LOOSE - PANTS & LAPTOP - BABA

I use it to travel to my office every day. Still I have written nothing about it till date. Iam talking about the Mumbai local trains.

Since "Slum Dog milionaire" succeded so well talking about Mumbai and Poverty, let me try and emulate; talking about 'Mumbai Locals'.

"Slum dogs on locals " - hey that sounds better. The Danny Boyles of the world, better listen....pssst ....read what this man writes. A real creative genius at work.

Ok , back to the business of writing.

Whats so great about a suburban train system? Though I had heard stories about the Mumbai Local trains before coming to Mumbai, my experience in them sort of clarified the picture and blew away some myths too.

Though the trains run through the city and is owned by the Indian Railways, there are a different set of rules that sort of govern the lives travelling inside. Rules by convention, unwritten , but accepted without a murmur. The rules that create the scenes being played out inside the compartments. Rules that are different from the Bombay Municipal Corporation ones and beyond the IPC (Indian Penal Code)

From here on we go scene by scene. Like shakespeare.

Tararamparara.............(the curtain rises...)

Scene 1. Second class compartment of 8.08 am local to Church gate. Three people seated on a three seater. Whats so great about it? Nothing.

The fourth fellow jumps in, slightly ahead of the population explosion that is about to happen at the door, as the train enters the platform. He gestures to the three already seated to push against each other so that he has his rightful place of placing a single ass at the fourth place. After much shoving, pushing , feigned ass movements, skirmishes etc an equilibrium is reached, where- in the fourth fellow is on constant brownian movements while holding on to his precious one assed position.

By the way in the first class , the same scene should be enacted sans the fourth fellow who is banned there. Only three here in a three seater. But the first fellow is in trouble there. How?

This is how. The seats are cushioned here. But by their constant use the edges are higher (by less usage) as compared to other places. So the window seated fellow gets a feeling akin to sitting on the kerb with one ass 5 inches higher on the road and the other ass (-)5 inches on the ground.

Hey why did you pay higher and get into the I class yaar? To get your already split ass all the more split?

One more thing which reflects the broad mindedness of us Indians here.

Eventhough there are only three on a three seater in the first class, still the first two fellows try their level best in a concerted manner so that the last guy is always on tenter hooks and is made to appreciate their benevolence in keeping him seated fully rather than half assed.

Scene 2. The Seat Mafia ?

Like any place else in India - mob is strength.

As the 8.08 local arrives , 7 people block 25 others from entering. 5 from the defense related group of 7 , raid the vacant seats. After the capture, 'the five' guard the territory till the other 7 arrive. 7+5= 12 enjoy their ride every day. 25+ another 50 fuckers remain so through out their life. The Genghiz Khan like mobs urinate to demarcate their territory and the others sniff and leave with their tail between their legs.

Scene 3. Camaraderie.

After capturing their respective territories - these mobs carry on with their love for each other , and private celebrations. Hah..! how true that its said that the guys who travel togather on the trains are great fellow beings.

That the comrades on the mumbai locals are very thick friends is what the legendary stories are all about.

Once one of them slips through and comes under wheels of the train.

The others carry on as nothing has ever happened. Camaraderie, my foot.

But thats my mistake.

Actually here I should not be talking about camaraderie but of another great charactaristic of the mumbai populace- resilience. THE RESILIENT MUMBAI . Exactly as the newspapers screamed right after the 2006 train bombings, as also after the terrorists walked in and ..and....fu.... everyone around in 2008.

Unperturbed they carry on and on after each catastrophe. Thats not being insensitive, but......

yeah , TRULY RESILIENT.....

Scene 4 : The video Coach

"Which compartment are you in daily? I have never met you ". My friend enquired.

"First class at the front" I reply .

" Iam usually in the video coach" he says.

"Video Coach ? Where's that?" Iam confused.

"Come I shall show you today" he says with a sly smile.

We jump into the rear end first class cabin, adjoining the ladies first class.

"There- thats your video and playing too", my friend said gesturing towards the ladies cabin transparently visible through the open spaces between the two cabins.

"Nice name I said", half thrilled half shy and finally sitting on the seat looking away from the video. My guilt overcame my thrill perhaps. It may take me a while longer to get used to the convention.

The convention - the seats facing the video gets filled first. Mind you, I have observed, the same is the case in 'the video' too. Thats when I realised that 'they' are our video and 'we' are their video. Not only our's but their's too is a video coach. While the males are more or less glued to their 'video', females appear preoccupied though their stiffness and mannerisms probably suggest being hooked to the video.

So that much for the video coach.

Epilogue - Loose Pants and Laptop Baba

I belonged to their group once. For a short while. Seat capturing, camaraderie and all.

Laptop baba worked away on his laptop, once he was seated.

Loose pants never had a tight or correct fitting pants. Loose pants retired from service a shortwhile later and left for Nagpur, his native, ofcourse after the customary exchange of all promises to keep in touch. He disappeared from our world.

Laptop Baba was probabaly undone by his laptop. He may have tried working on his laptop while driving. He shifted to another world.

I left the group after that. Others are still carrying on - Resilience.

I retired to another corner of the local train, switched off the video, and covered myself over with newspapers, magazines and books.

IAM MY WIFE - NOT YET

So I ask my wife " Would you choose me in our next birth too?"

" If Iam the husband, that is.” She replies matter of factly and seemed prepared, as always ladies are. You just cannot surprise them, even with a gift. But I never tried that - to be honest.

Iam confused. Whether to accept the proposal for the next birth. As of now the company was running smoothly as far as I was concerned.

This was a new spanner in the works - a googly.

I sent one flipper across “ How does it matter? We have each other’s company so lets continue our status quo”

It went through the covers for a four “ That’s what , since it does not matter lets have a role reversal for a change” , she said.

“ It shall be my pleasure then to teach you a thing or two…. etc. she continued with the follow through for the cover drive.

“ But then you are doing the same now too……”

But quickly I relinquished the body line style of bowling. That will get me no-where and I will have to become my wife next time around.

“ Well….what If I correct myself this time ? Can I retain my place in the squad next time?”
“ You can never correct yourself “. “You will be - YOU” .

Now only the mercy plea remained, after the judgement.

“Help me change….” I plead.

That’s when she surprised me again “ Well ….since you cannot be changed and since I like it that way – I agree for the next term too”

“On the other hand since you announced that you love me, so that’s another reason”

“….and when did I do that? “ I ask perplexed.

“ when you thought hard to find a reason to continue with me next time around.”

"A cup of tea please". I order, satisfied at retaining my position for the next term too.

With the background music from the kitchen, my eyes go back once again to the news paper , preparing to enjoying another lazy Sunday morning.

Meanwhile my son all of three years, sitting beside me and oblivious of the plans for the next birth and trying to imitate his father now, is peering hard at a news paper held upside down.

Thats a wonderful team I guess.

FROM MY SHELF

BRIDA
The same mystic story like "The Alchemist" with some message, but much blander , more convoluted- may be unnecessarily even. May be a great book I dont know, but it has taken away the apetite fromme for any more Coelho books.






YOU ARE HERE - MEENAKSHI REDDY MADHAVAN
Ass, Booze and Cleavages almost everywhere. An upmarket- Bizzarre at times and a spoilt brat- who lacks a good whack- on her behind, kind of story . A convoluted girlie story in an AWESOME flood of words. A modern and much extroverted Kamala Das- suraiyya? A great first book by a twenty and a lot many things youngster

A must read. Unsually fast moving Booker prize winning novel. Powerful usage of simple words. Pick it up once and I promise, you will never keep it down. Describes scenes as intricately and deeply as "The God of small things" reflecting the observation power of a real author. But this is about a much broad based India (than a niche India as in the "God of...") and much thought provoking. All in all, a simple story attempting to say much more than the story hence a great effort.

ABOUT SLUM DOG & OTHER DOGS

I dont intend to see the film. Atleast not now.

I have not taken sides with the opposition to 'The Slum Doggers'. No. Also I dont know much about the issues, controversies and mud slinging matches going on. In fact Iam wearing a glazed look of boredom , tired of yet another story of yet another man rising up from rags to riches. Its like - While Jesus remains the same , photographs differ. Iam not for watching the crucification picturised in a trendy way - a recrucification and a much oscarified re-resurrection of the theme.

The usage 'Slum Dog' is for accentuating the penury- ofcourse, I understand.

But what about the real dogs? Do they differ? I mean - are the slum dogs different from the Posh South Mumbai dogs. I dont mean the Rottwielers and Alsatians guarding those mansions nor the poodles and poms helping the matrons exhibit their care and concern by just the rub of a mane along with an upmarket "Watchooo doing"? "How Cho-Chweeeet" to the pom who has a bit of its toungue hanging outside.

I refer to those breed- less, non- pedigreed, short haired, available in a few non-mettallic basic colours, omni present and four legged things. Does it matter to them whether they wait outside the 'Khan-ka- kabab' on the mud sloshed street with pan stains on the walls or outside the spanky "Oberoi trident"?

True- the interclass comparisons between the privileged poodles , Daschunds or Dalmatians with that of their under privileged brethren does make some sense about the forbes listed dogs and the BPL dogs. But apart from that, does it really matter if , say for example, a middle class dog stays at Bandra or Dharavi? It complicates matters that we just cant ask any dog for its opinion. More over they are least bothered of what we think of them.

Out of the three unavoidables for our politicians , Roti, Kapda and Makan , dogs dig for only one - the first one - thats liberating I should say.

That makes me examine their food habits. Ofcourse the forbes fellows get their specially prepared food. But the BPL guys are not too worse off either, with their kind of- 'off the street fast food'. Mind you both groups wouldnt mind eating from each others plates - food is food. Branding is not an issue. I mean, Pizzas are not preferred above Idlis. They sort of go as per - first served first eaten basis , dont they? With the exception that a bone in the dish, anywhere, can become a bone of contention among them.

Coming next is the breed thing. Daschunds, Labradors and their kind, survive and thrive anywhere 'if well looked after', though ideally speaking they look real good along side the lovely ladies . The local 'hounds' who roam the street can survive anywhere i guess. well dressed ladies dont attract them as much as ladies in the kitchen do.

Thats a lot of non-stop nonsense I guess.... So let me stop now. Let the posh dogs, the slum dogs and all other types of dogs lie as they are and let me also take my quota of shut eye plus dreams.

Tongue hanging out , ears half upright, nose slightly twitching , tail in the auto-swat-fly mode; the blogging dog sleeps.

...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.......

VISION 20-20. KABADDI FOR ALL

It is new year now i.e 2010.
And no, I have'nt blown my top.

2010 and January. Its with great trepidation that I Open the morning news paper.

Had I won the Padma Shri ? or generally speaking any of the Padma awards.

I have done nothing. But cant say- I may be the chosen one. So better read the paper carefully and be prepared for - "Why were you given the award?"

Should I try and get some books of accounts from the garment exporter friend of mine? He may not part with the same though , for even he is anxious about the Padma things, what with the shawl exporter getting 'Padma-ed' last time.

The shawl guy would surely have initially thought that the President of India might be mocking at him for the bad quality shawl he sold her last. What a Padma way to take revenge !!

You got another way to get picked though.

Here it is step wise:

Step 1. Learn Karate, and do a lot of excersice. (By the way Iam a brown belt . Only excersice left for me now)

Step 2. Keep a stone face ,for God's Sake, even while acting and then you will manage to be a called an actor and a fantastic one at that too. Whether its a Singhh or Kingg or a Beggar its all the same ,like the local trains, No matter what -crowd assured.

Some guys have succeded the above mentioned way before. Box office collections touched record highs of around 45 crore in the first fortnight. Whats your Padma thing against a few strategically spread box office good will.

Had 'Dhara singh' learnt this technique Iam sure he would have been awarded Padma too for his contribution to 'Nuclear Physics'. What the heck - can be contributions to Odissi also.

But then there is a different clan of men who while fighting for their country, unselfishly , get in to the Padma Vyuh, compulsarily. Year after year. Man after man. After all the common man who pays for the tickets in the stadia, count a lot and what about the ads. This 'industrial good will' too probably spreads iteself around. Awards have to come.

Boxers are a different story - they get stunned outside the ring too. Or may be this is a ring where victors hands are raised before the opponent enters the arena. Poor chaps were left holding their gloves. They should try kabaddi next time. Wrestlers , the same story, and more suited for Kabaddi.

With most Indians going for kabaddi , we should look at a new system for our Padma awards - auctions. The bid-money atleast will help to roll out the bail out packages fast.

That way the highest bidder is happy that he has won the Padmashri in a transparent manner and ofcourse the rest of the Indians can continue with their kabaddi knowing fully well their incapability.

THE FOOL

Children born to some brilliant fathers happen to be equally sparkling fools. Venkat was one such. A typical Tamil Bramhin with all the accent and everything. While his father was an IIT alumnus, he unwittingly removed the chromosomal brains before passing on the buffer to his son.

His father being an IIT topper too, Venkat's dreams automatically were filled with his own 'coming soon' brilliant IIT days. Often he held his dream filled head high during the day time too. His head being high in the clouds he failed to notice what happened on the ground.

"Physics - failed"

"Maths - "failed"

said the 11th standard scoreboard.

The shift was quick and decisive. Venkat was transplanted from ICSE to state board.As per Venkat his "father had deliberately poured water over his IIT ian dreams". His father took it as "pouring water over the fire before it became a forest fire". Venkat was right about someone 'pouring water'.

Water or not Venkat's worries were far from over. What he couldnt guage was, why inspite of coming from ICSE were there still so many of them above his grades ? Ultimaltely he arrived at an ingenuous answer - the brain behind those blinking eyes said , " The questions being not tough enough the mediocre top the charts where as the future IIT-ians find no challenge to perform.

By this time around venkat's father was very clear about the shape of things to come. He got himself a hefty insurance policy and grumbled much more than before, much to the discomfort of his wife.

Meanwhile Venkat contracted some expensive habits. Though he cleared each paper at school , like the high jumper's Fosberry flop - clearing the bar by millimeters, he kept collecting all available IIT - JEE study material. What was not available nearby was promptly ordered VPP. Value Paid By Post - by his father.

While his father read news paper, Venkat flopped on the sofa directly opposite and went through the motions of going through the IIT-JEE material.

"Some of these solutions given are obviously wrong" - Venkat expert commented, more to himself but loudly.

No new solutions were arrived at, nothing happened. But as the expert comments became more frequent, the news paper along with Venkat's father travelled to the verandah.

Venkat himself read the newspapers rarely. But when he did, he preffered to read something connected with the IITs, or atleast technology.

But with the academic draw backs and all, Venkat carried some positive trends. For one - he was liked by all. Teachers who marked him average in exams, still entrusted him with important school projects.They trusted him. His classmates came alive around him and missed him when he remained absent. They all liked him.

All said and done , the moment of reckoning had arrived. The entrance results were out one by one. As his friends left for the various professional colleges around the country - expanding their horizon, Venkat went deeper into his shell. Many a days he never ventured out of his room. Though his friends came home on vacations, Venkat avoided them. Now he belonged to a different and definitely lower world. His friends too had added many a new name to their list of friends and hence had little spare time for venkat. The world outside his home had started forgetting him.

His family kept him engaged by making him join the local college. He did humanities. Though his dreams, created by himself, lay shattered he still managed to do the usual Fosberry flops in his exams. He did a Post graduate degree later on because he had nothing else to do and they were ready to admit him even with his low second class for the fee they will receive.

Under pressure from allround he kept applying for jobs. After long, a small start up IT company offered him a position in their HR department. Nothing great, still he wanted to get away. Away from everyone and everything.

This was in the early 1990's.

THE TOPPER

I too had lost touch with venkat. As my father was transferred we had moved on while Venkat's entrance preparations were in full swing. Venkat had been a very good friend of mine. But my ability to sustain friends over a period of time has always been suspect. Time - sort of consumes them and leaving just the gap for me.

A hell lot of water had flown under the bridge since then.

************************************

I was waiting in the departure lounge of Mumbai domestic for the 9.00 pm flight to Bangalore. A stop over for a day with a few long lost friends before moving on to Cochin.

The plump guy who was checking in at the airways desk in the executive class looked vaguely familiar. "That happens always" I said to myself.

I shifted my gaze to a more comfortable area of a lady clad in jeans.

The man had finished checking in and turned around.

He certainly looked familiar. But I couldnt locate him. As he walked past me , I sniffed the air . Sometimes the perfumes and scents help you to figure things out.

No. It didnt help now.

Instead the lady in jeans (now standing beside me) got suspicious. She brought out a shawl from her bag and covered herself over. I had that sick feeling yet again. And she must have felt the same about me - Sick.

As curiosity always gets the better of me, I decided to try another line. I walked past the plump gentleman (now seated) and peered at his name plate, that i had noticed before, on his blazer (remnant of some recent meeting from where he must have rushed). After all I was in safer territory- he will not atleast cover himself with a shawl.

"Venkat Subramaniam............." it said, along with the name of his company.

I tried to fix a moustache and a stitch mark near the lip, on to the face of 'the Venkat ' whom I had known some good 20 years back. I made the face a bit chubby and wrinkled it here and there.

Yes - certainly possible !!

since Iam already used to putting my foot in my mouth and since Venkat was not a lady- I apporoached the plump, jovial looking fellow.

"Hi" I said.

"Hi...." he replied , not sure of whats coming.

But I guess my face must have started to register, as some figment of pleasure and familiarity had started appearing somewhere at the corners of his face.

"Are u Venkat from Bhavans, Cochin......errr..1986 batch" ?

"Yes, thats right" he said

"Iam........" I said. His face shone with recognition and pleasure now.

The stewardess was kind enough to put me alongside Venkat in the executive class, because he being a privileged executive class 'frequent flier', they would have brought the captain himself , caught and bound, if he wanted to have a chat. I hoped the lady in the jeans would have noticed my status change to 'executive class'.

The sparsely occupied executive class allowed us to fill each other up , animatedly, about all those intervening years, without difficulty. The bald man on the other side of the aisle had started to snore and the portly lady two rows behind us was totally unconcerned.

"Yes, those were really dark years; sort of pre- renaissance I should say" he admitted.

"Almost 7 of them" he added

I nodded. Just to acknowledge the dark days that he had. But I could never have fathomed the depths to which he had sunk in those days.

Suddenly he pressed the overhead button summoning the stewardess. He asked her to pass him his brief case from the overhead baggage hold, which she did. He quickly opened the same and brought out something.

"Have a look at this" he said handing over to me a strip of tablets.

"Whats this"? I asked. The strip was empty , the hollows for holding the tablets were hollow and a bit flattened. The empty strip was of becosules, and must have been atleast a decade old.

"That strip once contained a couple of Potassium Cyanide capsules, he stated. His face still and taut. You know Raghav the Jeweller? I got it from his son."

Stunned , I could only ask him, "why?"

"I wanted to end it all. It was too painful. I was alone and there was no point. I carried the tabs around for almost a year, everynight I decided to postpone it by a day. A life taken on lease from myself on a daily basis"

An awkward silence fell upon us. Words were too shallow to give meanings.

"well..." he said to break the silence and ofcourse to bring himself back from those days, the pain of which was still evident from his face.

"Well, my company is lucky though, since that was the only thing I procrastinated - ever" this time he smiled.

"You came along way since then" I sort of complimented him.

"Yes, and whats more I now participate in our recruitment from IITs." he laughed. I joined weakly as I was not sure about rousing his emotions on the IITs once again.

His likeability among his friends and teachers once had truly reflected his Human Resource management abilities. He had indeed come a long way. Also he had joined the company when it was only his size. Later it grew phenomenally and took him to heavenly heights.

The IT start up whose top echelons that now he occupied was 'Infosyx'.

We exchanged our cards as we came out of the bangalore airport.

"Do come home before you leave Bangalore" he invited.

"Certainly, I shall be able to meet uncle and aunty too that way" I said.

A salwar clad women emerged from the crowd that had collected at the entrance to receive the arriving passengers.

"Meet my wife Aarti" Venkat introduced. After pleasentries and promises to visit each other we parted.

As venkat was slipping in to the passenger side of his Honda City, he said " By the way Aarti did her BTech from IIT chennai" He smiled mischievously at me.

As I waited for my turn at the taxi stand, ruminating on the events of the day, the jeans clad woman appeared . She still had the shawl wound around her tightly.

She was not taking any chances - for the night seemed to be bad, and what with the man who sniffed and hopped classes being around too.

AARU THE BARBER

My first visit to a barber, as far as I can remember, was around the age of 6 years. Not that I had my first haircut then, but because prior to that the barbers used to come to our home. Not our home really, but our ancestral home. Since all my cousins were scared of a haircut, they used to bawl out (I dont remember my being scared though) on the sight of a barber. The only person who could possibly create a conducive atmosphere in us for a haricut was our grand father. I dont know how he did it, but he inspired courage and confidence in us.

The barber was 'Aaru'. The name probabaly was a short form of the Tamil name Arumugam - Iam guessing I guess. Aaru would be pre-informed of our arrival at the ancestral house and he was sort of hijacked out of his road side saloon by my uncle, on our arrival. Some half cut heads and lathered up chins were left in the care of his assistants.

Aaru himself was a perfectly groomed guy. Not even a hint of stubble and a smiling face. He too considered the hijack a pleasurable one, for the free ride he got on my uncles scooter (A Lambretta which is still in running condition). The pay for the mass haircuts at our place was not bad either.

By the time Aaru and Uncle vroomed in, all arrangements would have been made. We would have been given a lovely briefing on the beauty of a haricut and we would almost be looking forward to having one. My uncle too enjoyed the scene. Either because he was slowly going bald and hence he had a sadistic pleasure in seeing people loosing hair or because he didnt like to be evicted from his room and looked upon our hair loss as a revenge.

Ah! thats another part. After sending him on the mission of trapping Aaru, grand father would immediately set himelf upon converting Uncle's room, overlooking the front garden, in to a saloon. Thus our hair growth was sort of a timer for Uncle's temporary loss of residence. Hence when ever he visited us, he casually guaged, the thickness and length of our hair by running his hand through our hair.

Aaru went snip snip snip, while we sat on grandfather's lap one by one, he himself being seated on his massive leather upholstered chair. The recitals of stories to us and the discussions on local happenings with Aaru went side by side. Uncle fidgetted a twenty feet away, while seemingly cleaning the spark plug of the lambretta.

With all heads cleaned and ready for a bath, Aaru wound up his work to start a sumptuous tiffin along with piping tea. Before he left he would have been secretly and handsomely rewarded for his neat job. The exact denomination of exchange though a secret, it brought pleasure on both faces, the giver and taker. Both the service provider and the customer were happy.

As I grew up, I lost touch with this 'captive form of hairstyling' and I lost my grand father too when I was around nine years. But Aaru is still around but with poor eye sight and a weather beaten appearance, somewhat like the relics of Mohenjodaro and Harappa. His lieutenants have fully taken over the saloon - a much refurbished one now and flanked by a Reliance fresh store. The remuneration is no longer a secret - people pay as per the tariff list and strictly no house visits. The road infront of his saloon has widened and the volvos, fords and Hyundais passing by are not few. Aaru's son manages the daily collection ,material supply and recruitment at the saloon along with the realty brokerage firm that he runs. I dont know if he knows hair styling but he certainly has inherited the smile and the stubble free perfect grooming.

As for Aaru he sits till early afternoon on the porch of his shop with a welcoming smile. A symbolic 'father of the shop' kind of a thing.