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Journalism of Courage
Where the streets have no shame
Without looking at my watch this morning I knew I was early. My measure of time 8212; the pavement artist 8212; had not yet got down to his chores of creativity. In fact, he was busy with the mundane task of propping his art material, cardboard box upon cardboard box, on his roadside stall. Every day, as the hands of my watch touch 9.15 am, my favourite artist dips his hands into his palette and pulls out an array of hideously-coloured bras. It is a peculiar sort of ritual where rows of men start hanging bras that look like pillow cases on temporarily constructed rafters. Day after day, the same undergarments are brought out 8212; virulent pink, muddy beige, and rusted black. And night after night, they are folded and put back in their boxes, never to be bought or sold. As yet, cows have not discovered the need to support their udders and to date no human has been compelled to hold those XXXXL lingerie items against their skin. Yet, this activity continues unabated by themarket8217;s laws of demand and supply.
Soon you are surrounded by block upon block of stores that till now you thought existed only in cinema hall ads. You know those Dimple ad film inserts where a hollow, echoing voice booms: quot;For Chinese, Mughlai and Continental cuisine, eat at Big Spoon to satisfy all your needs. Bring family also for special family rooms.quot; And the fly in your soup will come for free 8212; most mornings it is impossible to see the mawa cakes under the hordes of flies.
You are jerked out of your rising nausea by the BEST route. Twenty-two Ltd has screeched to a halt as a sea of people has surged on to the streets. It8217;s another typical Bombay custom 8212; pedestrians feel they have the right ofway on main roads, and actually pick fights with drivers who dare to disagree. In turn, buses, cars, motorcycles and all other forms of LMVs respond by murderously accelerating toward pedestrians. And slam on their brakes just inches away from highway bhurji. The unfazed street walker chalks one up for himself and goes out and steps in front of another bus.
In stops and starts, the bus ride also affords you glimpses of what once made the city beautiful. The crumbling edifice of the Sir J J Hospital, Magen David Synagogue, the Traffic Institute, lovely art deco buildings with names like Fine Palace and the glorious, glorious Gloria Church. As you start approaching the flyover you see its spires rise into the sky and your heart lurches with joy 8212; only to be dashed by Palace Talkies, a hideous cinema hall in blue and pink that shows equally awful films like Nikaah. Smack next to it is a temple painted predominantly green 8212; with gashes of pink, blue and orange. An STD booth is atits bottom, perhaps with a hotline to God. So help me Lord!
Near the traditionally named Prafulla Madira Griha i.e. Prafulla Bar, there are weird, mod buildings with pretentious names like Macropolo. Glass-fronted, granite structures they sneak up behind you and startle you with their garishness. You heart is already racing and you know you cannot still the pounding as the biggest eyesore is yet to come. On the right is the Byculla Zoo and no matter how hard you try and keep your eye to the left of the road, you are drawn to look and stare. Running on empty, I cannot stomach what the beast in man has done to our heritage. Beautiful old statues commemorating the city8217;s founding fathers lie in the sun, corroding 8212; unnoticed. These days, the only structures governments are interested in maintaining are zunkha bhakhar stalls.
Chimneys from abandoned mills ahead suggest Lalbog8217; has arrived. As I try and cross the road, I know if a passing bus does not get me, the pollution will.
Nonita Kalra is thefeatures editor, The Indian Express.
