Mumbai meri What?

Almost six years ago, on a summer night, Mom, Aashrai and I alighted the Konkan Railway service and headed to Appa’s outstretched arms, who proudly said, “Welcome to the city that never sleeps!” It was my first visit to the commercial capital of the country, or as the indigenous folk calls it – Aamchi Mumbai. Half-dozen years ago, I thus spent my vacation in Andheri, opposite Leela Palace – where Dad used to work, in a rare apartment building (in those days, at least) complete with Swimming Pools and a Sporting Complex – hardly something one expects in a city like Mumbai!

But a few days and an Amoebic dysentery (courtesy: Juhu Vada Pav) later, to say that I absolutely reviled the place and was dying of claustrophobia would be an understatement. I wanted to get out and was glad when I finally did.

I returned to the port city today after risking my life in one of the fastest landings I have ever experienced. The pilot, being absolutely reckless, hit the ground hard enough to sink Mumbai a few feet into the sea. The air hostess smiled at our alarm and said, “Welcome to Chattrapati Shivaji Airport – Domestic Terminal”. I would be lying if I said that my initial feelings of apprehension were subsiding.

I was welcomed, however, by one of the most beautiful overcast skies I have ever seen. The airport having undergone a major face-lift had me standing in awe in the middle of the pick-up bay. The cabbie from Schlumberger told me that I would be going to a Thane guest house. And so we left…

I have seen a lot in the past hours: the winding road around the Powai Lake, the scenic Hiranandani gardens springing out of nowhere, shanties and malls juxtaposed, rather friendly people and a young lad by the slums with no shoes leaping through the puddles in dazzling blue Samsung – Ballack number 13… Even if all these didn’t influence me, the fluent Hing-lish conversation I had with my Tamilian driver did!

I sit here on the 24th floor now, wondering if I’ll have to revise my ‘Favourite Cities’ list real soon…

The Other Side

Even as I write this, I find myself in a satiated state of semiconsciousness; a state which the enlightened would call near-nirvana and doped would call half-stoned. I find myself unable to shift postures too easily. In a way, I feel confident that I'm writing this with my brain. And not with my heart (unlike the previous time I applied ink to paper) which slumbers peacefully in an idyllic clime unfamiliar to Chennai brought about by Lady Laila.

May 2009 will be remembered for the Grand Scrabble Days, where the Farmhouse in one last attempt to make its mark on wonderland forever played its great gambit. It was a welcome measure as much as being a pointless exercise, seeing that the guest was to play against the likes of the soft Southpaw and verbose Velociraptor. At least it blocked out the change which was upon us, however ephemerally, and those few Cautley hours promised to stay on forever. I exited sophomore year fully conscious of pain - pain of having to carry my laptop a few GB heavier in movies.

May 2010 will be remembered. I don't know for what. There was no scrabble and in the absence of intellectual distractions, George Lucas' 'There is no passion; there is serenity' becomes obsolete. And a clear month prior to indulging my brain for the eighth time ever in the very hazardous end-sem rote, I broke down to emotions. I got plain morose and saturnine in my last work and I don't know whether or not to chastise myself for that last indulgence. But, it was relief. And ever since, I haven't known how to feel about the great Goodbye.

The last week lasted a day and the Hour-hand seemed to outrun its Seconds' counterpart. And it seemed as though I was trying to reach out to all those things I had missed so far. Be it the random trip to Ravindra in the pretext of searching for a cap or the Jan Shatabdi I almost missed, the experiences were outlandish. The hardest part though was the inability to convey through the English language what can be best described as an emotional implosion. Luckily, Silence seems to be the best way.

The Watch Out val, the great Lit dinner (which proudly maintains its chivalrous superbia), the last EDC 'party', the Yaadein pages I meticulously filled after having mocked it at first, sessions where I tried explaining what sentiyaap meant, even the Cogni culmination meet... Maybe this is how I'll remember the May of 2010. As the Dreamwalker Diaries so aptly puts it, Roorkee started as a mistake. I think it's the greatest mistake of my life. Hadn't it been for that omnipotent sheet I filled in IIT Madras, I would have missed out on condescending blobs, supersurds, extortion specialists, jobless somnambulists, Gunda-buffs, loveless tigers, reptile kings, kings of kings, air-guitarists, 8mm-collectors and others who I'd love to have known better! The thought simply alarms me.

Half an hour has elapsed since I began writing this and I find myself in that same lucid lull. So this is how the greatest goodbyes are said. In silence.

But It Rained

The chapo was over. Suppressing a mighty burp at its very nascence, after having devoured two Paneer-Pyaaz Paranthas, a Pav-Bhaaji, one and two-seventh portions of fried-Maggi and an aloo poha (the last of which, I detected was spoilt after having shovelled in a few spoonfuls), I struggled to rise from my seat which I am quite sure would have buckled under my weight had I eaten another morsel. The human brain recommends that you eat until you are full and then exist in equilibrium with atmospheric pressure - but this process is apparently deleted from the register when some one else is paying for your meals! Nevertheless, with great effort, not only did I manage to stand up, I negotiated a few steps towards the Ganga Canteen exit. To Cautley and beyond... Or so I had so naively thought.

The Met Department predicted, in today's newspaper, (which, thankfully, I have been allowed to read again by the newspaperwala) that the SE-monsoon trough has moved further up north. As an average human being, evincing as much faith in Met as I would express in the IITR Admin, I only thought it convention that a long dry spell should follow. And there. Met tricks you again! This one time they get it right and the everlasting dilemma of 'Can we always consider Met wrong?' continues...

It was 1 a.m. With my tangible presence getting soaked in moon-sized droplets and my mind still pondering about how I must run the Ganga-Cautley gauntlet, my temporal lobe picked up a nutter's quip, "How about football?" Bizarre sounding at first, it gained universal acceptance soon and then against my better sense of judgement, I jumped on the bandwagon too! And into some puddles, in jeans, slippers and all. What followed was an 'awesome' session of dragging the ball through pools, slush tackling (which apparently has it advantages) and observation of wet-ball aerodynamics. An irate Resident Warden and a feckless watchman looked on in awe. And veneration.

The game ended at one all (possibly), with no one keen about keeping scores, when most people had each completed the mandatory ten somersaults in the muck. Chemical's obsession with photo-shoots followed (which might even be uploaded by now) when the cloud-cover relented. I began my arduous, risky trip back home dodging tadpoles here and searching for bricks there. I also realized the importance of being on the look-out for live wires during rainy days such as these. My clothes are ruined, but it was fun all the same. It would have been just another day with a chapo and some footy. But it rained.

P.S. Frogs are cuter and nicer creatures than one imagines them to be. They actually oblige by leaping out of your way before every one of your steps.

A Rain, A pig and A Lot of Wet People

The ‘Retreating Monsoon’ is a phrase few people inhabiting the northern plains might come across, much less comprehend. And for a southerner from these parts, it would be nothing less than ‘bizarre’ if he encounters pellets fall earthwards during the month of July. Nevertheless, he will welcome it.

Well, this monsoon has taken up many a strange way as compared to its fathers and ancestors. Arriving earlier than usual, it gave the farmers and Met department great hope… Ever since, it has dilly-dallied causing heat waves in the northern half and supplying water to the Coromandel. It was only when the Met Dept said that there will not be rains in Delhi until the fall of June, did the rains respond a week before the ‘due date’ ergo not altering the ‘Met is always wrong’ paradigm.

Insofar as I have ascertained, employing the limited resources and zeal at my disposal, tedium sets in during the wee hours of the evening, at the demise of the afternoon hours. Hence, it was with the noble intentions of allaying boredom that I headed off for the beach at 1700 hours IST – my usual time. Many had failed to arrive that day citing various strange and untellable reasons. I was nevertheless joined by a fellow beach-faithful going by the name of Pramod (hereafter ‘P’ for ease) and another school junior.

Even as I plonked myself on the marble parapet, I stared up heavenwards carefully noting the garrison of grey vertically overhead. “Dude, it’s going to rain,” said P. The other lad seconded him.

“No man,” I reassured. “Don’t you remember tenth geography? Sea breeze, da!”

They nodded conceding to such infallible logic. The clouds would blow deep into land and leave the sands unscathed, bone-dry… I smiled to myself – the wonders of nature and their simple scientific explanations – high pressure to low pressure, presto!

Plop. One of the largest globules I have encountered in my 19 years of existence fell on my wrist. Even the soundest hypotheses have fallen and mine, apparently, didn’t even make the ‘sound’ cut. Anyway, I stood corrected as we ran for cover in a vast stretch of plain shelter-less sand. The nearby Barista had already been taken by people who had anticipated the rain, much unlike the Meteorology Dept. We ran further towards the only fathomable shelter – a food-court ‘Planet Yumm’. Alas, many others had a similar idea and the poor waiters inside were having a tough time finding standing place for themselves!

In a great stroke of luck, under the illumination of a stroke of lightning, I discovered a shed towards the rear of the building. Rushing forth, we were the first to avail sanctuary under the 4 square metres of asbestos. I recall distinctly, saying, “Hey, this looks like a cattle-shed!” Yes, soon enough people aped our feat and sought shelter under the very same 2 by 2. What was worse, they now used me as a barrier between themselves and the splashes off the tarmac! Soon enough, it did resemble a chaotic shed of livestock.

We realized the urgent need to evict the excessive population. It was perforce then, that we set our plan rolling…

For starters, I sneezed loudly enough to wake up the nearby dead at the crematorium. Then the other two were quick to turn away and hold their breath before P yelled, “ENNA DA? (What da?) Don’t sneeze! You’ve got SWINE FLU… There are people around!!”

Oh yes, it eased the crowd out a bit while others threw us dirty looks and whispered among themselves… The ones with an IQs above fifty over hundred stayed on, I guess. However, the rain had concluded its first bout and what lingered on was nothing save puddles, wet sand and the petrichor… Do I love rains or what!