Showing posts with label Bombay City. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bombay City. Show all posts

Friday, September 5, 2008

Careless whispers...


I just love this time of the day. It is 6.30 pm, and the light is glorious and dim, the sky is buring in orange and hot white, and the evening descends gently, easing up the frown on my forehead. The crows have gone 'to bed', so instead I see groups of sparrows, and little green parrots flying in twos or fours, very close to the balcony. Their excited screams make them sound like little kids let loose by their parents to play ball after a whole day at home. And they do endless rounds of the building, in perfect sync. I am listening to a Celine Dion CD. It's so soothing... I could be anywhere in the world. This light makes every big city look alike. I could be happy anywhere in this light and cool breeze. I feel so calm, that I could let anything go, anyone walk all over me, anything happen... I can feel my heart overpouring with love for my family and friends. It is when I think of the most. And hope they are happy and fine, and thinking of me too. It's beautiful!

Friday, August 29, 2008

Marathi power

This morning, I woke up to a whole new neighbourhood. When heading to work, I realised that there was something changed about the shop signs and billboards all over Colaba. The local Vodafone store had its name plastered in Marathi right accross the original (which was something like 'translating' Coca Cola??), a tailor had hastily glued a piece of paper with the Marathi equivalent of his already Marathi name under the original signage, and even the local pet shop owner was furiously scrubbing off the Marathi sign that he had mistakenly fixed upside down. And if you are sitting down, you may also want to know that the Colaba branch of McDonald's also had a sign in Marathi right underneath the original. Some shops had more permanently-looking signs, no doubt from the previous wave of violence inflicted by the Shiv Sena fascist party on the war path of saveguarding Maharashtra only for Maharashtirans, and reviving the 'pride' in the Marathi language.
I am all for local languages and their flourishing. I am all for Maharashtrians speaking their mother tongue and being proud of it. I am all for the preservation of local culture and expression. I think every language is beautiful and unique. And I have all intention is speaking Bulgarian to my kids one day.
However, I think Marathi now will forever have a negative connotation for me, because of the 'methods' Mr Raj Thackeray is employing to convince people to do just that. Breaking shops and property of people who are feeding a family with their businesses; treatening; going on a rampage; lecturing and imposing on others what they think is 'right'.
Mr Thackeray, if you are so hell-bent on saving the Marathi language, why don't you fight for teacher's salaries to become more adequate? Why don't you sponsor a few marathi-medium schools with the same amount of money which gets wasted in the chaos and destruction your 'men' cause? Why don't you encourage Marathi book stores, search for talented writers in your native language, spread leaflets promoting the beauty and importance of it, start a magazine... I heard that you are now putting pressure on TV channels to start programmes in Marathi. Will you pay for the air time they may lose if those programmes are not watched? Will you compensate all these shop owners for whom it may be detrimental to have their business names displayed in Marathi? How can you force any private initiative to change its name to suit your purpose?
I can sit here and endlessly think of constructive ways and means to achieve your purpose. But of course, it is so much easier to break and destroy; it is so much more 'profitable' incensing a band of not very intelligent 'men' with nothing better to do in life, to go on a rampage and take out their frustration on people who actually work, call them your 'party workers' thus almost giving them a legitimate 'designation' allowing them to throw their weight around.
However, I really think the cherry on the cake was when your 'men' demanded that the Bombay Scottish school, a hundreds of years old institution, change its name to Mumbai Scottish. You are a genius, Mr Thackeray. I will not be surprised if tomorrow you send your 'men' to all public libraries and ask them to destroy all historical or age-old volumes which still mention 'Mumbai' as 'Bombay'.
With what guts do you think, Mr Thackeray, that you will be able to change a nation's history, an essential part of which is the English language, thanks to which now your compatriots can study in the best universities abroad, land profitable jobs, travel the world and communicate, read literature, and have such a big advantage over other Asian countries (completely underutilised, but this is a different subject). You are like a bully in a school yard, loathed solely because of your 'muscle power'. Only in your case this power is combined with lethal intelligence, able to manipulate people in following you in your destructive and power-hungry aspirations.
I will not be surprised if soon you demand Maharashtra's independence from the rest of India and proclaim yourself the king.

Monday, March 31, 2008

Just wasting time...





This little girl was blissfully playing with her own hands at the Kemps Corner traffic light, creating a little world of fun, all her own.



Sunday, February 17, 2008

Glimpses of Kala Ghoda








Once a year, in February, the heritage area of Kala Ghoda ("the black horse", named after a statue which is now in the Byculla Zoo of Bombay), transforms into a bustling non-traffic zone full of street stalls selling crafts and books, open air exhibitions and performances, and all kinds of cool stuff. I love this time of the year!

Thursday, February 14, 2008

Monday, February 11, 2008

A Day In The Life Of Bombay

- The fascist party of the Shiv Sena is at it again, beating up 'outsiders' and vandalising signs in English. Newspapers are overflowing with letters and interviews where people inanimously say that Bombay is for everyone and its beauty lies in its cosmopilitan natur. Anyone listening?

- a couple drowns (!!!) in the sea near Bandra Bandstand

- real estate prices are soaring - again

- 6 LeT men were arrested just before blowing up bombs at Churchgate station

- a headline in the newspaper says that in the 21st century shining India, child sacrifice (mainly girls) is rampant in West Bengol.

I am angry.

Sick to the stomach.

Speechless.

Furious.

Wondering.

Sad.

Then a phone call comes. Gurtaj tells me that cars on Bombay's busiest intersection all stopped so that a man can shift an injured pigeon from the middle of the road to the foot path.

I am hopeful.

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

Join the club!

There's a club in Bombay called Breach Candy. Right next to the hospital of the same name, it is THE place to be a member if you are a European passport holder in Bombay. Until a few years ago, membership was opened only to Europeans and it was dirt-cheap. But I refused to become a member because the whole concept seemed really racist to me. When I finally woke up and smelt the humungous salt water infinity pool, the first class gym and the crepes counter, membership fees had increased ten fold and the waiting period is a year or more. Anyway, my papers are still waiting for approval, and I had blissfully forgotten about it till last Sunday, when I went there for lunch with Steph, Karine, Jill and Sheerine. Apart from the obvious 'kicking myself' feeling, I realised something funny and surprising. Once again I felt how I juggle my life between two realities. First of all, it seemed that half of Paris has migrated to Breach Candy Club for a day. At the pool, dads in shorts were feeding babies, moms in itsy bitsy bikinis were sunbathing (one of them without qualms displaying a huge scar across her stomach, another couldn't care less that her legs were not waxed) or chatting with their best gay friends. Skins were all possible shades of white and pink. I was surprised to realise that I was in total sensorial shock! Had I become more Indian than I ever thought??? This public display of self freedom and comfort with one's own body suddenly felt so alien, like something from another era. In some corner of my mind something clicked - 'yes, you lived in Paris in the past and yes, that was your everyday!' and 'yes, now you live in a place where you wouldn't even dream of wearing sleeveless if your arms are not waxed, and where you would ask the pool boy to put your chair behind the bushes at the Bombay Gym, so that you can sunbathe in a bikini. Where you would rather pinch yourself before displaying affection publicly to your husband, forget about asking him to feed the baby while you are having a chocolate crepe with your friends'.
Then the conversation went about where to find organic beef, frozen blueberries and some complicated cheese. And about going back to Paris followed by tearful reunions with stilettos and clean streets.
I almost felt dizzy trying to juggle the conflicting feelings in my head. It was like I was hearing someone from the past, who was yet in my present and part of my present, yet my present could not be more different. Did you get it? Neither did I! Let's just say it was a funny reverse cultural shock.

Saturday, September 29, 2007

In a haze...


To me, there's maybe no other drink that symbolises partying in Bombay more than Old Monk rum. To quote an alcohol website:

"A velvet smooth dark rum with a hint of vanilla, it has an alcohol content of 42.8%. Honored the world over, Old Monk had been awarded gold medals at Monde World Selections since 1982. Its a classic 7 yr blended dark rum. With the first drop of Old Monk Rum, the sheer aroma of distilled cane sugar grown in lush green fields of India, stirs up the age old legend. Old Monk Rum is a form of the legendary 'Som-ras' of India's centuries old scriptures--The Drink of Gods and Lords of India."

Well, I can tell you I don't feel like a Goddess at all after last night's session with the monk at Bombay Gymkhana. I always drink it large, with Diet Coke and no ice. I always blame Ferzin and Gilles for getting me addicted to this drink when I was still a "good girl" in France. It's been my favourite ever since, although it is not considered "elegant" and "lady-like" to have rum and coke. For Indians, this is mostly a macho drink.

The only difference between drinking it then and now is that now I need not less than 12 hours to recover. And of course, the embarassing memories of jumping around the dance floor, "let's be honest" drunken conversations and throwing up (excuise my French). Well, I know that as much as I promise myself "never again", I will look for the naughty monk's company again next Friday!

Wednesday, August 29, 2007

A BAD DAY: How the dirty job is done!


It was one of those moments in life when the truth suddenly hits you in the face and you know your perception of certain things will never be the same. I was in my car commuting to work as usual, when I saw a worker being lowered in a manhole (or was it a sewer?) by a few others. He had stripped down to his underwear, and all he had for protection was a belt across his chest, attached to the rope, which was meant to lower him into the hole. No protective gear. No gloves. No helmet. No torch. No gum boots. No mask against the gases and stench down there. Wearing his own personal underwear bought with his own money. Obviously the other choice would have been his own clothes – and looking at the guy I am sure he doesn’t have that many. This is when it occurred to me that I have never seen a municipality worker – be it a sweeper or other, wearing work clothes or a uniform provided by the municipality (the most “impressive” feature I have seen in this regard is the light-reflective vests of the cleaners of the JJ flyover). I also remembered an exhibition of photographs held at a past Kala Ghoda festival, which my merciful brain had made me forget: It was about those who are in charge of cleaning Mumbai’s sewers. No visual detail was spared about the atrocities they have to wade through every day, the kind of waste they have to deal with, touch with their bare hands and then wash off in their own bathrooms (well, I guess it would be too much to even think that the municipality would give them service bathrooms. But hey, they should be happy they have a job at all, right?). So this is what really hit me: Yes, as tax payers we have all the right to complain about the bad conditions of our city, the dirt, the overflowing sewers. But what do we really expect if the dirty work is done by people like these, devoid of dignity, paid peanuts, and without even the simplest protective devices? No self-respecting wageworker in any developed country would have even considered going “down the drain” in his underwear, and what’s more, if asked, he would have slapped the respective authorities with a serious lawsuit. Not to speak about the outburst of public anger that would have swept the media.
Other examples:
- ladies sweep the roads in their own saris
- they are made to use very short brooms, so they have to be bent in two all the time
- in the absence of a broom, they are given two broken pieces of cardboard to squeeze rubbish into!
- on construction sites, women carry loads on their heads, men don't wear protective goggles when working with machines, and their kids are all over
- workers are made to step bare-footed in all kinds of stuff, including tar
- temporary road workers are "accomodated" in shanties, basically, they sleep on the street
- I have always wondered - why can't they work at night, when it's cooler?
HOW MUCH MORE CRUELER CAN WE GET??????????

A GOOD DAY: It's a dog's life!

Suresh hardly looks like a super human, but his life is somehow like an epic hero from a cartoon book. A company employee by day, at night he turns into a stray dogs rescuer. While other Mumbaiites are sleeping or partying, he treats wounds, answers emergency calls, cleans fleas and ticks, checks upon the “regulars”. On weekends, he conducts awareness programs in Dharavi (Asia's biggest slum). And dismisses my admiration with a simple “Someone has to do it, no?”

I met him for the first time when I needed help with an injured dog in my colony. And I never forgot the way he picked her up despite the foul smell of her wounds and the blood. I had never seen such a combination of compassion and cool professionalism. But this is all the Welfare of Stray Dogs is about.

Abodh, CEO of the WSD left a promising career to head the organization. An MBA from ITM Mumbai, he was the Customer Service Manager of DHL, on his way of becoming a Business Manager. One day he left it all, to everyone’s disbelief. The result of Abodh’s leadership is one of the most admired NGOs in Mumbai, providing first aid; programs for sterilization; immunization; adoption; education and awareness at schools, colleges and slums; rabies awareness and eradication. Counting 150 dedicated, unique individuals.

Daisy, a designer, heads the adoption program. Keith works at Mitsubishi, but volunteers every Saturday morning and lends them his four wheels. Pooja attends to customers during long hours at a call center and dedicates her free time to the cause. Prerna is a student… The list goes on… And then there is the fabulous secret weapon of the WSD - Dr Padam, a homeopath, who treats strays for free in her Saturday pet clinic and also attends to dogs in WSD’s kennel at Mahalaxhmi. This petite soft-spoken lady has treated humans, dogs and even a crocodile… She has cured a dog from distemper, a normally fatal disease, another dog from his injuries from a high rise fall, prescribes drops that delay cataract... She makes most of the lotions and potions in the volunteer’s first-aid kits. And homeopathy works wonders with dogs, it seems!

The dog’s personalities and backgrounds are as various as those of the volunteers. Sick and weak, Kalu landed up at Daisy’s home. With homeopathy, he completely recovered. Still looking miserable and suffering from convulsions, he made the stairs of Regal cinema his home. His looks make people call the WSD at least once daily. But beneath a weak exterior, Kalu is quite a character. His hobby is following people and has been spotted at places as remote as Nariman Point, Fountain, Churchgate, Marine Drive, Eros cinema. This wonderer now has a collar stating his “address” and that he is under WSD’s protection.

Ramesh is a 17 years old (he may not be alive anymore at the time you read this) who “preferred” sitting only on imported cars in his younger days. His “owners” – a family living on the pavement “adopted” him when their daughter was one. She is 18 now. They religiously administer the vitamins and other medication that Abodh leaves and call the WSD if there is a problem. “Yes, we live in a merciless city, but for every case of cruelty, I encounter 10 cases of compassion,” says Abodh. “Cruelty often stems from ignorance. People in Dharavi stone ill dogs scared that they will pass on diseases to their children or that they represent “evil”. But when they see Suresh treating the dogs, they help us themselves and call us when there is a problem. Every stray you see on the road has a “family” and mostly these are poor people taking care of the dogs as if they were their own.”

Like Arvind the shoe shiner at Eros cinema, who has 4-5 dogs around him at all times. He names them all after movies. Pretty (after “Pretty Woman”) is a sweet natured, fat yellow stray, suffering from incontinence. Then there is Tippu (Sultan), Bond (like the 007 agent) and of course Hrithik (Roshan, one of Bollywood's hottest actors!).

Or the dhaba workers behind Mantrayala who have “adopted” Sweetie and called the WSD for help when a car hit her. Or the countless people who have dropped Kalu back to his “home” at Regal in taxis, their own cars or scooters. Or the jain gentleman, a driver of a school bus who adopted Kareena, found in a garbage dump, and took her on the bus every day to hers and the children’s greatest delight. The heartwarming examples never end. And make me feel GOOD being a part of this city.