Once upon a rainy time

It is quite wonderful to sit in a taxi and look at the red brake lights of the cars blinking through the water droplets on the windshield. The peace and quiet that envelopes you is interrupted only by the wakeful snores of the taxi driver. And then suddenly over the bridge, I see the storm brewing at the horizon and that along with the wind in your hair brings to your heart a vague feeling of exhilaration. And then it starts. It rains cats and dogs and other species of domesticated animals. The sound of the raindrops thrashing against the road and the mist against my skin makes me happy that I chose to get out of office early today. Now I can attend calls from pesky colleagues and answer them with a, “ Hello? Hellllooo? I am out in the rain, will call when it stops.” You can actually expect them to understand. And so, I have the rest of the evening to myself and whomever I chose to spend it with. That’s when I make a call. “ Meet me downstairs.”
And sure enough when I get home, there she is waiting for me, a jacket in hand and an excited expression on face. We put on our jackets, hold on to our umbrellas, wrap our precious cell phones in a plastic bag. Thus fortified, we trudge through the rain as fast as we can. Somewhere in this rain, I hear a racket. I turn back to see a fire truck rushing to some place and suddenly I just can’t stop laughing. She looks at me with a puzzled expression, then catches sight of what I have seen and doubles up in laughter. And right there, the two of us, laughing like idiots in the middle of the road, we completely understand each other.
With all the wrestling with our umbrellas, we reach the beach quicker than I anticipated. There is thunder and lightning in the air. As we make our way through the wet sand, I find the most perfect looking seashell. We go down to the sea and stand for a while looking at our own shadows. The wind makes the umbrellas useless; water is running down our backs now. Slowly we see the tide is coming back up. So we scamper back up the rocks and on to the beach and run around for a bit. Then when we are tired and completely soaked, we sit down for a while and hunt for seashells. It is here I wonder, if I will feel so blissfully happy ever again.
Slowly the rains subside. Suddenly I have a feeling that we are intruding on the couple sitting a few feet away from us. Or that they are intruding on our time. We get up, shake off the sand and start for home. And somewhere in the middle of the long walk back home and the race up the stairs, it struck me that life is truly a beautiful thing, and it will give me chances to be this happy again and again till eternity. And when I feel the warm floor beneath my feet, I realize that all that’s left of this is experience is a seashell and the memory of her smile.

Train Travails

(Working Title: Chugga Chugga Bugga Bugga)

Having heard so much about trains in Mumbai, I thought neglecting this experience would be akin to not committing suicide at Suicide Point. And this decision of mine had nothing to do with the fact that the taxi drivers were starting to resemble Bank robbers. Now, I am not naïve. I know that it is very tough to get onto a train in peak hour traffic. You compete with roughly a million other souls for those 2 square inches of space which you might mistakenly assume are yours when you buy the ticket. So with due wariness you look for the Ladies Compartment of the train and practice you sprints and push-ups, warming up for the ordeal of getting on to one.

A sudden surge of the crowd towards some specific places makes it plain when and where the door is anticipated. When the train stops and you try to get on, you suddenly feel around 15 elbows somewhere in the vicinity of your guts and ribs. This is the first time you notice the funny ostrich like walk most women here have developed here in order to make sure that any competitor has a tough time getting to breathe let alone get on to the train. Once you get over the pain you realize all your worry was useless. All you had to do was stand on the platform and the wave of humanity will carry you onto the train. Now since the train is packed like a tin of sardines, you don’t even have to hold on to anything. All the meritorious features of train travel which no one ever talks about suddenly come true in front of your eyes.

But then finally you get a seat next to a woman who looks like she could scare away the various chintu rajans and his brothers and various associates with one sidelong glance. But then she smiles encouragingly baring dental equipment which seems to be entirely made of rotting wood. You also notice that she is wearing the enticing scent of fresh garlic with a hint of 2 day old fish. And obviously you cannot express you compliments because the 2 aunties standing next to you have decided to start a shouting match on who touched whom first and how exactly the touch should be interpreted now that section 377 has been repealed and all else has been drowned in those decibels. I have a feeling that a mirror may put their fears to rest, but I am not sure I like wearing headgear made out of mirror shards. That could hurt the baby who was busy kicking my head with all the might in his tiny little body. He’s going to grow up and become the next Khali.

This is where some lady who resembles Mayawati comes to you and authoritatively asks you,” Kuthe?” (roughly translated to “Where?”) She wants to know where you will get off so that she can take your place after you. Now somehow I resist the urge to say, “Here” Or “Wherever you want me to.” or “I could jump off the train now if you want,” and say “Umm… Dadar.” Now note, when I get up I have to make sure, that she takes my place, or else she will throw a tantrum of epic proportions, matched only by her lookalike.

(To be continued…)


P.S. On a separate note, before I forget let me also remind the reader that during the rainy season the Indian Railways also has special Break your Neck on the Stairs Today offers going on. In this their over bridges are amply aided by the monsoons. Do not forget to try at a station near you.

Mumbai: Maximum Shitty.

Dream city : The oxymoron used for the worlds largest sewage system. I mean come on, how can anyone call a place where the majority lives in matchboxes, a dream city? And no, by that I do not refer to the matchbox like apartments in which majority of the human population of Mumbai s human populace lives in. I meant that the mice are the majority stakeholders of this city. It is no wonder then that filth seems to form an integral part of the social fabric here. Which is why when a broker( now apparently called Consultants – I cannot decide if Mckinzey employees should be sad or happy about that) calls a house earth-shatteringly good, you can expect a hellhole with an asbestos sheet for a roof, built sometime in the Mughal era and last cleaned before the British left India.
Let us not dwell on filth, let us turn instead to rain. For filth brings us invariably to rains. Or at least in Mumbai it does. Trudging through all the filth of Mumbai, conveniently dissolved in rainwater so that the absorption by your skin and clothes is facilitated, is the richest experience this city can boast of. What can be more fun than getting stuck in office, because you do not feel like stepping into diluted imported dog shit, and playing antakshari with your Boss? Also, just FYI- it rains horizontally here. So just crossing a road with an umbrella in hand meant that I was soaked from shoe sole to spectacle frames. And by now that has happened so many times that I fully expect to find fish living in my shoes. So when in the city in Monsoon season, be sure to look up the Met predictions before you leave for anywhere( And I mean anywhere. Even that panwalas place next door) If it says Heavy to very Heavy( Oh how I miss the “Habby” pronunciation of Calcutta(No, not really)), you are safe. All trace of moisture will be wiped out by the sun. But if the prediction says Sunny climate expected, it will rain enough to bring the trains of the city and hence the city itself to a standstill.
Everything in the nightmare realm called Mumbai is 5 minutes away. Stand somewhere near Colaba( the southern most tip of Mumbai) and ask how to far off Borivali(the northern most tip) is, the average friendly Mumabikar will tell you,” Borivali? Bas 5 minutes. Walking.”(You’ve got to get the tone right.) OK so I am exaggerating. But seriously, if someone in Mumbai tells you that you have to walk 5 minutes to get somewhere, TAKE A CAB. Otherwise you will walk for half an hour and spot the building where they asked you to make the first of 5 left and 3 right turns.
But then you convince yourself that this is only because the people here walk fast. Really fast. Infact they seem to scramble like ants. And essentially, Mumbai is a city of worker ants. For I doubt the travel leaves much time for anything except work. This shouldn’t really bother me since I don’t really have a life, but what troubles me is that now I don’t even have a chance to have a life.