Mumbai - The city of dreams

It was my destiny, fate, luck or karma, call it whatever you like, that brought me to Mumbai - a city which horrified me from the very beginning. A city known for almost all the wrong reasons –  riots, floods, crime and its terrifying perpetrator – the underworld. A million other atrocities plague this city which proudly calls itself 'the city of dreams'. More often than not, one comes across swarms of people, mechanically performing their mundane tasks as rituals that ought to be done, without fail, each day. Despite all this, what has started enticing me about this city is the fact that in the folds of what appears to be commonplace and tedious, one finds a plethora of interesting sketches. Every new day presents an opportunity to look for these stories. A dear friend of mine lived through one of these stories and narrated it to me. The minute I heard it, I felt like putting it on paper. So, here goes....

'Another day draws to an end in this painful city'. These were his thoughts as he got into one of the heavily crowded local trains on his way back. After a rather rough day at work he was most certainly not looking forward to another hour and a half of struggle on his ride home. Steering through an ocean of tired and irritated people, he found his way to an empty spot at the far end of the compartment. A little sympathy and a lot of wriggling got him a tiny patch to sit on. With his back to the perforated partition, which separated one pitiful second class compartment  from the other, he was glad he couldn't witness the mayhem in the next compartment.

Settling into his seat, his thoughts now riveted to the good old days back home. The knowledge that in a few days he would bid adieu to all this madness and head back to his peaceful city of Lucknow comforted him immensely. In fact, it was perhaps this very idea that kept him going. He was certain that his days of misery and struggle would end once he left. Just as he was beginning to feel placated by these images, he was jolted out of his reverie as a little finger poked him through one of the holes in the partition. Already irritated and drowning in self pity he turned around, ready to snap at whoever had yanked him out of his peaceful refuge, only to find a cherubic face staring at him bearing a couldn't-care-less grin. He couldn't help but smile at the chubby wretch, who less than a second ago was the cause of his annoyance.

Almost as if it was his right, the naughty little boy stretched out his grubby palm and demanded for alms. He did not beg, he did not plead, he just insolently stood there and yelled for money as if it was his own. But for his clothes and appearance, the boy reminded him of a rich heir, spoilt rotten, rightfully demanding a portion of his legacy. Alas, no one in the near vicinity looked interested in shelling out change from their pockets, which would instead be exchanged for frivolous little things like cigarettes or candy later in the day.

Knowing for sure that he would not get anything from these people, the boy proceeded to pull faces at whoever cared to look and sing bawdy songs in a high pitched voice to annoy the pathetic crowd. Like a pole dancer, he swivelled around the pole at the entrance of the compartment. Despite themselves, most of the commuters were by now quite amused by his antics. At one point the boy hung out of the train holding the pole with one hand, not once bothering about the peril that he was putting himself in. Some people craned their neck to get a good look at him but most of them could only see him waist-up. The silent spectators, completely engrossed, watched the beggar who seemed to enjoy life more than them even though in all probability he didn't have a penny in his pocket, a home to call his own, a family to look out for him or a warm bed to snuggle in at night. He appeared so content wearing rags and asking for alms.

The train screeched to a halt and the man again squeezed his way through innumerable sweaty bodies, clamping his brain and ego shut to all the abuses thrown his way and jumped out on to the platform, pleased immensely by his own acrobatics. Just as the train started to pull out of the station, he glanced back, only to see the same boy who had entertained him throughout the otherwise boring  journey and what he saw got imprinted in his memory forever, the cheerful little boy, with a twinkle in his eye and an abundance of energy was standing on the entrance of the compartment on just one leg.....

Kachroo

Today as I walked back from office I noticed a toy store which has recently established its presence in my already overcrowded, bursting-at-the-seams neighbourhood. Now, even though I am well aware of the fact that Bangalore traffic harbours an unhidden aversion to the nickel-and-dime pedestrian and the slightest negligence (even if it means trying to window shop) is often mete with harsh consequence, I paused for a moment to glance at the brand new store’s shining display window. Looking around I realized that I was not alone. Beside me stood a group of of 6 year old girls who couldn't stop oohing and aahing at the rows of pretty Barbie dolls and fluffy stuffed animals. Amused by the mayhem they were causing, I lingered around a little more, observing their childish prattle, when suddenly a rather nondescript rag doll caught my eye. To set the record straight here (since it is my first post on my new blog :) ) I am not someone who is predisposed to standing on a footpath and reminiscing about long forgotten memories, but somehow the sight of that discarded doll brought forth from the deepest crevice of my brain, a thought, a shadow of a recollection which refused to be buried any longer.

It dates back to an era when I was about the same age as these young girls. Those were the days when we lived in one of the many army cantonments in India, although in my opinion this was a slightly prettier one as it nestled between hills which were almost always topped with snow. The apartments all looked the same and there was a comforting similarity that wrapped itself around the inhabitants like a warm snuggly blanket on a cold winter night. This was also the period when I enjoyed the status of being a single child, at the focal point of my parents' love and attention (although believe me this was not always very enjoyable). Being a very social kid, I always had a whole gang of 'chuddy pals' whom I would happily gallivant with. However, amongst all the pals I had, cousin G was my most favourite. She made an appearance once every few years with her parents who were based in the Middle East. We were roughly the same age and got along like a house on fire. This year however, things were going to change. Little did I know that this year's visit was to bring immense sadistic pleasure to one of us and an equal amount of distress to the other.

The first thing that I noticed when G walked in through the front door was this limp rag doll hanging on her arm. The doll was about 2 feet long and had an over sized face with buttons sewn in as eyes and a couple of stitches with black wool forming a crooked smile. The rest of the body was made of stuffed old socks which contributed to its pitiful appearance. Unlike my own set of precious dolls, all of which had a crown of shiny blonde, brunette or black hair, this specimen which claimed to be a doll had a head full of Medusa-like tresses which were also bits of wool of varying colours sewn onto her head. All in all, this was the ugliest inanimate object that I had ever set my eyes upon. Hard as it is to believe, kids too have a very strong sense of comparison and one-upmanship and even though we might prefer otherwise, these traits aren't reserved for the more conniving and worldly wise adults. I smirked at G's new acquisition and was satisfied with the thought that my doll collection would kick her sad little doll's butt without a fight.

As the days passed by, things turned out to be quite contrary to what I had believed in the beginning. G's doll was not just a mere doll, it was an obsession. G carried the thing everywhere -from the ice cream shop to the park and from the institute to our outing to the zoo. Even though the doll was named 'Kachroo' which literally meant trash, she was a permanent fixture in G's life. This thing which started out to be an annoying nuisance was slowly turning into an enigma. A mystery which I desperately wanted to unravel. But this could happen only if and when I had a chance to lay my hands on the damned thing. Alas, G was violently possessive about Kachroo and the most devious of my plans failed to pry Kachroo from G's clutches. I fought, threw tantrums, tried to poison G with dairy products (I had overheard my parents discussing G's lactose intolerance. Yes yes go ahead judge me...I was quite an evil child then), whined and finally gave up on ever being able to own the world's most beautiful and unattainable doll (who else but - queen Kachroo).

As always, days flew by and now it was time to bid farewell to G and Kachroo. The previous night I had cried myself to sleep at the thought of never being able to see Kachroo again (sometimes I feel that doll was cursed with black magic...remember the movie Child's Play) and I woke up with red rimmed eyes and a very irritable disposition. Such was my grief that I refused to come out and see G off. After her departure, I spent the whole day moping around (my mother rarely gave in to my tantrums and so I had no sympathy from her either). Finally I decided to retreat to my favourite place - under the bed-where I could hide and mope a little more with my thumb firmly stuck in my mouth (I didn't dare reveal this nasty habit in public lest I became the butt of all jokes).As I crawled into the little space, I saw a strange pile already occupying my zone. I reached out and turned it over only to realize that it was nothing but the coveted Kachroo which had fallen off the ledge and mistakenly left behind. In the next few minutes my overjoyed brain concluded that this meant that Kachroo would be mine for the next two years till G returned for her next visit. “Mummmyyyyyy....G Kachroo le jaana bhool gayiiiiiiiiii”........... and there was joy in the world again, birds started to chirp and flowers bloomed to their fullest and brightest self. My day was made. I was later told that G fought, threw tantrums, whined and tried to poison herself all the way back home.