Tuesday, February 16, 2010

MUMBAI-YOURS OURS MINE HIS HERS OR WHOMSOEVERS

The spirit of Mumbai is omnipresent amongst all of us, who have made this lovely city a home to dwell in. Proudly we proclaim Aaamchi Mumbai. But ever since this fervour towards the city has started gaining political momentum, the threat of losing out in a city of dreams continually hovers on our heads.

Experts believe the change in name has stripped the city of its gothic character. But it is equally interesting to discover, in this city business continues as usual. A particular faction might be against interstate migrations but the authority to oppose seems to have automatically slipped into the hands of the less opportune! The less opportune are characters, which we bump into knowingly/unknowingly. Over 80% of these characters travel by Mumbai’s lifeline – The Local Train. Mumbai’s railway network which is divided into three zones namely the central, the western and the harbour lines cater to the gusty motion of local trains throughout the day.

I, vociferous am a regular traveller of the central railway network. Every morning the train I take from my place of residence to the place of my work, is sometimes pleasantly packed and occasionally over packed. The real problem is with the travellers who prefer to take a back journey from starting point even though the train takes a halt at their station just 4 minutes later. Luckily being loosely associated with the so called group/gang, I enjoy the privilege of occupying a comfortable corner to squeeze in and start reading a book. The conversations between the members of this group/gang range from the usual profanities to female gazing and to the right to be a Mumbaikar. It was one such day, the journey began. I was hooked on to Suketu Mehta’s Maximum City-Bombay Lost & Found. The doorway was blocked by the frail as air Mr. More, the dumb as blonde Sarkar (addressing him as Mr. is extremely suicidal), the notorious as Dennis Sardarji and the agitated as a street fighter Mr. Transport Agency Executive (He prefers to wear a watch that has the BSE logo on it).

The train came to a halt at the second station. As usual, travellers barged in like this was The Last Train to Pakistan. Some fell down, which in many ways has become a tradition now. Some stumbled. Bags got stuck. Neckties strangled their owners to death. The burden of laptops squeezed the marketing guys to a miniscule pie. The senior citizens sounded resistive for being ill treated time and again by those greedy to grab the window seat. The door blockers raised their voice by yelling, “Enough Pressure. Now No More”!

Sudden influx of passengers in bulk sparked a conversation over how Mumbai got so populated over a span of 24 hours. I was luckily engaged in my book. At the third station, some more displayed their expertise of holding a train hostage and endangering the lives of fellow passengers. The circus continued at the fourth and the fifth station too. I wonder why the British engineers who had designed this railway network never ever had considered the fact that they were creating a Frankenstein monster. As the train’s speed accelerated, a guy who has started joining us in this train for the past few weeks pulled out a bunch of papers from his backpack. On these papers were written codes, hardly of any significance to me. For the first time, I inquired with him, “What are these”? He gently replied, “Programme Instructions. We have designed a new database system that will be installed today and thereafter we have a presentation to make. So before reaching office, I chose to improvise so that I am self updated.” I wished him good luck and the train experienced a jerk. Due to this volatile jerk, the edge of the papers held by this computer guy collided against Mr. Transport Agency’s neck. Outraged and bereaved, he turned back and in his goon toned voice threatened this guy to take care. Trying his best to control a second collision, this computer guy once again couldn’t help holding his papers back which hurt Mr. Transport Agency’s (TA) neck. Turning his head, Mr. TA started abusing him. Mr. Nice Guy apologised. But Mr. TA was not in a mood to give up. He took the conversation to an entirely different level. His first object of hatred was me. Pointing at me, he told the fellow travellers that this arrogant bookworm is the trendsetter. Mr. TA then trained his guns on Mr. Nice Guy. The first word of abuse to find an exit from Mr. TA’s foully mouth was directed to a sister’s modesty. The second abuse was directed towards the parents who committed the mistake of giving Mr. Nice Guy his life. The third was a voice of concern over the pressure increasing on Mumbai. Mr. TA felt and also garnered support that Mr. Nice Guy is the main reason behind Mumbai’s swelling populous of frustrated non performers. Quite proficient in Hindi, Mr. TA said, “Pataa nahi saaley kaha sey aa jaatey hai Mumbai mein gandagi failaaney” (There is no clue about where these stupid people land up from in Mumbai and start spreading untidiness). To which, Mr. Nice Guy replied, “Boss! “Pehle apney aapp ke andar jhaanko phir bolo” (Boss! First self analyse yourself then talk out). The argument came to an end with Mr. TA threatening of bashing Mr. Nice Guy after both alight at the sixth station.

Some travellers eagerly awaited a major showdown while I almost knew what the conclusion would be. The train came to a halt. All of us, we jumped out of the train and Mr. TA caught hold of Mr. Nice Guy’s well ironed shirt’s collar. The conversation started with abuses to mother, father, sister and some more objectionable mentions. Mr. Nice Guy was calm but Mr. TA was all charged up to train his muscles, which have been lying idle over a period of time. Luckily a senior citizen intervened and brought the situation under control. Mr. TA departed with a threat to strike back while Mr. Nice Guy stood shaken. I preferred neither to console nor to empathise with the wrong doer or the right doer. Even though I am a part of this group/gang, I don’t make myself felt belonged to it. I sped towards the bridge, climbed the staircase, cut through the crowd and finally exited the bulging-to-explode railway station to attain solace in my otherwise hostile workplace.

From the entire circus like situation, I could not figure out how Mumbai formed the core of the argument. We are all travellers. Our journey of a little over thirty minutes is meant for livelihood. During the entire journey, we don’t discriminate on grounds of religion, race, caste or creed. But the commoditisation of this city of dreams has already started making us pay a princely price.

Mumbai as a city belongs to whom? Does it belong to the current breed of politicians who have preferred to milk all its resources and leave it lifeless? Does it belong to the fanatics who regularly make it a point to plant bombs at crowded places and endanger innocent lives? Does it belong to the local citizens who keep spitting on the walls painstakingly painted by frail framed labourers? Does it belong to the rich who get drunk at a rave party and prefer to drive on bodies lying lifelessly on pavements? Or does it belong to the creators of this city who are long dead and maybe twisting & turning in their graves faced with the irony of this situation?

To conclude, Mumbai belongs to somebody or nobody and is just a commercial hub to earn a livelihood!

- vociferous