Nobody knows him. He is your regular guy at office. Always arrives on time, and leaves on time. He is always found with the same old formals, the same old shoes, the same haircut, and the spectacled frame that hasn’t changed since eternity.
He makes himself comfortable in the office bus, without making a least difference to anybody already present. The pretty girl, with whom he shared the seat did not even look up and took notice. It did not make any difference to him, his face did not twitch. After all it was an everyday occurrence.
As the bus starts moving, he notices himself in the rearview mirror. Although he was just a few years out of college, he already appeared to have a thinning brow line. His hair was flowing with the breeze. The driver had switched on his FM radio. The bus with its slow whirring noise of the engine and rhythmic vibrations soon put our man to sleep.
In his dreams, he is again transported back to the time while he was studying. He found himself giving a speech during student elections. By the time he ended the crowd acknowledged his presence with a thunderous applause.
Although unknown to him at that time, the same song which was on the FM radio at that time was being played in the club (in his dreams) which he used to frequently visit while he had a active social life. With his friends, all were watching him dance and soon a crowd had gathered around him watching his every move. He was in high spirits, it was due to him that everybody was having fun; it was due to him that he was making their evening memorable.
The pretty girl in the bus came in his dreams and was highly impressed. He got the first kiss of his life her. With smiles on each others faces, he felt especially proud.
Suddenly the pretty girl started to say ‘hello’ with a broad smile. Confused he too said hello, wondering why the hello came after the kiss. After what seemed like a full second, she said ‘Excuse me’ with that same 1000 watt smile and with a slight poke on the shoulder.
Slowly the 1000 watt smile faded and she started howling uttering ‘Hello’ and ‘Excuse me’. He tried his best to understand the girl’s behavior but to no avail.
At the last instant she gave him a tight rap on the shoulder. This time making our man wake up. ‘Excuse me, this is the last stop and I am getting late’ said the pretty girl. Our man momentarily blurred, brought himself back to consciousness and reality. He smiled and said ‘Sorry, I dozed off’.
The girl while getting down turned back and looked back at him and gave him that 1000 watt smile, this time for real, and walked away.
‘Best thing that has happened today’, he muttered to himself, as he made his way into the platform to complete his harrowing journey back home. Again returning to his old avatar of the unknown man.
Life’s little happy packages come in little dreams, on a little joyride.
Life goes on in the city as usual……
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Saturday, March 08, 2008
Down Memory Lane
Nostalgia.
We have all experienced this feeling sometime of the other in our lives, although with varied intensities. But one thing that nobody can deny is the power with which this feeling grips you once you encounter it. All would agree that it has to be experienced in order to understand it.
Right now my life is a mechanical routine. Same set of tasks to be repeated everyday just like a programmed robot. It has been eons since I have just stopped and wonder at the beauty of my surroundings, appreciated music & arts, learnt a new skill, or explore new and different relationships.
My life had got into a rut in the pursuit of materialistic happiness.
It took a jolt, a big one at that, to jerk me off the routine. Sadly it was the death of my grandmother that jeered me off my routine. It was a big shock for us but the shock slowly gave way to reality and practical difficulties like taking almost fifteen days off my work and so on.
Whilst I was here at my home itself, I started dusting my memories of my grandmother. It was a good five to seven years at least since I had seen her. The last time I had seen her she was quite senile. Hardly able to recognize her own sons, her grandsons were absolute strangers. I dug my memory even further, to the time when I was a little kid when I used to get freshly made ‘nadu’ (a sweetmeat consisting of sugar and coconut) and she would summon all her grandchildren together and give the freshly made nadus as ‘prasad’. Alas those are just memories now.
It was a pleasant surprise to reach the small town once again. It had the same old cycle driven rickshaws. Although we did not fit in as comfortably as we did when we were young, it had a nice feeling of old times about it. It was even more heartening to see all my cousins together at one place. I could not recollect when the last time that we all had been together was. Although I did not say it, but I think the death of my grandmother acted as a catalyst. It was shameful, but it was the truth.
I saw my cousin sister, she had grown so much. She was now of marriageable age, but the moment she saw me, she burst into tears and asked me as to why have I come so late inspite of her repeated requests. The repeated requests that she was referring to was the one we had made while we were kids always promising to see each other every year. But since long I had not kept those promises and her questioning made me falter on my stoic exterior, it had even made me feel sorry. All I could have done was to make one false promise again and tell her that no matter what I would definitely try to be in contact more often, but somewhere deep down I could tell that my cousin did not believe it anymore.
I looked at the house. Same old place (but a few storeys added), the same kitchen, the same courtyard. As the power of nostalgia took over me, I reminisced of happier times, when this place was alive. The place was alive with all the people gathering and singing ‘Rabindra Sangit’, the harmonium being played, the sitar and the tabla as well. Tea in kettles used to make rounds here and there, we kids were given any sweetmeat to keep us happy and not to disturb in the hustle and bustle that ensued throughout the day.
The ladies in their typical Bengali sari’s and the gentlemen is sparkling whites was a memory which I could only see in films nowadays.
I checked the same old place where they used to keep their musical instruments. It was still there, but it looked more like a tomb now. The tabla on which energetic hands played was gathering dust, the harmonium had springs coming out in few places and the strings in the sitar were missing. There were a few papers lying about there. I picked up and tried to read it with the rudimentary knowledge that I know of my mother tongue Bengali, it immediately struck me as a verse from a popular rabindra sangit. It was a sacred text back then, the ladies used to keep it along with their jewellery. It was a heart wrenching sight to see it lying about and I locked the vault again before I broke down.
The width of the streets had remained the same. The vehicles had increased though. But still the mode of transport was the cycle-rickshaw, the way it was since I could remember.
Now with the somber mood in our home it looked specially dull, but I was informed by the elders that it was the same no more. People like me who had now grown up were all into their careers, my cousins who had grown up in the small town also were looking for opportunities outside. This house, which once had a life of its own, was now decaying. Our house which was a landmark around where we lived, was now a testament of neglect. People spoke in whispers of the glorious past of our house and how its present condition was. They said that it was the same everywhere in this old town, which had failed to keep pace with the materialistic aspirations of the youth. No longer do they care to go up the small hill to watch the sunset, no fishing in the lakes, no playing cricket with the good old cycle as stumps, nothing. Absolutely Nothing.
After paying our last respects to our grandmother, I sat on the rickety cycle rickshaw once again, my mind wandering back in time, back to the days when life was simple, when life was enriching, when life was not a relentless pursuit of materialistic goals, when life was more about spending quality time doing what you liked, when life was spending quality time with your loved ones.
It all seems so far back in time now, in another world, in another place. It is almost similar to a fresh new photograph, with all colors rich, the brightness perfect, which is now slowly gathering dust , decaying bit by bit. The characters in the photograph remain the same, but the colors have long faded into sepia, with only the warm smiles remaining. The photograph, just like my memory, is waiting to be heard, waiting to be understood.
But still gathering dust.
We have all experienced this feeling sometime of the other in our lives, although with varied intensities. But one thing that nobody can deny is the power with which this feeling grips you once you encounter it. All would agree that it has to be experienced in order to understand it.
Right now my life is a mechanical routine. Same set of tasks to be repeated everyday just like a programmed robot. It has been eons since I have just stopped and wonder at the beauty of my surroundings, appreciated music & arts, learnt a new skill, or explore new and different relationships.
My life had got into a rut in the pursuit of materialistic happiness.
It took a jolt, a big one at that, to jerk me off the routine. Sadly it was the death of my grandmother that jeered me off my routine. It was a big shock for us but the shock slowly gave way to reality and practical difficulties like taking almost fifteen days off my work and so on.
Whilst I was here at my home itself, I started dusting my memories of my grandmother. It was a good five to seven years at least since I had seen her. The last time I had seen her she was quite senile. Hardly able to recognize her own sons, her grandsons were absolute strangers. I dug my memory even further, to the time when I was a little kid when I used to get freshly made ‘nadu’ (a sweetmeat consisting of sugar and coconut) and she would summon all her grandchildren together and give the freshly made nadus as ‘prasad’. Alas those are just memories now.
It was a pleasant surprise to reach the small town once again. It had the same old cycle driven rickshaws. Although we did not fit in as comfortably as we did when we were young, it had a nice feeling of old times about it. It was even more heartening to see all my cousins together at one place. I could not recollect when the last time that we all had been together was. Although I did not say it, but I think the death of my grandmother acted as a catalyst. It was shameful, but it was the truth.
I saw my cousin sister, she had grown so much. She was now of marriageable age, but the moment she saw me, she burst into tears and asked me as to why have I come so late inspite of her repeated requests. The repeated requests that she was referring to was the one we had made while we were kids always promising to see each other every year. But since long I had not kept those promises and her questioning made me falter on my stoic exterior, it had even made me feel sorry. All I could have done was to make one false promise again and tell her that no matter what I would definitely try to be in contact more often, but somewhere deep down I could tell that my cousin did not believe it anymore.
I looked at the house. Same old place (but a few storeys added), the same kitchen, the same courtyard. As the power of nostalgia took over me, I reminisced of happier times, when this place was alive. The place was alive with all the people gathering and singing ‘Rabindra Sangit’, the harmonium being played, the sitar and the tabla as well. Tea in kettles used to make rounds here and there, we kids were given any sweetmeat to keep us happy and not to disturb in the hustle and bustle that ensued throughout the day.
The ladies in their typical Bengali sari’s and the gentlemen is sparkling whites was a memory which I could only see in films nowadays.
I checked the same old place where they used to keep their musical instruments. It was still there, but it looked more like a tomb now. The tabla on which energetic hands played was gathering dust, the harmonium had springs coming out in few places and the strings in the sitar were missing. There were a few papers lying about there. I picked up and tried to read it with the rudimentary knowledge that I know of my mother tongue Bengali, it immediately struck me as a verse from a popular rabindra sangit. It was a sacred text back then, the ladies used to keep it along with their jewellery. It was a heart wrenching sight to see it lying about and I locked the vault again before I broke down.
The width of the streets had remained the same. The vehicles had increased though. But still the mode of transport was the cycle-rickshaw, the way it was since I could remember.
Now with the somber mood in our home it looked specially dull, but I was informed by the elders that it was the same no more. People like me who had now grown up were all into their careers, my cousins who had grown up in the small town also were looking for opportunities outside. This house, which once had a life of its own, was now decaying. Our house which was a landmark around where we lived, was now a testament of neglect. People spoke in whispers of the glorious past of our house and how its present condition was. They said that it was the same everywhere in this old town, which had failed to keep pace with the materialistic aspirations of the youth. No longer do they care to go up the small hill to watch the sunset, no fishing in the lakes, no playing cricket with the good old cycle as stumps, nothing. Absolutely Nothing.
After paying our last respects to our grandmother, I sat on the rickety cycle rickshaw once again, my mind wandering back in time, back to the days when life was simple, when life was enriching, when life was not a relentless pursuit of materialistic goals, when life was more about spending quality time doing what you liked, when life was spending quality time with your loved ones.
It all seems so far back in time now, in another world, in another place. It is almost similar to a fresh new photograph, with all colors rich, the brightness perfect, which is now slowly gathering dust , decaying bit by bit. The characters in the photograph remain the same, but the colors have long faded into sepia, with only the warm smiles remaining. The photograph, just like my memory, is waiting to be heard, waiting to be understood.
But still gathering dust.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Analogy
Mumbai 2008 A.D.
Feb 12th 2008.
Two persons both on the opposite ends of the city eerily were caught in similar circumstances, this is their story………..
Both of them were happy. One had just graduated into a new life, from a small job in a small town to a new job in the city of dreams. With a substantial raise, he was hoping for a nice change, a new way of life. Wife too had managed to get a new job, the company had arranged for the admission of their children into the city’s best school. Life was never this good.
The other had just graduated into his relationship with his pretty girlfriend; he had successfully taken his relationship with the girl to another level. After months of homework, pleading and good old fashioned emotional blackmailing, her girlfriend had finally succumbed to his demands of coming with him on a two day trip to Goa, just the two of them. Ready to graduate from a boy to being a man, he was especially in a good mood, expecting a lot.
The new job one was brought back to harsh reality with a resounding noise of a taxiwallah right near his ear. And suddenly he found himself amidst a crowd of people ready to cross the road and enter the railway station. Almost mechanically he made his way into the station for the first time, he felt as if he was a programmed machine, following the crowd into the station. His friends had warned him about the chaos at Mumbai’s stations, but still he was dumfounded at the sheer density of people crowded in a tiny strip of concrete bounded by railway tracks….
The other too was harshly brought back to reality as he found himself outside an exclusive women’s lingerie store in a crowded mall. All he could see were women inside those glass doors going about their usual business. Not usual for him though, he thought. His friends had warned him, that buying lingerie for the first time wasn’t easy, but still he was dumbfounded when the female security guard asked him to check whether he was about to enter into the correct store….
The man at the railway station was in total confusion, he was at a loss to understand and comprehend what was going on around him. All he could make out were trains zipping past him in either direction. People charged up as if preparing for a war, but all that they were actually doing was to cross the hurdle of jumping off the platform into the train. Bizarre he thought, absolutely bizarre…
Bizarre thought the man at the lingerie store, how could she have asked such a question in front of so many other women, who were right now chuckling and some who were bluntly laughing aloud? After recovering from the embarrassment he managed to utter that he was not blind and knew what he was doing, the female security guard, with certain amount of skepticism allowed him into the lingerie store.
“What do you want?” asked an irritated co-commuter on the platform. He politely answered that he was new and would like some information on how to reach this particular place. After an unexpected lecture on how outsiders were ruining the fabric of Mumbai, putting load on the existing infrastructure, he finally managed to answer what he had initially asked and guided the man to reach the last platform on the station, which was across the other side. Looking at the prospect of crossing the over bridge, he hung his shoulders and started walking towards the over bridge…..
“What do you want?” asked the courteous female across the counter, with a more than normally visible cleavage. Her smile was so inviting that he was left wondering if he would end up buying lingerie or something even better. But as soon as she adjusted her top, he knew he was caught staring and would have to be careful in this alien place. The girl guided him across the counter and started showing all different varieties of women’s innerwear.
The man at the station was on the designated platform. Wondering as to what to make of the odd timings, 19:27, 19:31 and so onwards. More so he was wondering what the abbreviations C, Bo, D, F, S etc stood for. He wondered if a man qualified in cryptography could be found in this crowd, but he dismissed it with a quiet guffaw….
The man at the lingerie store was in utter confusion. After ogling at the innerwear. He was facing a more fundamental problem right now of how to decode the A, B, C and D’s with a two digit number ranging from the minimum 32 (if he had heard it correct) to a maximum of which he did not know (and did not wish to know), when asked to choose, he had trouble imagining her girlfriends breasts because now it was not sexual, it was purely arithmetic. Finally after paying a considerable sum for a set of innerwear, and managing to hear murmurs and laughter after he had stepped out of the store. He finally left the store. In peace and in dreams…..
The man at the station had finally boarded the platform and after much difficulty had managed to get down at his destination. A man who was trying desperately to get inside hit his shins hard. “I am sorry. I did not mean it.” He said. “It’s ok” he replied back. “It has been a hard day”
Saying this he exchanged smiles with him at started on his way back to his residence.
The train meanwhile had started moving; the man who was trying desperately to get inside, holding his prized possession in a polyethylene bag, his gift for his girlfriend, and quietly muttered “It has been a hard day for me too”
Both proceeded to realize their own dreams. Life goes on in the city as it used too
Feb 12th 2008.
Two persons both on the opposite ends of the city eerily were caught in similar circumstances, this is their story………..
Both of them were happy. One had just graduated into a new life, from a small job in a small town to a new job in the city of dreams. With a substantial raise, he was hoping for a nice change, a new way of life. Wife too had managed to get a new job, the company had arranged for the admission of their children into the city’s best school. Life was never this good.
The other had just graduated into his relationship with his pretty girlfriend; he had successfully taken his relationship with the girl to another level. After months of homework, pleading and good old fashioned emotional blackmailing, her girlfriend had finally succumbed to his demands of coming with him on a two day trip to Goa, just the two of them. Ready to graduate from a boy to being a man, he was especially in a good mood, expecting a lot.
The new job one was brought back to harsh reality with a resounding noise of a taxiwallah right near his ear. And suddenly he found himself amidst a crowd of people ready to cross the road and enter the railway station. Almost mechanically he made his way into the station for the first time, he felt as if he was a programmed machine, following the crowd into the station. His friends had warned him about the chaos at Mumbai’s stations, but still he was dumfounded at the sheer density of people crowded in a tiny strip of concrete bounded by railway tracks….
The other too was harshly brought back to reality as he found himself outside an exclusive women’s lingerie store in a crowded mall. All he could see were women inside those glass doors going about their usual business. Not usual for him though, he thought. His friends had warned him, that buying lingerie for the first time wasn’t easy, but still he was dumbfounded when the female security guard asked him to check whether he was about to enter into the correct store….
The man at the railway station was in total confusion, he was at a loss to understand and comprehend what was going on around him. All he could make out were trains zipping past him in either direction. People charged up as if preparing for a war, but all that they were actually doing was to cross the hurdle of jumping off the platform into the train. Bizarre he thought, absolutely bizarre…
Bizarre thought the man at the lingerie store, how could she have asked such a question in front of so many other women, who were right now chuckling and some who were bluntly laughing aloud? After recovering from the embarrassment he managed to utter that he was not blind and knew what he was doing, the female security guard, with certain amount of skepticism allowed him into the lingerie store.
“What do you want?” asked an irritated co-commuter on the platform. He politely answered that he was new and would like some information on how to reach this particular place. After an unexpected lecture on how outsiders were ruining the fabric of Mumbai, putting load on the existing infrastructure, he finally managed to answer what he had initially asked and guided the man to reach the last platform on the station, which was across the other side. Looking at the prospect of crossing the over bridge, he hung his shoulders and started walking towards the over bridge…..
“What do you want?” asked the courteous female across the counter, with a more than normally visible cleavage. Her smile was so inviting that he was left wondering if he would end up buying lingerie or something even better. But as soon as she adjusted her top, he knew he was caught staring and would have to be careful in this alien place. The girl guided him across the counter and started showing all different varieties of women’s innerwear.
The man at the station was on the designated platform. Wondering as to what to make of the odd timings, 19:27, 19:31 and so onwards. More so he was wondering what the abbreviations C, Bo, D, F, S etc stood for. He wondered if a man qualified in cryptography could be found in this crowd, but he dismissed it with a quiet guffaw….
The man at the lingerie store was in utter confusion. After ogling at the innerwear. He was facing a more fundamental problem right now of how to decode the A, B, C and D’s with a two digit number ranging from the minimum 32 (if he had heard it correct) to a maximum of which he did not know (and did not wish to know), when asked to choose, he had trouble imagining her girlfriends breasts because now it was not sexual, it was purely arithmetic. Finally after paying a considerable sum for a set of innerwear, and managing to hear murmurs and laughter after he had stepped out of the store. He finally left the store. In peace and in dreams…..
The man at the station had finally boarded the platform and after much difficulty had managed to get down at his destination. A man who was trying desperately to get inside hit his shins hard. “I am sorry. I did not mean it.” He said. “It’s ok” he replied back. “It has been a hard day”
Saying this he exchanged smiles with him at started on his way back to his residence.
The train meanwhile had started moving; the man who was trying desperately to get inside, holding his prized possession in a polyethylene bag, his gift for his girlfriend, and quietly muttered “It has been a hard day for me too”
Both proceeded to realize their own dreams. Life goes on in the city as it used too
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Gujarat : A Dead State
It really pains me to say this, but the fact of the matter is that Gujarat is a dead state.
I simply cannot relate to image created of Gujarat around the world of that being a resilient state in the aftermath of the Bhuj Earthquake in 2003. The praise that was showered upon India’s most Industrious state seems really incredulous now.
Gujarat is really a dead state at present, which meekly submits to an unimportant but powerful few.
It all started with the riots, the image of Gujarat was tattered. But it has gone deep, much too deep. It has somehow scathed the psyche of the people of Gujarat. The state which was always in the news for its industriousness, entrepreneurship is suddenly a graveyard for the free thinking and broad minded people of Gujarat. That is why I support Mumbai more. Although it has gutters overflowing, facing daily power cuts and cramming with people, but the atmosphere is free. People do what they seem is best for them. Any cowardly act is swiftly denounced and trounced upon. The people are more aware, more participating and the media is also pro-active in supporting the free and broadminded people.
Make no mistake; I have been in Gujarat for a better part of nine years. But I definitely don’t like what Gujarat is becoming into.
Mistaken nationalistic fanaticism is hijacking the very fabric of the state. Right from Gujarat riots, the banning of the film Parzania to the attack on art students. Gujarat is taking huge strides in falling from one ebb to the other.
I also won’t blame the Government of Gujarat. Failed state machinery will only feed on the mute behavior of its subjects, nor do I have any sympathy for the people of Gujarat. If you don’t stand up and fight, then be ready to be mowed down upon.
It really sickens me to no end when artistic freedom is hijacked in the name or religion. The exhibition was not meant for the public so the public have no business in giving opinion about it. Even if you do have an opinion, there is a way to express it. And what’s worse is the fact that the poor student is in jail and the dean has gone into hiding.
I am sure the court will give a verdict in favor of the broadminded majority. I have at least that much faith in the judiciary, the last bastion of our democracy.
But if you, the people of Gujarat don’t stand up and be counted, forget the court, not even God himself will be able to save your Gujarat in imploding into a failed state.
I simply cannot relate to image created of Gujarat around the world of that being a resilient state in the aftermath of the Bhuj Earthquake in 2003. The praise that was showered upon India’s most Industrious state seems really incredulous now.
Gujarat is really a dead state at present, which meekly submits to an unimportant but powerful few.
It all started with the riots, the image of Gujarat was tattered. But it has gone deep, much too deep. It has somehow scathed the psyche of the people of Gujarat. The state which was always in the news for its industriousness, entrepreneurship is suddenly a graveyard for the free thinking and broad minded people of Gujarat. That is why I support Mumbai more. Although it has gutters overflowing, facing daily power cuts and cramming with people, but the atmosphere is free. People do what they seem is best for them. Any cowardly act is swiftly denounced and trounced upon. The people are more aware, more participating and the media is also pro-active in supporting the free and broadminded people.
Make no mistake; I have been in Gujarat for a better part of nine years. But I definitely don’t like what Gujarat is becoming into.
Mistaken nationalistic fanaticism is hijacking the very fabric of the state. Right from Gujarat riots, the banning of the film Parzania to the attack on art students. Gujarat is taking huge strides in falling from one ebb to the other.
I also won’t blame the Government of Gujarat. Failed state machinery will only feed on the mute behavior of its subjects, nor do I have any sympathy for the people of Gujarat. If you don’t stand up and fight, then be ready to be mowed down upon.
It really sickens me to no end when artistic freedom is hijacked in the name or religion. The exhibition was not meant for the public so the public have no business in giving opinion about it. Even if you do have an opinion, there is a way to express it. And what’s worse is the fact that the poor student is in jail and the dean has gone into hiding.
I am sure the court will give a verdict in favor of the broadminded majority. I have at least that much faith in the judiciary, the last bastion of our democracy.
But if you, the people of Gujarat don’t stand up and be counted, forget the court, not even God himself will be able to save your Gujarat in imploding into a failed state.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
A not so famous Joint.
It has been long since I last wrote something useful. But I have to admit that I have not made myself of any particular use either during this period.
A lot has happened since I last wrote, most notably the world cup hoopla. But lets not get into that, if you want to read anything more regarding the event you will find the entire blogosphere and the newspapers brimming with world cup news.
My office has a rather peculiar sight. It's an old Bajaj Chetak scooter. Reminds me of the good ol' days and I picture a whole family of four (maybe six!) riding on the same Bajaj Chetak or a Rajdoot Motorcycle. Uncle Singh, his son, another Singh, Singh's mummy (the son Singh's mummy) and a toddler whom we shall name Munnu (to make it a family of six add one or two more toddlers).
They used to make it sturdy and durable those days, not anymore. You get all swank and cool things but durability is missing. The license plate is a testimony to the old age of the scooter. It has only three digits.
And to my surprise the owner actually turned out to be a Singh. A nice old Sardarji from up North. He had been in Mumbai for a better part of 16 years. I got this information from our Building complex's watchman. He was a credible source for a whole gamut of information, so I believed him.
Now turning our attention back to the scooter let me describe it to you. It was a beauty, not a single scratch anywhere; even the license plate was clean. Obviously it had been repainted 'n' number of times but it spoke of Mr. Singh's love for the scooter and the special bond that they both shared.
One morning, I came early and to my surprise I found the Bajaj Chetak already parked in its regular place. A 'fruitwallah' had already made the scooter useful by spreading his variety of fruits on the seat, near the brake, and some even on the leg stand. He made use of every inch available on the scooter as he even hung in a few polyethylene bags from the handle of the scooter. Slowly a crowd began forming around him as he started his day. I did not interrupt nor tell anything to Mr. Singh, the 'fruitwallah' went about his own business and so did I.
This became a regular occurrence; the fruitwallah became quite famous for his quality of fruits and his peculiar choice for a selling place.
But it was not quite over here.
During the lunch break, each day, a young couple came to the scooter, munching on nuts or sandwiches or something alike. They made themselves comfortable on the scooter and chatted on for hours, holding hands. I have personally seen the girl blush as she probably got her first kiss one lonely evening night. The boy was careful, but to their bad luck I was just passing by and I witnessed it as well. After all it was a good sight to see something human going on, even if it was on an old Bajaj Chetak.
Some call center employees also came around the scooter. Initially to make fun of the outdated vehicle but later they too cozied themselves on it and started having long chats right from Iraq to the newest girl in office while they had lunch and smoked cigarettes Sometimes they managed to talk about office and their pending targets as well.
Slowly the scooter became an inseparable part of their lives. The fruitwallah, the couple and the call center employees almost mechanically made their way to the scooter and without even looking down used to let themselves fall knowing that their fall will be arrested by the soft cushion of the scooter seat which never moved from its original place. There might have been others whose lives revolved around the scooter, but I observed only them as their office time matched with mine.
Meanwhile America was eying Iran, Indo-US nuclear deal was almost through, but the fruitwallah prospered and bought himself a new pair of kolhapuri sandals and a new cotton cap (typical Maharashtrian type). I bought a few oranges that day myself, as he was happy and giving fruits at a discounted rate. The couple got married. After their honeymoon when they first came to office, they both promptly went back to the scooter during lunch hour and started chatting again reminiscing of the old times they spent on the scooter. This time the boy gave a peck again on her cheek but as they were married now the boy was a bit bolder. The girl however blushed like old times. The call center guys completed their targets somehow and managed to get themselves a promotion. They celebrated their party on the Bajaj Chetak.
One fine morning as I was going up the slope to my office, just for a second something seemed to be out of place. I could not fathom it that time, but I came back to inquire as soon as we alighted from the bus. A big new multi utility vehicle was parked right where the Bajaj stood. I did not give it much attention as I assumed that it must be a new guy who did not know where to park, nobody dared to park in the place where the Bajaj Chetak stood. But it was the same next day and the day after. I again approached the watchman and asked him for his counsel to my problem. He said that the happy Sardarji had expired a few days back, and the first thing his 25 something son did was to get rid of the scooter and bought the new multi utility vehicle for himself.
The Fruit wallah loitered around for a few days here and there, but eventually he stopped coming. Maybe he opened his shop elsewhere. The couple who came after a few days tried frantically to locate their favorite Bajaj Chetak but to no avail, it was I who had to break the news to them. They were surprised but more than that they were saddened. Now I no more see them during lunch break hours although the watchman told me that nowadays they sit in the office canteen. I was wondering how would he manage to kiss his lovely wife in that public space.
The call center employees looked with contempt at the new multi utility vehicle, which had robbed, them of their conference place. One especially queer fellow managed to make himself comfortable on the bonnet of the new MUV but he did not try it afterwards as promptly the alarm went off.
More than the loss of the scooter it was a loss of a small bit of civilization. A rare bit of socializing in the fast paced virtual world was also lost. It was a personal loss for me, as I no more could witness the soft and subtle human behavior that was so good to see in this world of mistrust and hatred.
The big giant city of Mumbai lost yet another of its not so famous haunts. No one will miss it, even the people involved, including me will forget as we vie for another promotion, the couple will have their kids and financial status to think of. The fruitwallah probably has shifted someplace else.
But if one day I had to look back. I would probably miss the mute and inanimate Bajaj Chetak who for a short time had become inseparable part in the lives of so many, including me who never actually sat on the scooter, but now would never get a opportunity to do so.
Life goes on in the city as it always used too.
A lot has happened since I last wrote, most notably the world cup hoopla. But lets not get into that, if you want to read anything more regarding the event you will find the entire blogosphere and the newspapers brimming with world cup news.
My office has a rather peculiar sight. It's an old Bajaj Chetak scooter. Reminds me of the good ol' days and I picture a whole family of four (maybe six!) riding on the same Bajaj Chetak or a Rajdoot Motorcycle. Uncle Singh, his son, another Singh, Singh's mummy (the son Singh's mummy) and a toddler whom we shall name Munnu (to make it a family of six add one or two more toddlers).
They used to make it sturdy and durable those days, not anymore. You get all swank and cool things but durability is missing. The license plate is a testimony to the old age of the scooter. It has only three digits.
And to my surprise the owner actually turned out to be a Singh. A nice old Sardarji from up North. He had been in Mumbai for a better part of 16 years. I got this information from our Building complex's watchman. He was a credible source for a whole gamut of information, so I believed him.
Now turning our attention back to the scooter let me describe it to you. It was a beauty, not a single scratch anywhere; even the license plate was clean. Obviously it had been repainted 'n' number of times but it spoke of Mr. Singh's love for the scooter and the special bond that they both shared.
One morning, I came early and to my surprise I found the Bajaj Chetak already parked in its regular place. A 'fruitwallah' had already made the scooter useful by spreading his variety of fruits on the seat, near the brake, and some even on the leg stand. He made use of every inch available on the scooter as he even hung in a few polyethylene bags from the handle of the scooter. Slowly a crowd began forming around him as he started his day. I did not interrupt nor tell anything to Mr. Singh, the 'fruitwallah' went about his own business and so did I.
This became a regular occurrence; the fruitwallah became quite famous for his quality of fruits and his peculiar choice for a selling place.
But it was not quite over here.
During the lunch break, each day, a young couple came to the scooter, munching on nuts or sandwiches or something alike. They made themselves comfortable on the scooter and chatted on for hours, holding hands. I have personally seen the girl blush as she probably got her first kiss one lonely evening night. The boy was careful, but to their bad luck I was just passing by and I witnessed it as well. After all it was a good sight to see something human going on, even if it was on an old Bajaj Chetak.
Some call center employees also came around the scooter. Initially to make fun of the outdated vehicle but later they too cozied themselves on it and started having long chats right from Iraq to the newest girl in office while they had lunch and smoked cigarettes Sometimes they managed to talk about office and their pending targets as well.
Slowly the scooter became an inseparable part of their lives. The fruitwallah, the couple and the call center employees almost mechanically made their way to the scooter and without even looking down used to let themselves fall knowing that their fall will be arrested by the soft cushion of the scooter seat which never moved from its original place. There might have been others whose lives revolved around the scooter, but I observed only them as their office time matched with mine.
Meanwhile America was eying Iran, Indo-US nuclear deal was almost through, but the fruitwallah prospered and bought himself a new pair of kolhapuri sandals and a new cotton cap (typical Maharashtrian type). I bought a few oranges that day myself, as he was happy and giving fruits at a discounted rate. The couple got married. After their honeymoon when they first came to office, they both promptly went back to the scooter during lunch hour and started chatting again reminiscing of the old times they spent on the scooter. This time the boy gave a peck again on her cheek but as they were married now the boy was a bit bolder. The girl however blushed like old times. The call center guys completed their targets somehow and managed to get themselves a promotion. They celebrated their party on the Bajaj Chetak.
One fine morning as I was going up the slope to my office, just for a second something seemed to be out of place. I could not fathom it that time, but I came back to inquire as soon as we alighted from the bus. A big new multi utility vehicle was parked right where the Bajaj stood. I did not give it much attention as I assumed that it must be a new guy who did not know where to park, nobody dared to park in the place where the Bajaj Chetak stood. But it was the same next day and the day after. I again approached the watchman and asked him for his counsel to my problem. He said that the happy Sardarji had expired a few days back, and the first thing his 25 something son did was to get rid of the scooter and bought the new multi utility vehicle for himself.
The Fruit wallah loitered around for a few days here and there, but eventually he stopped coming. Maybe he opened his shop elsewhere. The couple who came after a few days tried frantically to locate their favorite Bajaj Chetak but to no avail, it was I who had to break the news to them. They were surprised but more than that they were saddened. Now I no more see them during lunch break hours although the watchman told me that nowadays they sit in the office canteen. I was wondering how would he manage to kiss his lovely wife in that public space.
The call center employees looked with contempt at the new multi utility vehicle, which had robbed, them of their conference place. One especially queer fellow managed to make himself comfortable on the bonnet of the new MUV but he did not try it afterwards as promptly the alarm went off.
More than the loss of the scooter it was a loss of a small bit of civilization. A rare bit of socializing in the fast paced virtual world was also lost. It was a personal loss for me, as I no more could witness the soft and subtle human behavior that was so good to see in this world of mistrust and hatred.
The big giant city of Mumbai lost yet another of its not so famous haunts. No one will miss it, even the people involved, including me will forget as we vie for another promotion, the couple will have their kids and financial status to think of. The fruitwallah probably has shifted someplace else.
But if one day I had to look back. I would probably miss the mute and inanimate Bajaj Chetak who for a short time had become inseparable part in the lives of so many, including me who never actually sat on the scooter, but now would never get a opportunity to do so.
Life goes on in the city as it always used too.
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