Mumbai Meri Jaan!!!

My travels and explorations in Mumbai have been very limited, almost zilch considering the immense expanse of the mega-city. Yet, Mumbai with all its flurry and fury continues to interest and enchant me further. With each of my visits to Mumbai, my curiosity to delve deeper into the intricacies of the mechanisms on which this city functions gets deeper. What excites or enthuses me about Mumbai is not its tourist places, not its people, not the hustle-bustle of the local trains, not Bollywood, but something which is a sum total of all this and which transcends all this- Experience!. My trysts with Mumbai have been many, albeit very short and limited. Yet there is something of each trip that is etched forever in my mind. Shall certainly write about my experiences sometime later. This post though is about movies and books which feature Mumbai as the main protagonist. Most of these corroborate the eternal truth- ‘Mumbai is a living hell and the people here enjoy living in this hell, come ‘rain’ (read floods!) or shine. Worse still, they make you fall in love with that hell.’goo

Movies or books, which one first?! Tough choice, but alphabetical order rules.

To make the presentation interesting (and appear fundoo in the process), I’m presenting the movies and books under three categories.

1. The ones which I haven’t read/watched.
2. The ones which I have read/watched.
3. The ones which no one has read/watched (because they haven’t been released as of now!)


Before I embark on this journey of prose and picture, I decide not to include Bollywood movies on the underworld. Much has been spoken, written and filmed about that. But I do know what to expect circa 2015.

F Fwd to 15th May,2015
Today, a book by the award-winning page 3 journalist Moniica Beidy on the harmonious relationship between the underworld and Bollywood was released at a grand party at The Taj hosted by the adorable Abu Salem. Among those in attendance were the dashing Dawood and a visibly moved Mandakini. The book is said to be inspired by the eternal love-story of Dawood and Mandakini. Among those who graced the occasion included the chirpy Chhota Rajan who was closeted with Chhota Shakeel. The two seemed to enjoy each others’ company. Sanjubaba and Sanjay Gupta weren’t able to make it to the party as they were busy watching English DVDs looking for ‘inspiration’ for their next White feather production movie. Mahesh Manjrekar and Vikram Bhatt made a grand entry in a rickshaw, sporting a new hairdo, a combination of pink and orange hair colours. Later, it turned out so that it was a clever marketing ploy by L’ Oreal to promote their latest men’s hair colour products.

Back to the present

Books:

Book which I haven’t read:

Maximum City by Suketu Mehta.

It is said to be the book which was waiting to be written but no one dared to write. It is said to be the book which introduced vada pav, bar –girl and b*@&*()d to the world. It was short listed for the Pulitzer prize and was in the news for this reason as much as it was for Mehta’s much publicized spat with Vinod Chopra. By now you’d heard good or bad things about the book by me but then I swapped it for another book, on Mumbai again. And that book is right up there as one of the best I’ve read in my short spanned pursuit of reading as a serious hobby. If you have Maximum City, please lend it to me!

Book which I’ve read :

Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts.

I want to be born as Gregory David Roberts in my next birth. I like the book that much. I might not actually that long to enjoy the ‘highs’ and endure the agonizingly painful lows, but my life would be worth it even if I have a miniscule of ‘experience’ of what Roberts had. Shantaram is about an Australian fugitive who escapes to India on a forged New Zealand passport and his life on his subsequent arrival In Mumbai. He works for the mafia, sets up a health clinic in the slums, spends a horrid time behind the bars because of his rivalry with a mysterious character and later goes on to fight the Russians in Afghanistan. The characters do not move you, you become numb with their simplicity, their purity of heart, their beauty, their mystery. What runs through all the characters and makes them become etched in your mindscape for ever is their ‘spirit’. Prabhakar’s cheerfulness and ability to see the silver lining in the darkest of the clouds, Vikram’s suaveness, Prabhakar’s mother’s pure love and affection, Khaderbhai’s ‘principle’ of ‘doing the right thing for the wrong reasons and the wrong things for the right reasons’, the challwallahs’ unity in spite of all adversities. I forgot to mention Madam Zhou’s mysterious life, Karla’s reluctance to open up to Shantaram, Abdul’s friendship with Shantaram. I can go on and on. The book is a behemoth, close to 700 pages. But it is no prose-athon and the language is simple and free-flowing. It is not like an action thriller where the hero is like a supernatural being crushing all difficulties. I liked the book because it is real. The characters, the emotions, the experiences are all real. Even the landmarks, for e.g. Leopold’s in Colaba, Haji Ali are all real. It has so much about life and philosophy, death and even the Big Bang Theory that it takes some time to digest it. But once digested, it nourishes you well like any nutrient. Shantaram is one book which you won’t think much about while reading it. But you won’t stop thinking about it after you finish reading it.

There’s a movie being made based on the book with Johnny Depp playing Shantaram. I might sound too far-fetched and optimistic, but if the character of Prabhakar is treated well and given the importance is deserves, Rajpal Yadav or Vijay Raaz might just win an Oscar. Read the book, and we’ll discuss on the Indian cast for the movie. Till then I’ll continue debating on that on IMDB.

Book that no one’s read

Sacred Games by Vikram Chandra

And I had thought author Vikram Chandra was same as NDTV editor/anchor Vikram Chandra. Of course, they are different. The latter does look scholarly and erudite enough to be an author himself. Author Vikram Chandra is a professor of Creative Writing at University of California, Berkeley. Looks like art and literature run in his genes. His mother, Kamna Chandra was the script writer of 1942: A Love Story. His sister is more famous than him. Tanuja Chandra, the director of acclaimed movies like Dushman, Sur and Sangharsh and a dud, Yeh Zindagi ka Safar. Another sister Anupama Chopra is a journalist and recently turned author with a book on the making of Sholay. His brother-in-law is probably the most famous in his family- Vidhu Vinod Chopra. Incidentally, Suketu Mehta and Vikram Chopra together wrote the script for Mission Kashmir.
Sacred Games is in news for the huge advance Chandra has pocketed and has been in the making for almost 7 years. Hope it is worth the effort and the wait. It is a book set in Mumbai; but spreads out into a much larger canvas as the book progresses. Looks like after co-authoring the script Mission
Kashmir, Mehta and Chandra are co-authoring a ‘Mission Mumbai’. That incidentally happens to be the name of a B-grade Hindi movie.

Daytripper!!

1. I am alive!
2. I am rushing to Mumbai. I might miss the train.
3. My travel blog - Here
4. Reasons for my absence in my next post.
5. Did my absence matter?!!(Thanks those of you who kept visiting and used to greeted
by the pothole! I know who are they all!)
6. Happy New Year!
7. Hope the train is late. No chance, it starts from Surat

The Ultimate Pot-boiler.

Ok, this certainly is not the best of my posts.It was inspired by this and the sorry state of roads in my home-town Dharwad.This was the best I could come up with after traveling almost the length and breadth of Mumbai for JMET and NMAT(One more post definitely needed for that).Dharwad->Thane->Powai->Koparkhairane->Vashi->CST->Dharwad.That was quite a trip and this post was written during the return journey. This was the best my tired mind could come up with.Have some more posts in the offing on my father's experiences as the returning officer during the upcoming Gram Panchayat and Zilla panchayat elections here. They talk of decentralisation of power and village empowerment, but all that has happened is that the rot has precipitated down to the bottom.Imagine a village being divided not only along caste lines,but also along political lines now.Politics is one of my favourite subjects and I saw how little of that is reflected in this blog.

Returning to the current post, it could have also been titled


The Monk who drove his Ferrari over a pot-hole.
or
Zen and the Art of pot-hole maintenance.
or
Harry-potholer!
or
The Autobiography of an Unknown Pothole
or
The Argumentative Indian Pothole

I don’t exist on paper.(I exist on road, of course!). what I meant to say was that I don’t have an official existence like most of you. The census of 2001 was conducted well before my ‘birth’ and I doubt if I’ll survive till the time the next census is carried out in 2011. Actually, the whole pot-hole community around me has been officially declared . In the dusty files of the Public Works Department consigned to some corner, they have been given the best possible burial a pot-hole can ever imagine. Covered with the supreme quality tar, and then rolled over by the strongest road-roller in the whole region, specifically ‘bought’ for that purpose. That is all ‘for the record’. The actual story is something else. Neither the tar came nor the road-roller. The holes weren’t filled, what were filled though were the beds of the executive engineer who floated the tender, the bank lockers of the contractor and the cup-boards of the minister. The minister actually made money twice. Once, while awarding the contract and the second time a 20% cut in from the same contractor after he began working on the ‘project’. That was two years ago. Some work was indeed done. It was the perfect patch work ever done. It was patchy both in terms of the quality of the work and also that it left lot of patches were still left untouched. Those which were covered up soon opened up and in pothole-speak, they are called ‘ghost-holes’ . The whole colony talks about them in hushed voices. Children pot-holes aren’t allowed to go close to them. That is why the area around those ghost-holes is quite deserted.

In the slum world, I live in what is the real world equivalent of a small locality in a city. there isn’t much of an activity, but once in a while I’m woken up from my slumber by a truck or two running over me carrying heavy goods. It hurts, not only physically but also in the heart. Not only these people run over you but also abuse you with choicest expletives for no fault of yours. It may sound a bit cynical, but we potholes do extract our pound of flesh. The faster these guys run over you, more is the pain they suffer. These humans are so strange. I’ll never be able to understand them. Two days back, this handsome hunk was riding what has been our latest nuisance, the hayabusa. He mutters such obscenities under his breath it spoilt my whole day. And yesterday he comes again, with his friend in the pillion, runs over me again and thanks God for my presence there. The reason?. He gets that ‘close touch’ with his -friend. These humans think that Gods must be crazy, but what they don’t know that it is them who are crazy. Just the other day he was cursing me no end, but at that moment he was glad I was there. I could make that from the gleam in his eyes. I pray to God to give me enough strength and make me grow in size such that the next time he runs over me, he gets such a ‘touch’ he’ll never forget in his life.

I often wonder about my parents. The elder potholes in our colony have taken such care of me that I don’t really miss my parents. But sometimes during the night I wonder if my parents might be among the countless stars in the sky. I dream of leading a quiet, peaceful life with papa pot-hole, mama pot-hole and a lil’ brother pothole until another one of the devils runs over me.

Let me share a secret with you all. We pot-holes are not actually very sure about our gender. Most of us assume our genders. What makes our situation even more piquant is that we are not ‘born’ normally. We come into existence by an , a tiny somewhere ‘evolves’ into a fully-grown pothole. I often wonder about what my name could be. Few days back, a bespectacled engineering student was almost kicked to by his friends when suggested a name for me. ‘Harry Pot-holer’!. His idea didn’t quite appeal to his friends. I guess I know what name I like. A female, the most beautiful I have seen till date, came close to me, slowed down and passed over me with such gentle care that I almost felt like I was in an embrace with her. Then with her soft, silky voice she gave me a name-‘Oeemah’. Yes, my name is Oeemah.

Ok, I guess it’s time to move on. I wish you all the best in this roller-coaster jouney called Life. And remember, no profanities the next time you come across a hurdle(pothole) on the road or in your life. It’s your creation and that your backache is not my headache. Don’t fall down, but recover soon and keep your eyes wide open and reach your destination without any hitches.

Dressed and Confused(DBCAs)

‘Open 24 hours’. In a fast-moving, never-sleeping,maximum city like Mumbai, one would expect such a thing to be written at a restaurant close to a railway station or more likely at a guest-house. But much to my amusement, I found this written across seemingly firm bosom of a mannequin at a Mega-Mart outlet in the suburban Kandivili. The very next day at my CAT centre I chanced upon this female (ok, a candidate) wearing the same T-shirt. No less than 44 eyes were ogling at her. 18 wore an amused look, 20 were looking at her just like any guy would look at a good-looking girl (maybe the T-shirt was what attracted them towards her, else it’d have been some other girl who’d be the object of their attention). And some 6 wore a seriously menacing look which seemed to say, ‘ok, let’s see what you’ve got madam’. Not that they intended to do anything dangerous, but the ‘bold’ statement the madam wanted to make had had its effect.

Now let’s come to the broader question. Before that let me ask myself one very pertinent question which you as a reader would want to ask me. The question being-‘what problem do I have with people wearing what they want to wear? ‘. At the outset, I’m a liberal and have no problem with people wearing what they are comfortable with. But what never misses out of my mind’s scanner and my watchful eyes is this whole thing of people wearing T-shirts to give out some kind of an attitude or to make a statement. If one is hip, hep, hop and dude/dudette -ish enough to carry him/herself well with the kind of attire he/she is wearing, that’s hardly anybody’s problem. But things tend to get a bit complicated when this segment of confused, wannabe youth wears T-shirts which appears to confuse them even more and with all the attention such T-shirts attract, the feeling of discomfort is quite palpable.

Che Guevera,Jim Morrison must be turning in their graves now. They are the ones seen most on these t-shirts PYTs wear. Yet they remain as foreign as ever. No, I’m not talking of that 8-year old kid who serves us tea near the college gate. He wears a Linkin park T-shirt with LP written in bold letters in fluorescent on a pitch black t-shirt. The shoulders of the T-shirt extend well beyond his elbow. Forget LP, he probably wouldn’t even be aware of Dr.Kalam being the president of India. I’m actually talking about this college-going student with a decent pocket money at his disposal, seven of ten of his ilk have a bike at their disposal too, hanging/chilling out with his friends at the most hip/hop/hep/ happening places in his city/town. You have more probability of finding such a vikas a.k.a viks in a tier 2 town than a city. But I wonder if wearing a black t-shirt with an ‘in your face’ face of Jim Morrison with ‘The Doors’ in glossy bold letters doesn’t exactly make him hip/hep/cool/. Complete the picture with a goatee, long hair, a yo-man with the ‘rock sign’ to boot interspersed with *ucks and screws, you have the DBCA- desi born confused American!

Am I actually saying that the kind of t-shirt one wears is an indication of an identity crisis or something? The point I might want to make is on a shaky ground and the arguments may not be backed by enough convincing arguments. But to me it appears more convincing than having to look and wonder at a female wearing a t-shirt which had –‘ for authorized persons only’ written right across her bosom.

P.S. Did the girl wearing that open 24 hours open t-shirt mean open as a noun or as a verb?

The Sound of Silence

This blog's been silent for a while because I'm tied up with some things and been listening to this song over and over again. Next post sometime around 1st week of December.Exams from tomorrow!

Hello, darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision
That was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence

In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone
Beneath the halo of a street lamp
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed
By the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence

And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never share...
And no one dare
Disturb the sound of silence.

"Fools," said I, "you do not know
Silence like a cancer grows."
"Hear my words that I might teach you,
Take my arms that I might reach you."
But my words like silent raindrops fell,
And echoed in the wells of silence.

And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made.
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming.
And the signs said: "The words of the prophets
Are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls,
And whisper'd in the sound of silence
-The Sound of Silence
Simon and Garfunkel