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.