MUmbai Diaries

                          Realizations, they come when you expect them the least. Always, I wondered, what’s the point about going to far off places, about new experiences, and all those artists writing about them. For I always thought , the best way was to just sit and scribble, and let your heart out. But then the weekend, Mumbai, endowed me with whole new aspect of extravaganza, of what writing can be.

                           Hope, the sole reason, the pillar on which half, no more than half. No rather the whole world survives. For some its about studies, to others its about money, and to a special class of people, perhaps the most prevailing and the most prominent ones, hope is all about living another day, rather passing, SURVIVING .      

                        Mumbai, Bombay, the theater of dreams, where the world’s most stunning turn of events happens. From rags to riches and , and ,and  down the hill like an avalanche too. Millions of people, with their billions of dreams, ride down to this city, with their HOPE, of making it grand.

                        I was always habituated to hear how happening the city was, how you could enjoy your life to fullest on your small trips and et cetera et cetera. Indeed all the fun part I hear is true, it is supposed to be true after all It is Mumbai. But seems like all of them haven’t yet seen the other, more darker side of it.

                        Let me make it more simple in case you are wondering where I am heading to. have you ever bothered, sitting in those local carriages, to look at the guy, dressed in formals, trying to sell you wallets, the ones which have a NIKE or REEBOK symbol over them, for just 15 rupees, His face remains the same always, even when he’s proclaiming his arrival, plain, emotion less. And then when he reaches till the last seat, and sees no chance of landing a deal, there goes his hand into his bag. One by one, he pulls out, one by one, all the remaining wallets. Black, brown, again black and brown. This goes on until the last one has been singled out. And then, clutching them, in between his fingers, he stares them, but still, the eyes are pale, the face is plain, devoid of any colors. Still I am wondering and trying  to figure out, what was he thinking, how much can he sell so that he can fill his own.

                        And I guess, You wouldn’t even would have noticed all those traders, at Linking road, who use all those modus operandi, doesn’t matter f it’s the fake accent to attract the African tourists, their not-so-dance-like dance moves, or their typical Indian style announcements of sale. There was this market, full of muslim traders, who even in this race with the life situation were keeping alive their tradition of Roza. I recall  Nizam, age 19, who was at one of those shops. You must all know, shopping with out bargaining is impossible. And while I was trying him to go down with the prices, he was requesting me to at least be with the market price. He says,”Is mein to mera kya hoga bhai. 1400 mahine ka bhada hai dukan ka, thoda bahut mujhe bhi kamana hai. Tumhe itne mein dunga to main kya khaunga. Aur upar se abhi to Ramzzan hai, roz 100 rupaiya to aise hi kharaz ho jata hai, Kuch to mera maan rakho mere bhai,”. All off and little more of that made me sit with him, and talk, probably for an hour of so. He wanted to be an enginner, Scored 88% in HSC, But now was there, amongst dust , sweat and disappointment,

                        The night life, as exciting it sounds, has more devastating stories. The sex workers, whom most of us consider untouchables, are the ones who make their families churn. They sometimes need some one to talk to, to share stuff, its not always about sex for them. Great friends they make. And those tea-coffee vendors on cycles who kill their sleeps at night, just to make sure they can cash in on those brats who would just set out during nights just for fun or just cause they can’t sleep. I met one such guy. His first day, rather night, on the streets of Mumbai,  and me the first customer. Talking in half broken hindi, the tamilian guy was doing as much as he could, just to impress me and my friends, and the way he treated the 50 rupee note we gave him, made me realize…..  Life ain’t that easy for everyone.

                        And last but not the least, the train travel again. Eunuch, or lets say Hijras, as you my recognize  them. They come , the ask for money , they bless if you give, curse if you don’t. After that, no idea, I would tell you. After that they meet the cops. Those cops, who are bound to protect us , they and everyone> and what do they do, they literally snatch away their money, and just hurl abuses and then walk away. Behind, she cries, and no one listens. Then as the train moves, I see her wiping the tears with the far enf of her pallu, getting hold of the next guy she gets, pinching him, clapping, and trying to get whatever she can, Even a penny would do. Even she would have some one to look after. Every one has their own Burdens.

                        Hope, as I said. Its all about survival for all of them, while we sit and talk about the ride on the sea link, or the burgers at KFC. And I always  thought everything was fair in life, like two sides of a coin. Seems like it isn’t that way though.