake-cutting ceremonies at office, F was the designated knife-handler since she was the only one who could be trusted to not gobble up the cake before the others got to it. F and I worked together for a year. Then she got married, moved to an overseas office, came back and resumed work. She recently delivered a baby boy. I hope her little one will inherit her impish grin and her warmth.

I’m thinking of my old tuition teacher, alternate mother. Aunty had a reputation for turning near-fail marks into top-of-class grades. She had been a regular housewife till her husband lost his job. And then she took her degree to use by starting to teach one kid. In ten years she had become the best tutor this side of town. Aunty was stern and effective. Dedicated to her calling. A frail little lady who seemed to tower over all us. Except on an occasional afternoon, when she’d apologize for failing health and proceed to take lessons lying flat on her back.

I’m thinking of my uncle, former bad boy, echoes of which still remain in the back pockets of his faded jeans. Mama was always a good cook. I’ve had such exotic things like authentic Italian pizzas, Chinese-style noodles (not Maggi!) and vegetable Stroganoff. Mama doesn’t eat most of these delights anymore. And his late nights/late morning brunches have dropped off. The wild one has come home.

I’m thinking of my thatha. Upright, honest government servant to the world. Doting grandfather to me. Terribly stubborn spirit to the rest of the family. My earliest memories of thatha are of going hand-in-hand with him to buy an ice-cream off one of the carts parked near India Gate. And badurshas at the sweet market. Rock sugar at home after the morning puja. Those were the early days. And once catching him scraping the remains from the ghee-making pan to eat with sugar. And wondering…when do you start policing those who’ve laid the law for you? Around the same time I learnt that his feet, eyes and kidneys were all susceptible to failure. All of them succumbed.

And finally, most of all I’m thinking of mum. Chef par excellence, wit beyond compare. I’m thinking of the puddings, diwali sweets, chocolate cakes and numerous other delicacies that churn out from her kitchen. I’m thinking of her fading eyesight. I’m thinking of her still-lean frame. I’m thinking of how she never touches the delights she makes for us. I’m thinking of the weekly reading on the meter. And the syringes stacked neatly in our ice-tray.

I’m thinking of all the people I know who are part of the statistic that calls India the world diabetes capital. And I’m thinking that among the many problems each of us face, some wage a daily war against their bodies every day. And live among us, spreading their brand of sweetness, unaided by sugar.

Today is World Diabetes Day. It isn’t an occasion to wish anyone. It isn’t a day to start movements. All it seems to be, is to think of some people. Do it anyway.

I haven’t seen you in awhile.

he said.

I’ve been waiting.

I murmured.

You’re sure about this, right?

he asked in some trepidition, reacting perhaps to some hidden uncertainity in my voice.

I trust you completely.

I dimpled back. And closed my eyes. His hands moved gently.

An hour later we were done. I stood up and told him,

You’re the best, you know?

He just smiled.

He’s modest but creative, my hair-stylist.

And as I walked out of the door, his last words were,

I really like you. You give me all the freedom I want and it makes me put my heart into my work!!!

So I’m now wearing a man’s heart…not on my sleeve….but woven into my crowning glory!!

One little corner in the newspaper tells of a tussle between women commuters and the Mumbai railway authorities. Apparently as a part of a new range of services on Mumbai’s Harbour line, the earlier timetable has been altered. The hitherto 9:14 a.m. Vashi-CST local was advanced by one minute. Not as big a deal…what’s in a minute? (Pah, ask a regular train commuter but we won’t get into that now). The big deal was that three rear compartments that were earlier reserved for women were scrapped.

The unforeseen response to this change was that the women commuters rallied together in protest. First they complained to the Central Railway authorities and then, receiving no response, acted in the most effective way possible. They just wouldn’t let the men get into the compartment.

In response, the Central Railway sources said that:

The special compartments for ladies have not been scrapped, but have been allotted to the 8.16 am Panvel-CST local. This train reaches Vashi at 8.47 am, but women commuters may not be aware of it. The complaints of women commuters are under consideration.

A quick reminder to the Central Railway that this is not the same thing since the train gets in a full half-hour earlier. The dynamics of crowding, peak hours, office schedules are completely different on this side of 9 a.m.

I’m quite happy to report that today’s news says that Central Railway has given into the request to retain the ladies compartment on the now 9:13 am Vashi-CST local. The article also adds that the men are not very happy with the decision. Understandably so. I know the trains are probably the most crowded, grueling experience of everyday survival that a Mumbaiker faces. Every inch of extra space is precious.

On the other hand consider this. A regular train has three compartments for women - 2 second-class and 1 first-class. That’s only on the Western line while the Central and Harbour both have half a compartment each to the first-class. And these in a train that has 9 or 12 coaches. No woman in her sane mind would get into the general compartment, during peak hours even though it is available to commuters of both sexes. So the entire female commuter population is crammed into those 3 compartments.

I need mention here that it is a common male misconception that women travel in complete luxury in the ladies’ compartment, ‘especially in first class’. We do not. And I know this because I’ve traveled in the general (commonly misunderstood as the ‘gents compartment’) and the ladies compartments (first and second class) at all hours of the day. Men haven’t traveled in the ladies’ compartment. If they had, they might have found reason to revise their opinion. I can tell you stories of vicious fights breaking out mid-journey. It mayn’t seem like much but sandal heels, umbrella points, the catches on purses all becomes weapons of warfare in this struggle for space. Not that we have much choice. The average woman commuter would much rather face these than be brushed up against 50-odd strange men in the general compartment.

Everyday that I travel in the train reminds me of how much more ferocious women can be when it comes to getting what they want. And contrary to popular perception, the first-class is actually the worst of the lot (with Western line bringing up the gruesome lead). Manicured fingers clutching sleek mobile phones turn into claws when they’re inside a railway bogey. Attitudinally this set is by far, the bitchiest, most venomous of all travelers I’ve seen. If I had to lay a bet on which section of Mumbai’s travelers would be most likely to push their fellows off a moving train and also the least likely to help someone in need, it would be the first-class ladies’ compartment travelers on the Western line. Far from luxurious, we travel in crowds and hostile ones at that. Once again, I know I’m right because I travel by all three train lines. And so I think that while everyone in this city could use some extra space, our need is greater.

I am deeply injured by the fact that the ladies compartment on every train on every line is placed right in front of the stinky toilets. Obviously someone has to be positioned there but I just wonder why the only place allotted to us has to be put right there. I mean, we don’t even have the choice of another dabba. What’s worse, these are invariably at the ends of the carriages so miss getting into one and you’ve missed the train. So stay equipped for a long trek to the other end of the platform or to the staircase. The Railway network is hardly women-friendly so enough with the accusations of being pampered, already.

May I also add that I’m thoroughly impressed by the effort on the part of the ladies who spoke up for what they needed and got it? I am not going to get into the justification of why and how women become like this (That’s for my other blog, not this one ). I am after all one of them as well, being a regular on the trains. Let’s just say that life isn’t hunky-dory in our red or green-striped part of the train world either.

So this is why we’re having trouble making connections?

Reminds me of that Pepsi/Coca-cola war some time back. What do you think? Was this deliberate?

I sometimes hear people describe Mumbai as a place where people treat each other equally and that this city doesn’t face the societal seggregation that Chennai and even Delhi have. I disagree. This city has its own version of a caste system. It is subtle and isn’t immediately apparent, especially to people who haven’t lived here for very long. Bear with me while I alternate between ‘thoroughbred Mumbaiker’ parochialism and an objective viewpoint, as I explain.

The city is tangibly marked length-wise by the three major train lines…and believe me, these divides are practically political boundaries! Besides the metropolitan railway network’s tangible lines…much more subtly, the city is divided into town and the suburbs. The grand North-South divide that splits the country seems to be micro-imposed onto our seven islands. There are the suburbs and there’s town (not of course counting those ‘in-between’ places like Dadar). I’d say never the twain shall meet except for the omnipresent railway network that holds the city together and makes it possible for the gypsies like us to shuttle between the two disparate worlds every day.

I didn’t notice the distinction as much when I was a kid. Obviously, my circuit was restricted to the ‘burbs (Only the townies say that by the way!) after all. In the later years, as my world expanded to college (also in the suburbs but peppered with frequent trips into town and increased association with the townies) then work, I began seeing how people seggregate themselves and others. It is human I suppose to have to put people into boxes and live by a ‘your box-my box’ mentality.

I watched a few movies with a friend…a lot in the suburbs and one in town. He took great delight in pointing out that the town theatre was quieter and that ‘people knew how to behave and watch movies like civilized human beings’. Yes, the suburban cinema halls are noisier. Easier on the wallet as well. As for being more civilised, well, I’ll reserve my comments on that one for the time being, save to highlight the fact that ‘town’ is aspirational heaven for a certain section of Mumbai’s upwardly mobile.

The suburbs, begin with Bandra (at least in my mind) on the Western line and the equivalent counterparts on the other lines. Bandra is attractive of course with its by-lanes and busy main roads, shops, theatres and the seafront of course. On the other hand, I’m starting to think Bandra has pretensions to being the new ‘town’ to the suburbs. Don’t get me wrong…I love the area but the Bandra-ites seem caught someplace between being the genteel townies and the down-to-earth suburbanites.

The townies of course dress a certain way, talk a certain way, are a certain way. I really can’t stop myself from hurling a volley here when I say that if I lived in a place that was as well-nourished by the authorities that be, I’d be genteel too. Instead I trudge the length (and breadth) of the city daily. I satiate the ego of the greater powers that want a “fancy South Mumbai address” while also staying within the budgetary restrictions that make the suburban reality home.

And really….what is with ‘the real Mumbai’ and ‘those suburbs’. Yes, I’ve heard all about the logic of Greater Mumbai and how everything else is just an off-shoot. But well, that’s the point, isn’t it? The growth is happening North-ward. Office complexes, shopping malls, educational institutions and most importantly…housing…all of the action is happening in the suburbs. True, it’s more like a mad melee than planned development but well, whose fault is that?

Where do we hear of train lines breaking down? Which are the overhead bridges that fall? Where do residential buildings collapse? What part of Mumbai gets paralysed in the monsoons, during bandhs and festivals? Alternately when ‘the city breaks down’, where is the collapse actually happening?

True, it is negligence, corruption and plenty of lawlessness that has caused some of these disasters. Considering that most Mumbaikers live in the suburbs, isn’t it then the area that deserves greater attention than South Mumbai? And yet, sudden disasters like flooding, unexpected traffic snarls are all left to get worse while images of ‘life returning to normal’ hit us from the media….all conveniently shot at Marine Drive or Worli of course. It is definitely a fact that the suburbs while not getting the same pampering attention from the authorities are growing faster…well anything is faster than no growth, isn’t it?

Take a minute to look at the picture in this post. That’s Churchgate station, the starting point of the Western line. How many townies recognize that at a glance? Well, most ‘burbies do. But then again, it’s the suburban-ites that primarily use the train lines, isn’t it? This picture, in my mind, represents Mumbai’s very own caste system. This is the magic entrance, the metaphorical line of control with its gate opening up to the hallowed ‘town’….and a few hours later sucking up the teeming majority of the populace back into the vast infinite of the suburbs.

The caste system exists, no doubting. Each section fighting for its share of space. It just seem strange that the divide is so unequal in terms of numbers and facilities available. Then again, that’s life. Life in Mumbai anyway.