You got a fast car? Park it!

“Keep your eyes on the road, your hands upon the wheel

Keep your eyes on the road, your hands upon the wheel

Yeah, we're goin' to the roadhouse

Gonna have a real

Good time

Yeah, back at the roadhouse they got some bungalows

Yeah, back at the roadhouse they got some bungalows

The next door people

Like to go down slow

Let it roll, baby, roll

Let it roll, baby, roll

Let it roll, baby, roll

Let it roll, all night long”

“All night long, all night LONG!” sang the four of them. Screamed rather. The clock struck 2.The speedometer 120. The accelerator floored. Wind bellowed in from the open windows. Hardly a word could be heard. Everything flashed past. Adrenalin pumped. The car revved and peaked. They were drunk on speed. It seemed so much fun it had to be illegal. Speed. Thrill. Rush. Blur!

The car suddenly swerved at the precise moment. If it hadn’t, the wheels would have licked a little speed-breaker by the footpath. The tiny rock, covered in flesh, looked mysteriously like live human feet. On both sides of windows was the humungous island of affluence, and right in the middle, a fast street that several consider their living room, kitchen and ‘sundaas’ at sundown.

But for that quick jerk, he could have taken a life, and charged, as per law, with culpable homicide. Culpable-blameworthy; homicide-killing. He was both lucky and sober, though he learnt; you’d neither be drunk nor rash to be the negligent driver possessed by gods of death on such streets.

He could have mowed down people while they were sleeping in their homes. He would have rammed into the pavement. He would have otherwise hurt a footpath and himself; gone to the police, or to the hospital. But the pavement was a bedroom for six. The issue with illegitimate villages openly kissing the sides of already unplanned, pre-modern cities is that bullock-carts haven’t replaced cars yet. They must.

Delhi, so far as my eyes go, has no cabs. Kolkata, of what I’ve heard has no roads. And Chennai, from what I could observe, has no drunks either behind or under the wheel. So Bombay by far has the worst deal. And then there are graveyard taxis where you can see the ground beneath your feet, the same ones that will refuse you their services for a distance too short; feather-weight auto-rickshaws that can fly off the tracks at the touch of an insect. Potholes for roads, the never ending construction, corrupt police officers. The list - endless.

All this for one peaceful drive. One relaxing peaceful drive. Your need for speed. The best remedy for all your blues. But if unfortunately you are unlucky enough to be a Bombay-ite spare that thought.

‘Take me down to the paradise city

Where the grass is green

And the girls are pretty

Take me home

Oh, won't you please take me home’

So sang Axl Rose. But on these roads good luck reaching there!

Slumdog.You?

His is a relatively posh address. Firstly, his place warms up to the Arabian Sea on all sides, and not from a particular corner of a certain room as most sea-view apartments in Mumbai do. He lives in a neighbourhood where auto-rickshaws don’t go. His boulevard adorns only homes which Bollywood stars, Business honchos and corrupt babus can afford. The horizon boasts of outlines of Skyscrapers kissing the skies on one end and an endless expanse of the Arabian Sea in all its hues on the other. His locality is dotted with meticulously manicured gardens and sophisticated boutiques run by posh, hot and mostly eccentric women. It’s at a neat intersection from where the promise of a modern city starts. Seeing this you wouldn’t be foolish to think that finally our politicos have lived up to their promise of making our city “world-class”.

Most would prefer his tony life-style on the beach-front near the heart of the city. Few can afford it the way he can. He has the moonlit sky for a roof, and he’s never bothered to pay heavy mortgage or life-threatening rent for his place. He wakes up to greet two separate sky-lines of Mumbai every morning: ones to his left make the mid-town districts; to his right are high-rises that carefully hide the squalour that stretches for miles beyond.

His comes across as a chatty, lively, relaxed, confident yet quaint youth. He carries an entry level Nokia handset. Just the other day he was showing off his newly acquire debit card. Like most Indian youths he is passionate about cricket and you’d spot him in his Indian jersey playing cricket every Sunday evening. You’d easily mistake him for just another city-slacker from the labyrinth of the city’s middleclass who dot the college campuses across the city. He also has a job to boast of. He works as an assistant peon in an office nearby and he doesn’t have to travel halfway across the city like most of us. After all he isn’t just some uneducated bloke who is just too lazy to work. (I know most of you were secretly hoping for him to turn out into some impoverished chai-walla.) He already seems super-rich and satisfied to me. And I am envious! He has hoarded nothing, hence nothing to lose. Ambition is a bitch. He has little. I understand his sentiment. On some nights he works on billboards, unless it’s the season of weddings, where he makes more, waiting tables. When he manages twice his daily income, he makes peace with what he has, drinks rum, lolls around happy, the usual holiday stuff.(Now you see why I was green with envy.)

He has mostly nothing to worry about in life and sticks to his carefree ways. Mostly. His only worry is the police which demand hafta from him every Monday as rent for his park-bench-abode. If he fails he is picked up under the Bombay prevention of Beggary Act or at times labeled a druggie. He is none. Yet he is beaten up by cops who just wait to flex their muscles. Hence, he makes it a point to pay them on Sunday itself. The only other trouble are the men who drift occasionally to his bench when he is away; but they are dealt with a couple of obscenities easily.

He is no slumdog, atleast not yet. In hierarchy, he figures much lower. The slum closest to him would mean a home-deposit of Rs 25,000 and monthly rent of about Rs 900. It gets much more expensive if he moves to the celebrated Dharavi about Rs 2,000 a month; higher deposit, and even more towards Bandra or Andheri. There are 100,000 homeless in Mumbai. They cannot afford slums. There are 11 night-shelters in Delhi. Mumbai has none. No wonder he’s content. One day when he decides on settling down he’ll maybe carry his bride into one at Behrampada. Till then the park bench is just fine. There are 100,000 homeless in Mumbai. They cannot afford slums. There are 11 night-shelters in Delhi. Mumbai has none.

Usually such conversations on the supposed downtrodden like him border on hope or despair. However he isn’t waiting to be the object of someone’s guilt or pity. He likes to earn his own bread and has tremendous self respect. Nor is he hoping to land up in some reality show on television and walk off with a million bucks. Only Middle-class dreams are made of these things. He is but a simple man who is content with his state of affairs. But his is no far-off ghetto. You’ve certainly crossed his home, and maybe even looked through his face.

The next time we speak patriotically of India, or the love for Mumbai, it may be a good idea just to know who we speak of, besides ourselves. Agreed we are not a country of mystic sages and holy cows, and we do speak English and not Indian but remember the next time you just turn a blind eye the slums realize that it’s a reality that most actually live. Daily.

After all it’s no great-shake activism to know where you live.

Purple Haze

“Sex and drugs,
rock N rave
lets get smashed
and misbehave
on speed and weed
and little e’s
lets get high
and talk to the trees
life’s a trip and then you die
So screw them all
And lets get High!”

The song reverberated across the room as she downed another shot. The air was heavy with smoke. Each breath she took was punctured with the distinct smell of alcohol.
The room was a technicolour den of expensive, consumable vices. All around people where swirling to the DJ’s beats losing themselves to the music vibes. She poured some more of the devoured Green Apple into her glass. The tripping disco lights made her feel dazed. Just then Radz handed her another half smoked joint. She took in a drag and let herself get lost under a purple haze.

She was at her best friend Rad’s birthday bash at her bunglow at lonavala. She’d been looking forward for this day since what seemed aeons now. She had been aching to escape the daily grind, the deadlines; the pressure of her daily existence. She just wanted to unwind, relax and have a good time. This certain amount of social pilferage was necessary to keep a society more liveable. “Hey they are playing your song!”, exclaimed Rads gesturing towards the dance floor. She snapped out of her self imposed stupor and looked towards the dance floor. The sound which was just a combination of strong bass and electronica enchanted her ; drove her to the dance floor. She made her way past the couples who were grinding to the beats of the music to the centre of the dance floor and surrendered herself to the music. Within minutes she was dancing with this really cute guy wishing to dance away the night. It was blissful. She wished that the moment could last forever .

Thud! And the main door of the bunglow was forced open. In the blurry of events which ensued she could see a couple of uniformed policemen enter followed by an entourage of wildly snapping photographers. ‘You all are under arrest’, beamed a voice as all of them were rounded up and dumped into a police van. Within hours her one night of fun was distorted into a nightmare. As she blankly gaped at the prison bars she reached for the ‘lil e’ in her pocket. Soon it was on the tip of her tongue and she in ecstasy. Atleast she couldn’t get into deeper trouble.

We found them all on the front pages of newspapers and as breaking news on your TV sets that week. One, cop from Pune’s rural police, had busted a party on private premises. He took along news reporters to shoot images of the said raid: “Nashakhoron par chhapa!”.The media lapped up the incident highlighting the police’s cause and quoting the beaming officer saying, “First, try to be a good cultured Indian. Then try to be western.” The police force was lauded for simultaneously upholding Indian “culture” and withholding its “rich and famous”, “uncultured” youth.

One sure hopes the police hand-picked the international drug-traffickers, other serious social deviants at the place. Because by what Rads had to say most, at best smoked cannabis; very few tripped on harder stuff; fewer still were rich, irresponsible, threatening, deranged or famous. Most others were probably drinking at a local pub the weekend after college or work instead of being at the druggie bash. Well they did spend days in the infamous jails along with the hardened criminal, robbers, rapists and the petty thieves. They were after all a bunch of destructive drug addicts, and it seems; some apparently prostitutes (the way you view women or men is also a judgment on your eyes). You mix the grey with black, as in this case, you either push a minor sub-culture to a notorious under-belly, or give it all the semblance of rebellious “cool” when none exist. Most of the viewers polled on the plethora of news channels, including my parents, saw this as a valiant and vital effort at preserving our culture from the evil western influences.

The same Holi, there was a nation-wide rave organised in the name of a religious festival. The streets sold cannabis. Everyone drank them mixed with sweet milk. The traffic moved sleepily, people danced and grinned with their shirts off. Nobody was arrested. But I guess, that is our culture. So it’s all right.

Farewell mon ami!

The moment I met you I knew we’d be friends. I could so guess that you’d like me too. And within spending a few hours with you I knew we’d be BFF-Best Friends Forever. But who knew there’s nothing like forever…..


For 3 years we went through the best of the times and the worst of the times. But we were in it together. And you stuck by me. Despite my wayward ways. Despite the fact that we had our fights and misunderstandings. I did some things I regret now but you knew I’d be sorry. Oh the times we had! Remember how we spent hours together chit-chatting and flirting with pretty girls. Or the endless hours we spent playing together. We went like hand to a glove. Still cant believe that you are gone. All my friends loved you and my folks despised you. You were just perfect!

And then all of a sudden you are not here anymore. I can't believe it. I refuse to accept it. I am in denial. I feel so helpless without you. There is no one like you. No one can ever replace you. You completed me. Without you life just isn’t the same any more. I miss you. I always will.

Farwell my friend and stay happy wherever you are – my Nokia NGageQD…

You will never be forgotten….

Once together, now apart,

Oh, my aching heart.

Separation has built a hollow wall.

At the bottom I felt myself fall.

The day you left, you took something away.

My heart, my mind, my soul.

Separation held out its hand

And into was placed a watch.

Ticking away, painful each day.

But soon I hope it will cease and bring peace.

And bring you back to me.

-Anonymous

Working Class Hero

The scorching May sun beat down burning the ground and making his vision hazy. Sweat trickled down from his temples to the side of his empty belly. The sultry heat and sweat made the dead weight he was pulling even heavier. From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of the stall selling sugarcane juice. He was tempted to stop relax and indulge in a glass of the icy cold liquid. ‘What good would that do now’, he pondered. He’d end up even thirstier and more importantly short of 6 bucks. Such indulgences were not for men like him who earned their bread by pulling hand carts all through the day. As if the labor wasn’t tough enough; the growing presence of tempos on the roads threatened to push him into oblivion and unemployment. However he had stopped thinking about the future now. All his tribulations would cease soon.

Over five decades ago he’d come to ‘City of dreams’ when it still welcomed everyone with wide open arms. Years of droughts had ravaged his family farms and so on his father’s edict he left home, though ruefully. So here he was in a new place with absolutely no idea as to how he’d earn a living. Schools were still unheard of where he came from.

He was a simple man with humble needs. And he worked hard. Soon he had enough money to rent a handcart. For him money took precedence over all things. He did have his family to think of. His children needed schooling and everyone needed food. So, he stopped renting a room. He simply moved to some back alley every night and slept on his cart. This wasn’t only much more comfortable than his shitty room which he shared with five others but also saved him some all important cash. After all wasn’t money saved – money earned!? After the first couple of years he stopped visiting his homeland to save the three hundred bucks he spent traveling. It wasn’t that he didn’t get homesick; it just wasn’t viable. He rather simply called them up once a month. For his peers a couple of bucks implied a cutting but for him it was money which could be sent home. So he had no friends as he refrained from hanging out with them or play cards. All this made him all the more a shy and coy individual. All others in order to overcome their nostalgia would go to the small theater and catch the latest bhojpuri flick but he’d just hang around in the alleyway laughing at their stupid ways. He always ate simple and cheap meals at government run eateries whereas the others relished on the famous roadside delicacies. His colleagues always insisted he accompany them on their trips to the brothels of the city to rid him of all his frustrations and tried to lure him into the passage of ecstasy but he always declined decreeing that he was a simple man who simply loved his wife too much. Wasn’t it for this love that he’d endured all his suffering! He never smoked, drank or gambled. He was a man of virtue –god fearing but he simply believed that such masochistic ways were better left for someone else. Often his employers opined that he could start his own business and they’d be willing to help. But at heart he was a small simple man with little ambition and virtually no ego. And it was this simplicity of his that enabled him to lead his life in the manner he led it.

So today finally the day had dawned when he could give it all up. True he was stronger and as fit as anyone half his age but age does take its toll. Five decades of hard labor made his back weak and his knees hurt. Also his family was better off now. His son could study and now held a job at a nearby town. Both his daughters were happily married and well settled. True he couldn’t attend the marriage of the elder one but the money saved helped in the dowry of his young pearl. Now he just ached to get back and peacefully spend the remainder of his life with his wife as a doting grandpa.

So when he finally finished his deliveries for the day he hurried over to the contractor’s office to collect his due payment. He did have a train to catch. Pleasantries were exchanged and his boss also gave him a decent bonus so he’d buy gifts for his grandkids. Heck the man deserved it he thought. Just as he turned to leave there was a violent knock at the door. Five men armed with bamboo sticks entered and started shouting. One of them accosted him and shouted, “kay karte ikde?”. He just froze and thought they were some thieves. Then their leader came up to him and shouted something which he couldn’t decipher. The others glared at him and then all of a sudden WHAM!! A stick to his head. Immense pain shot through his body as he clutched his head in despair. His vision became hazy and suddenly all appeared black. Thud! he fell to the ground.

Hours later a press crew reached the spot. The reporter looking depressing screamed into the microphone “Another attack on the north Indian workers in the city. A mob attacked a local contractors office and wreaked havoc………..”

Clubbed!!

“Ek RC laana phull ice ke saath”, he ordered looking rather smug. Finally relaxed he sank further into his chair and let his gaze wander. He was at Malhar ; Anarkali down the road is better. However he felt a sense of belonging at this place and also he knew the waiters here by name and so he was here. Light-bulbs hung low from the ceiling were so dim, you can barely tell the person opposite you, let alone the table beside. This is where the men sipped double Officer’s Choice one after another, between heavy drags of chhota Gold’s Flake. As for the boys a beer would mean the Kingfisher Strong, reputably mixed with whiskey again with their favorite ‘Garams’. You’d be the luckiest ever to find for yourself lager and today he thought he would also indulge himself with one; after all he deserved it if the day gone by was anything to go by.

As the stereo at the counter blazed depressing notes of unrequited love he thought aloud “This izz life mahn!” And with a satisfied grin plastered over his face he recollected the day gone by……He wore his favorite black shirt today as he was asked to look presentable and entered the place. “Bling” ‘twas called and rightly so cause as he looked around he could see the guys dressed in their designer best and the girls….rather babes in their shortest! He wished his best friend Pappu was here …. Boy he’d love to see the ‘rapchik items’ here! Oh the girls with their voluptuous curves and sensual movements made him feel fuzzy. He glimpsed them groove with guys but he couldn’t decipher the reason why the gave him a disdainful look each time he let his gaze wander towards them. After all he wasn’t letching….atleast not now.

Wooing girls was a social hassle. Good girls stay among good girls; and men will be men. Never the two must mix. Families prefer it this way. Over time, he gets perturbed as he anyway turns out as someone you would never trust your unmarried daughter with. Parents will find for him a girl, once he finds himself a job. Religion and caste will protect this wonderful arrangement of class. If he gets lucky with neither a job nor, therefore, a girl, which is relatively rare, there is always dadagiri and street-activism to express his failure on others. February 14 isn’t still a date he marks excitedly on his calendar as Valentine’s Day. A boy holding a girl’s hand is for him a moment of severe envy and deep resentment. He can’t stand those lost in love. He can barely fathom the fun they have at a disco, that too dancing. He cannot have it. He’d rather have them shut down. So seeing these youngsters gyrating to loud music (which he personally found trashy) and moving so close to each other, hand in hand, only made him cringe. It isn’t that alcohol doesn’t make him, sitting in the corner, move. He dances, but only at weddings, where men gyrate against men because one of their friends is finally getting married.

So here he was surrounded by pretty chicks and happy couples all around which made his feelings of resentment reappear. What annoyed him furthermore was the sight of the females here casually sipping and smoking. Thus, the final straw was the sight of so many females openly boozing and smoking giving complete disregard to our rich culture and tradition. Such loose morals better suited the western world and not his very own neighborhood. Even if they like their apple martinis or their iced whiskies they should get sozzled at home, ideally on the terrace, under the moonlight, over aggressive business conversations. Ideally the women, the wives, are trained by tradition to serve soda and fresh pakodas on a floral plastic tray, before late dinner, and a drunken husband in bed. If he’d have his way she wouldn’t want to be near the bar; ideally nowhere close to even that paan-shop. She’ll be cat-called and stared at, until she is uncomfortable enough to leave.

So finally he reached into his pants , to the cell phone of his , and made that all important call……







Next day the nationwide newspapers screamed:

CLUBBED!!

Club attacked in Mumbai by a right wing politico-religious group. The women were mercilessly dragged and beaten up by the moral police in a suburban pub …….……………




As he picked up the newspaper and read the headlines he just grinned broadly …..