*whistle*

Ab pata chala police streeling kyun hai!

Gurpal's humor has never amused me much, but this statement has been playing itself on loop ever since I heard him on Tedhi Baat. Not because it was funny, or oh-so-clever, but because every time I see the police women in Bombay, my mind goes in fifth gear and begins to wonder what they are like.

The ladies in uniform that I so often come across, are mostly young. Below, say, 30. Surprisingly, they draw a very different picture of the profession. They too huddle in groups, stomping, wearing trinkets, worried about how their superior will bajao their band.

I've seen them sitting together at security posts at Kemps Corner, travelling in uniforms as well as in plain clothes in local trains, at the railway station of course, and sometimes more unexpected locations like a departmental store. They're the same as us ordinary girls- giggly, chirpy (the word is chanchal, my Hindi teacher's memory tells me), and have little or no more exposure to the world of spineless scheming politically motivated superiors than 16 year old girls right out of high school.

They talk to their boyfriends (or at least boys/men they fancy) on their new flip cellphones, or to their mothers, declining marriage for now, putting it off a few months- years- lives. "I don't want to marry," they say, "I want to take care of you two, aai-baba." "Woh mere ko kaam karne dega kya?" The questions remain the same.

So what's the hype surrounding the stature of the police services? These girls bring it all down to the level of human basics. There is no higher motive/ purpose/ stature of these guys. All of a sudden, I've begun to perceive them less as a scared member (me) of the society, and more like a fellow contemporary- more or less competent and at par when it comes to reacting to everyday situations.

Nothing sets them apart. Nothing about them is different. Nothing is so dangerous about them. They all depend on other men to do their bidding. To protect them. Thank you girls, for bringing them Potbelly Pandus down to ground zero.

Bombay Made Me Queasy Once

Does the sight of kites circling really close to the ground make you queasy?

I saw one such herd this evening at Haji Ali, taking turns plunging into the shallows near the shore. The scene brings a churning feeling in my tummy, like it was my fault whatever is being lunged at has ended up being nutrition for the omnivores. It is like a nightmare.

Everyone charging at you with ammunition ranging the unimaginable to the most ridiculous. You twist and turn and thrash in your sheets until, finally, your slumber cannot contain the wilderness of your imagination.

(A)ND

It was this afternoon, when Neelanjan was fooling around with Parag's poetry (Parag writes soulful Marathi poems in first person), at office today, that it dawned upon me that he happens to be a variety of Bambaiyyas the city seldom acknowledges.

'Neel', as we like to shorten, is like a visitor who's decided to extend his trip to no particular date in the future. A tourist who forgot he must return. An 'objective observer', an outsider for whom it is and will always be "Mumbai", not "Bombay". Despite a confident gait, Neel still fumbles with new routes; he is totally kicked by the whole idea of the purple Merc AC buses; shows streaks of literary brilliance in banal bitching/ pep talk, like, "I know what it's like to be in a relationship with a voice." This is a man who reads Marathi Poetry with a Bong accent and understands all the scattered English sprinkling. He's a complete goof with lots'a taste when it comes to beauty. He's still the fucking intellectual, who refuses to wear tapered shirts to look all "with it" or go gymming for that dream physique every Bombay-boy fantasies. He loves Monalisa-smile Marianne's sarcasm- the privacy of her humor to which even he is often debarred.

Neel would dance his fave step with panache, when no one's looking at work, in that photocopy enclosure for his seating space, as he listens to Arnob or Manna De buried in his laptop screen. He's noisy when he laughs his nasal laughter, loud in expression (read: foulest sprinkling through a 20-minute lunch chatter), yet his ways are quiet, calm even.

He's not a loner, but in his body language, you sense a looking down upon yourself for being the dud you ARE. And he knows you: smart, stupid, emotional (read: stupid), practical (read even more stupid), brilliant, happy, melancholy, miracle maker, heart breaker, funny, never-boring, all-knowing, wise.

So, why the rant about some colleague/ friend at office? Because, my dear, as I began, this city often ignores this extremely entertaining yet endearing variety of individuals, who you must be lucky to come across, yet, merrily dissolve into the flow that throngs the Mantralaya-to-Churchgate parade every evening. One more virtue that resurrects Bombay for me. It shelters quirks. All sorts.

Footsie

The count is going up rapidly. I've been noticing more n more people whose shoe sizes, in proportion to their heights, are, well, not proportional. So many men who're tall as hell but have feet of dwarfs. Terrible! I feel like a giant in their midst! A giant with a gigantic foot.

How do they carry themselves? Don't they fall? The bulk! And their poor little feet! Some of them even look shrunk. :(

And the aesthetics are all skewed. Broad shoulders, lovely long fingers, beautiful torsos, daddy-long-legs even, and then the feet. They are a more pitiable sight than an inadequate other size.

It's not even a disorder, or a handicap (I care two hoots about political correctness). It's not like they don't walk properly, or walk at all. Some of them jog, and a lot of them do more.

So what's the point? Duh! Just told you! I've been noticing a lot of these weirdos! Even that's under scrutiny these days, kya?

Rockstar Rider

Leather makes him
And weather strengthens:
He is seasoned by the earth.
Ever free, the quadrilateral isn't home:
He dwells amid the hills
And the rain and green thrills,
Though posterity misses by inches,
Pity him not an ounce.
Analysing each isolation,
Not a cheetah, he wouldn't pounce.
~Priyanca, Biker


Unlike most Bambaiyyas who have a routine for everything including catching the 8:20 bus to commute to work, I've not yet "settled" into any such comfortable schedules. I reach work any time between 8:00 and 9:00 am, which is a huge margin even by Bombay standards. And I seldom give it a second thought. I never know how long it will take me to reach by bus- sometimes it takes me just 15 minutes, sometimes a whopping 45. Of course, what route I get on is an important factor.

Ruts apart, the city's been resurrected for me. Just when I thought it's lost its charm, reclamation's come to Backbay once more.

The stop closest to my hostel gates does not attract the AC buses. Well, not officially, at least. The average drivers are faithful to their vardhi and discourage taking on and allowing passengers to get off away from assigned stops. They don't want to be the cause for traffic ever, which is an excellent attitude. They also always avoid accidents and road rage. They're almost a whiff of fresh air as compared to the regular fellas.

But the AS-2 route rider is an exception. Not in stopping where I wait for the mundane 88s or 93 Ltds, when I wave, but in this: a nod, a smile, a good morning!, reciprocation for recognition of a human face. And when my cold-ridden throat squeaks askance, "aap yahaan rok doge," he responds with, "mai wahaan bus rokta hoon toh yahaan kyun nahin?"

The warmth in those words glued me right back to this place. The redemption of a people I once thought were heartless, relentless.

Roti, Kapda, Makaan: Old News

I was talking to mummy when it occurred to me: people's lives in this city revolve around three pedestals. Rains, trains and lanes.

It is always warm, so the precipitation is always a threat. When they say "It's hot!", it's funny. When they get all paranoid about the rains, it's funnier. The local trains get disrupted even when three people sneeze together (as Jairam once mentioned in jest)! So during monsoons it's like all hell's been let loose.

The cacophony of mobile phones and landline ringers goes off to sound distress or simply to discuss exactly how many extra milliseconds one spent on the way. How the slow trains swept past or how the fast trains swum at Ghatkopar. How Ollie got onto a bus at the signal and it was running empty on a shunting route, because the station had no crowds to vomit into it, this morning. How I'm so lucky to be living where I do, the roads ever empty, devoid of traffic and gurgling drains.

The politicos proclaim their influence on on-the-rise infrastructure, the mango people crib how every road's a pothole enlarged. When there are too many traffic signals, the citizens complain about too many hurdles. Once the flyovers are under construction, they say there's no place to walk. And there's no dearth of pedestrians.

So you see, it's a vicious circle. Unending, concentric, incomprehensible, yet lucid, really.