The greener grass on the other side

The exact point is arguable. But I think it is after Borivli that the surroundings take on a mofussil character – somewhere between city and small town. The roads narrow down, the buildings have a dreary, weather-worn appearance. Somewhere in the interior, gleaming newsupermarkets and boutiques are springing up, but the prevailing sense is of a jumble, of being neither here nor there. Dumped plastic bags are visible everywhere but there are also patches of green and shining water.

After Virar, the air definitely seems fresher and everything greener. And by the time the train reaches Safala you can already see the young tribal women, straightbacked and beautiful with flowers in their glistening hair. And the food that passes through at ever station! A more curious mixture would be hard to imagine: sweet oranges, tough chikoos, vada pav (doesn’t anyone sell plain batata wadas anymore?) tea and mawa cakes (!?).

I was on my way to Dahanu for a pre-wedding celebration. No ordinary party this, but one on a remote hillock with startling views and fairy lights twinkling under a starlit sky. But apart from the unique ambience, the event was unusual in that it was also my introduction to the Iranis. Famed for their robust but volatile nature the Iranis are a shrinking community.One sees them here and there in Mumbai (two of the city’s best known establishments Leopolds’ and the Yazdani bakery are owned by Iranis). But in Dahanu they are ubiquitous, operating medical stores, wine shops, bakeries and huge chikoo farms that supply the brown stuff to the city’s markets all year round.

And all day, before the party someone or the other appeared to deliver refreshments, decorate the place, set up the music. And after sunset they descended en masse, bearing bouquets and gifts to sing, gab, eat and dance the evening away. Returning home (to the chatter of two Bengali girls in the next compartment) I thought it would be time to settle back into a more prosaic existence. But the Umrachi Pani band has already struck its first jangling note and the East Indian family next door is preparing to marry off their daughter in style. The women have tied green scarves around their heads and the men are waving palm fronds in the air. I guess this is what being cosmopolitan is all about. It gets a bitnoisy at times. But I don’t think I’d want to change it for anything in the world.