Old times, forgotten places

Being indoors was killing me. I'm not usually an outdoorsy-adventurous kind of person; but I like my share of hiking, football, walks and travelling (more so commuting). So, after three days of studying efforts, I decided it has high time I took a little walk, nothing too fancy; just around the neighbourhood.

It's a funny world we live in. Normally, I'm a bit of a social recluse, preferring to be out when people arrive, and being in when the rest of the clan pushes off to someplace. But, while walking down the road in front of my house, I felt there was a method to my madness.

Eight-thirty in the night is not exactly a respectable time for an evening walk, especially in respectable neighbourhoods.

It was a Monday night, so as it stands to reason, most of the people were tired after a hard day's work. The houses were quiet, with the permissible TV, of course; switching between news and soap-operas. Even the strays seemed tired. Maybe, I thought, that was the mass mood; or perhaps, it was the caffeine in my system.

I took a turn and entered a cul de sac, the alley obstructed by trees and foliage, with a 50 foot drop beyond that. Thankfully, there was a streetlight.

An old man lived there, many years back; and died there too. I don't remember what his name was, but he had a dog, a ferocious one. Bingo, I think his name was. Yes, I was afraid  to cycle here; almost got bitten once. The house still existed, now consumed by dust and trees and reptiles; nature claiming what was once it’s.

Poor Bingo. I wonder what happened to that ferocious son-of-a-bitch.

The street parallel to ours had changed. A lot.

I could see at least three new buildings, one housed a coaching class; but there was a building, which is as old as I am; probably older. A constant in a changing world.

I walked further.

I had a friend who lived there once, nice chap. He lived with his grandmother and cousins, in a lovely bungalow; my mother once said it was very Goan. Yes, even I thought so.

We friends used to climb over the walls, enter the neighbouring buildings; it was our sport, a retreat. Sort of like a Quest World, you know. We used to get yelled at, barked at; once chased, too. But heck. We were kids. That's what kids were supposed to do.

Today a lavish building complex stood there, still under construction, right where the Goan bungalow once stood. Not even a coconut tree remained. So much for a Goan experience, I suppose.

Where he and his family are right now, I don't know. Until this moment, I don't think I even cared.

They're probably at a congested flat somewhere in Thane, or a MHADA colony. Or, if fortunate, a Goan bungalow somewhere in the outskirts of Bombay; I mean, further away from where I am right now.

The walls of the buildings were there where used to be. My hands itched, I could feel the cement scraping under my palms, the heavy breathing, the sweaty clothes. And the people yelling behind us. Just a little hop and a skip, that's all. No chance; the walls have been raised and now have barbed wire fences. A classic case of ''good fences make good neighbours'' I guess.

Besides, I'd probably end up spooking an old couple. Not cool.

A motorbike entered the alley, and a man disembarked. I could hear the sound of the TV from his humble chawl-like house; a 70s Amitabh Bachchan film, I think.

God, they still air those movies? And people still watch them?

He was looking at me rather suspiciously. I didn't know him; he is new around here, maybe. That's why I think he didn't know me. Oh, damn. How will he? Where do I ever socialize?

He was still suspicious. Darn, I know why: there was a spate of break-in attempts here a few weeks back. A teenager in a black shirt and jeans, unshaven: a likely suspect on a reconnaissance mission. It’s weird how they suspect good people in their neighbourhoods.

Then again, I don't quite fit the bill of a good 'neighbour' now, do I?

I quickened my pace and left for home. No point in spooking people. Last thing they (and I) want is to raise an alarm, only to discover a loner minding his business, at nine in the night. Right.

Ah, home. Dinner was ready, but I wasn't hungry. Just thought of a blog post. I entered the gate, the strays gave a warm and welcoming look, the first one in the last half hour. I latched the gates and checked the locks once again.

Good fences, after all, make good neighbours, don't they?

The Village Fair

The station road usually remains calm, quiet and somewhat deserted for most of the day; filled with the sound of scattering feet and hushed (or at times, loud) voices during the morning and evening peak hours. Today, however, while walking down the very same road, I thought I'd taken a wrong turn. I looked around, past the crowds (teeming crowds, actually), and apparently, I was still at the station road; the annual 'jatra' or fair had begun—and as it has been for so many years, it was set up at the station road.

The earliest memories I have of the 'jatra' are the ones when I was about seven or eight years old. The 'jatra', or as we preferred calling it 'mela', translated into excitement; we were excited to ride on the carousels, the toy-train, the 'Dragon Boat', a host of other rattly rides; and cheap toys, of course, were a perennial attraction. A personal favourite of our's was the shooting arena. 'Arena' here is a very sophisticated term; in actuality, it was a small stall/kiosk, with many balloons stuck to a canvas and a rattly air-soft rifle to shoot with. When the target's three feet away, and when there's so many of them, accuracy is rather inevitable. But for my seven year old self, hitting a 'bullseye' within three shots (for five rupees, each) was quite an achievement.

Well, now in the present, the 'mela' has still retained its nostalgic charm; replete with the shooting 'arena', and many other small little shops, stalls, kiosks etc. I was here, neither with the intention of visiting the fair, nor for reliving the past; I had some important work. What it was, I'd forgotten for the full minute I stood there, just looking around; the colours, the noise, the voices...

"Three chances for ten rupees!" 

"Necklaces! Bangles! And all kinds of jewelry! Starts at rupees thirty!" 

"Come, see the Magic Show! Tickets for twenty rupees!"

Oh, things have become expensive. But, like always, the fair manages to remain affordable to the common-man.

Another voice distracted my attention; it was a woman's and I'm pretty sure it was a Marathi swear word...something about a pick-pocket. Instinctively, my hand reached my back pocket; yes, it had a bulge; the wallet is safe. I might have to keep walking this way. 

So what? One can't be too safe these days, can they? 

Whether it's the streets of Bruges, or the subway in New York or London, or a fair in some obscure Indian village, there are several 'cultural universals'; the way people behave in groups, religion, faith, prayer, and yes, as this case illustrates, pick-pockets, too.

While walking in a 'mela', it is nigh impossible to resist the temptation of the sheer variety of food on display; from hot, crispy bhajiyas, vada-pavs, to fresh jalebis and many, many other sweet-meats, of various sizes, shapes, colours...and names I haven't even heard of! I vaguely remember tasting some as a child—after my dad convinced me; and in spite of my initial scepticism, I think I'd enjoyed eating them too. Though I confess, I'm not too sure now; maybe, if I finally manage to learn what sweet is what.

As the sunlight faded, the artificial lights lit up the streets, the noise got louder, and the streets got worse, with the public spilling out on the roads, (well, whatever was left of it for motorists to use); Bollywood, it seems, never loses its charm. Somewhere, I heard a Hannah Montana song playing; after a closer look (yes, I was just curious) I realized it's a jingle from some kind of a guitar toy; pink, of course. Also, I could see lots of Spider-man stuff, Ben-10 and Transform-Robots. I won't say that I was cynically amused, because I wasn't; it's just that, globalization has reached well beyond the proverbial shores...and I, for one, am not really complaining.

On my way back (unfortunately, the work I set out for remained unaccomplished) I noticed a lady, presumably on what seemed like a tattoo stall (it was actually a plastic sheet she was sitting on, with xeroxed copies of many designs, and a tattoo machine). She looked at me, flexed her flabby, wrinkled biceps and pointed at one of the photos; a dragon, I think it was. I smiled, shook my head, and resumed walking.

From the sky-walk, I could see the carousels, the giant wheel and the 'Dragon Boat.' I felt a slight nudge against my shoulder; in my mind, almost subconsciously, I heard a woman swearing in Marathi...'pick-pocket'. I felt the bulge in my back pocket; yes, wallet's still there.

One can't be too careful these days, can they?

Path To Un-lightenment

Diwali’s four days away, the market’s buzzing with activity, parents are out shopping with their children, firecrackers and all; and I’m sitting here, writing on my laptop, that too on back up power.

Why?

Well, the answer’s absurdly simple! Power cuts.

Unlike many of the privileged people I know, I am a victim of M.S.E.B.’s very long legacy of power cuts, or load shedding, as we popularly call it here. My oldest memory of load shedding dates back to when I was six months old. Of course, I clearly do not remember facts as they were; but my mom and grand-mom never fail to remind me of those days. Sixteen hours plus of no electricity, I believe. The oldest memory I very clearly remember was when my grandmother used to use her authentic, vintage 1924 kerosene lamp (not exactly 1924, but, who knows?). We used to gather around the lamp on Friday evenings; since that was the day we had ‘mega load shedding’, and do absolutely nothing. My grandmother occasionally told me stories (ghost ones and otherwise), while my mom used to cut vegetables; I mean, light or no light, we had to eat, right?

After a few years, our problem eased a bit when my father bought a Honda generator. The procedure to switch it on was complicated no doubt: having to changeover from the mains, tweak half-a-dozen switches on the gen-set, and at a later stage (read late at night), getting out in complete darkness, at 10 in the night, to get petrol from a station in Ambernath (about 8 kms away). But, I confess, life was comfortable.

When the world outside is pitch black, two fans and tubes somehow manage to provide all the luxury in the world.

Oh, I forgot to mention the best part: the monsoons. In the beginning of June, when the skies darkened with the arrival of the South-West monsoon clouds, the generator would be primed up, readied for long hours of duty, the petrol can filled up; and as back up, candles and match-sticks were kept handy. Back in the days when we used the kerosene lamp (affectionately called ‘hurricane lamp’, for its obvious utility in times of hurricanes), preparations weren’t so elaborate. Yes, we had to add the hand-fan to the inventory list. Otherwise, it was just the same!

For some reason I don’t know, the rain gods felt very generous at times. Along with rainfall (and power-cuts), we used to get a good dose of thunderstorms. The power lines were the first casualties, innocent citizens the next.

Our woes, sadly or otherwise, didn’t end with the monsoons. The transformers once in a while gave a little ‘boom’…the aftermath was usually crowds gathering around the transformer, everyone yelling out for some action, responsibility etcetera amidst all that fiasco. Nothing like a blown transformer to promote solidarity in a housing society, I say!

But, if it was just your phase that blew, then you were on your own, and at the mercy of the technician. However, I do take the opportunity to say that some of them are fine people, the ones who’re in short supply.

Fast forward to the present, after years of living in darkness (more often, the in light powered by the inverter battery), I’m here writing about my woes. Not that I’m complaining or anything, in fact, I’m not! It’s just that, like all problems in out great nation, I have grown to live with it.

A couple of years ago, there was a lot of rejoicing among the people here when we heard that the Dhabol power-plant was reopening. Finally, we expected a concrete solution to our power problems. Sadly, by now, I think you know what happened…I mean, after knowing the tragedy of the Dhabol plant in the first place, I was not surprised to be disappointed.

  

Today, when I look at the newspapers talking about the Tata-Reliance tussle, tariff hikes and all that in the city, I give a cynical laugh. They’ll never know what it is like to be devoid of power, to live by the light of a kerosene lamp, to miss all your favourite TV programmes (even the re-runs), and how so many poor souls in hospitals have suffered. There are places in India where they have power for just two hours (or not at all); I don’t think I have a right to complain.

So, should I try to assert my consumer rights for equitable electricity? Maybe I should. But, where is that power going to come from? And more importantly, who’s gonna stand up for the kind of people I mentioned earlier. Power, water, health, they lack all the necessities we take for granted.

Sure, there are solutions; solar energy is one. But, I hardly think my neighbours are the kinds to afford it.

So, um, I think I should really stop writing; my laptop’s charge is dwindling. And I don’t expect the power to come in at least another two hours.

If nothing else, these long, dark hours have taught me patience, austerity and the value of enlightenment.

Or should I say ‘un-lightenment’…?