(29 Nov ’10)
As a child, I walked to
school, took about fifteen minutes if I didn’t stop to pet a stray cat or dog,
or chat with a friend at a corner, or dawdle with a gaggle of classmates, or
try to curiously figure out what was happening in the new shop (there were very
few new shops then) with the garlands at its door.
Thirty odd years later
(gawd, am I really that auwld?), I take the same route, extended, when I
commute to work. Much has not changed. The lanes, the saplings have grown to
afford shade to those walking through them. I wonder if the inhabitants
recognize the shapes of their leaves, the colours of their blossoms. Possibly
not. The park is not the green stretch I remember. A temple has grown root
there, a club has stretched its paws along one corner, a park for the oldies,
another for the young ones, have been fenced in, and the energy of the young,
and the wannabe young, keep it pulsating. Every couple of months, a political
rally or a religious event try to strangle it; it has kept death at bay so far.
Now with two walls built near the gate, and a loo-complex (this was probably
the only necessary construction) opposite it, it’s a matter of time before it
gets choked forever. There are people fighting to save it, of course. A
fistful. Which means a lot has changed.
There weren’t so many
dogs there earlier. Now there’s excreta to be avoided on the pavements. We
cycled crazily at the edge, along the famous ‘katta’ where people now sit
bum-to-bum. Now that’s not possible, too many people walking, too many hawkers
selling garish, screechy toys and yes, the health foods: karela juices, wheat
grass, and more. Where once we stood
discussing homework, swearing at teachers, exchanging tips on looking good, now
squat vegetable vendors haggling with buyers to make their profit for the day.
In the days gone by,
fruits, fish, biscuits, saris were brought to the door by traveling salesmen.
Possibly they still do, my timings don’t match theirs so I can’t comment on
that. But no longer do people walk to the famous Citylight Market for their
daily buys. They don’t need to. They pick up everything from the pavements:
from night-gowns to second-hand books. Yet, the Market is brimming with
customers. The old theatre after which the market is called (who knows its real
name?) and soon we’ll see a mall there.
Buildings are being
razed, people are looking skywards for living space. The water-pipes, the
sewage-lines that the British had laid down were for a couple of lakhs of
people in the entire city. The VT station (does anyone call it CST except in
official documents?) was, I read, built for 300 passengers! Yes, !@#$%!! Only
300. I love the Brits for the way they
planned Mumbai. Wish we could have preserved what they left behind.
I meet many of my
childhood acquaintances: more often than not on facebook, actually. But the
occasional familiar faces I encounter during my commute are happy, busy… and
talking on mobile phones. Indeed, if it’s been years since I’ve seen people
talking merrily, agitatedly, on their ownsome, and not wondered whether
something’s wrong. I’ve stopped responding to ‘hullo, hullo’ squawked close to
my ears. It isn’t meant for me. A large number, like me, thanks to the traffic
and the crowds, don’t move out of the locality. Therefore, it’s become, in spite
of the numbers, a place where people know (of) each other, a place where, over
the five generations that it has existed, a culture has evolved. People here
talk differently as compared to, say, Bandra or Andheri or even Colaba. They
dress differently, too. All of this I contemplate upon as I do my brisk fifteen
minuter to work and from.
Bit by bit, the sky has
gone as buildings soar. The number of cars ensures no speed on the roads, the
number of accidents in the area have reduced. What has increased are the number
of eateries small and big: does anyone cook at home any longer? People eat in
restaurants, outside restaurants, on the pavement, in their cars, standing,
leaning against walls, any and everywhere they can find space. One gets bhutta
all year ‘round.
Over the years, my
fixed routine has helped me make ‘road friends’. We don’t even know each
others’ names. We nod, smile, acknowledge recognition. When someone sees me
after many days, a hand is raised in query: all well? And I respond with my hand:
yes, thanks, and go on my way. It’s not
a feeling of friendship. It’s a feeling of community, formed over the years. A
feeling of belonging. At a basic level, we working wives, with our nine to five
routines, shopping on the way home, maintaining schedule and speed, bond
through these silent crossings over a period of time. Nice.
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