Hatt Na! ^@#$*)&<~

In the last few years that I’ve been made aware of the importance of right of way on the road, it always puzzled me why a human being’s life was less precious than reaching a business meeting in a swanky BMW. Why couldn’t people put themselves in the patient’s death bed just for a moment and shift a little for the ambulance driver to wangle his way through? In much smaller Baroda, from where my tiny backpack hails, road bullying is even more ubiquitous.

But I recently saw a heart rending sight in Bombay: an ambulance being given way amid jam-packed traffic at the newly restructured (and heavily criticized) Haji Ali junction. Drivers reversed, steered to the side, did whatever it took to save a life. The crossing is a locality that is known for its deafening honking and ruthlessness on the road, after all, how can you expect higher morals as compassion and considerateness when time's at a premium?

A poignant feature of this incident was that there was no pandu to direct the traffic, or even regulate movement. It has been often observed by old timers, or even those who've spent considerable amount of time driving in Bombay, that when there's no traffic police supervising (or pretending or attempting to supervise) the flow of vehicles on the roads, both, road rage as well as accidents are fewer. What's more, the traffic also seems to (though amble) at least get on, unlike when they're doling out pseudo signals.

Having digressed adequately, we return to the psyche of the regular Bambaiyya - whether the Nariman Point headed sophisticated-looking executive, or the more weathered trader hurrying towards Fort or Tardeo - has undergone change. Sure he's scared more than ever before, sure he wants to stay safe as home even under the humidity filtered sun, but he cares. Even if for the selfish reason of what goes around comes around. Either this attitude of benevolence has evolved from the multiple incidents of mass deaths, where thousands, if not millions lost their loved ones, or an awakening has come that the only way to get on in Bombay is to give way…

Chinchpokli

You think Chinchpokli in the same breath as Timbuktu (if you’re all well-read and know it all) or Jhumreetalaiyya (for the desis-at-heart or those who’ve read Kipling). Some strange place with a stranger name so far away you doubt its existence- ha ha, you take it for granted, it doesn’t. But, ladies and gentlemen, it is very much for real.

Yeah yeah, this is probably no revelation to those of you who’ve lived in Bombay forever, but us गओंठीs who got here by the last train from Baroda, साला ये तो कमाल हो गया! It’s like discovering snow in Hyderabad (Snow World- don’t make the mistake of eating it, you’ll hate your tongue for life :D).

When Allan - my jazz teacher, a PR professional and friend - was moving office to the 90 year-old-Velji-Lakhamshi-Napoo-High-School-इलाका, I laughed! And laughed and laughed and laughed. I wanted to say, You’re gonna be so far from every place else! when in fact, he was going to be closer to Town, and it meant we’d be able to meet for practice with more ease and more often.

Even before that great event occurred, the picture etched in my mind was by my hostel mate, Bindi,the Naagar-desperately-looking -for-a-groom. She made Chinchpokli sound like it was Bermuda Triangle! Untraceable on the map and no vehicle went there, or one that did, never returned. I thought, Askilant this place must be, no?

And then I took a cab from hostel to Neena’s place one evening. From memory of the couple of times that Neena had escorted me, I blurted, “Dada, सात रास्ता से ले लेना,” and then every signboard address of all the tiny shops that lined the stretch read Chinchpokli. Such was my shock- I sat agape with my mouth wide open (to let in god knows what sizes of insects and what quantities of dust) and eyes popping out. I bought a Crocin and a Fa roll-on deodorant to make it all a real experience. It was my way of jerking myself out of disbelief (heights of self preservation, pinch, but don’t hurt).

Long after the fact was ingrained in my existence, I met another (Allan being the first guy I knew at) Hansa Communications designer (whose name I cannot recall for no fault of his) recently at the Bandra Poetry Slam. Post-fun-mingling revealed the fact. I blurted out, “Oh that’s the office at… erm… screwing my nose - crinkling my eyes CHINCH-POK-LEE?” The guy and his girlfriend practically screamed with laughter. I mean, plenty of case-taking had happened through the evening thanks to my “Townie” status –stepping onto foreign territory and all the fuss that surrounds it. But the fascination for one more strange land has been conquered.

Chinchpokli tee hee is no more some remote place where you head to never return, but more real. I now know it is home to the Kasturba Gandhi Municipal Hospital run by BMC, “reputed for the treatment of contagious diseases.” [Wikipedia] I strongly suggest we should add Patratu to that lexicon of faraway lands, though ;P.

Kya Chutiyapa Hai!

 I’ve spent the last eight years of my life studiously avoiding all contact with the nostalgia of the "good ol’ days" of school, only to ram right into not one or two, but four of my oldest school acquaintances. Twako’s always been a constant so she doesn’t count, but the other four…Gosh!

It began with Mital writing a bulkmail to some of us oldies asking if we’d (be willing to) make it to a reunion cuz she’s coming to India and the woman wants to kill time. “Crap,” I thought. Who the fuck wants to meet so fucking soon after the relief of finally not having to see each other EVER AGAIN? Not realising it’ll be a whole decade in another two years, of bidding goodbye. I made some fuck-all excuse and wiggled out.

 In the meanwhile, I bumped into Anand Mehta in the train! “WOHOW!” I thought to myself. The bugger wanted to have a conversation in the frikkin train. Man! Me crouching on the upper berth (his upper berth) while he conveniently tilted his head up slightly. I made the mistake of not changing my cell number after giving it to him. Every weekend since I’ve had to invent new excuses to avoid meeting him.

 Ujjwal managed to add me to his gtalk list in the interim though. This was two months ago. We’ve chatted ever since, ever fucking day. Barring Sundays, of course. This, after zero contact all through undergrad, PG and more. Incidentally, oh lord, a couple of weeks back I gave in to Anand’s invite, and boy, that was a mishtakey.

 Parin Sutariya’s chat applet popped less than a week back. The choot is so fuckin sweet – he even admits to not knowing what to say, and so not pinging. But it felt good to pick up from nowhere in the air.

 The surprise of all surprises sprung when Kanika Singh’s chat invite broke my afternoon siesta at work last week. We were to meet on Sunday morning. The biatch diatched moi.

But the excitement hasn’t ebbed…

Bombay Teaches 'nuther Lesson in Life

Bombay. A city perhaps second only to the Delhi’s Punju pockets in bling; glamour; loudness, is teaching me a thing or two about restraint: at work, in bursting into tears, in allowing others to swoop me into their impulses, in being swept into a massive blunder, in affection.

Parag and I were discussing Chaos Theory, the Anuvab Pal play I caught on a stray Sunday last month. The essence of our dialogue revolved around why many of us end up tongue tied when it comes to confessing special feelings for someone. For that matter, most of us suck at confessing in general. Parag’s reasoning may not hold true in other situations, but I’m inclined to believe he is quite reasonable in the case of admitting romantic impulses. Parag pins it on respect – the relationship and what has gone into building it that is, if the love evolves from an existing comradeship or a deepening platonic affection.

And nothing and no one can say for sure whether the evolution is mutual or one-sided. Think about it this way: we all know that we’re going to lose our loved ones someday. The elders sooner, by natural elimination. But the thought gives us the trembles – of the loss; of the absence. Even if you haven’t spoken in a long time. Even if you don’t see eye to eye on some matters. Even if they want you to marry by their choice. Even if they want you educated in a stream they couldn’t choose.

Perhaps losing friendship of the object of your affection isn’t as bad as losing him or her to death, but it is still a thought we shudder to allude. What is that situation, wherein you cannot live without a person, but rather not tell for the fear of having to live in the complete absence from your life?

If you’re already wondering what “this” is doing here, here’s why- I’ve met a few men and women my age who’ve been in love a while (in Bombay that is), some heartbroken, some too scarred or too scared to tell. Some live in the endless optimism that they shall find true love (pardon the cliché), some in the hope that their love will return, and some too hopeless to bother – either wallowing in their misery, or so stoned within that they still look for some contrived interpretation of the goddamn word.

A city that seems to regurgitate Dr. Filmys at every bend has also this face. Once in a while, it sheds the mask of entertainment and reveals this forlorn, alone demeanour. Its fears are fraught with distrust, misgivings, past experience. This city has said to me, “Deal with it,” when I was denied. Like the regular dose of discipline you get from a parent, this one’s training me to grow up once more. All romantic notions dismissed. As Hit recently warned, “Don’t even think of being nice.”