Tags:
Journalism of Courage
Bombay blues
From a quiet Chandigarh nestled in the Shivaliks, into the lap of chaotic Mumbai, can be quite a leap. Especially if it8217;s your first one. But that8217;s what! As I stepped into the Mumbai office for my sojourn, a colleague wanted to know, brow tilted, 8220;So what brings you here from the pretty, pretty Chandigarh?8221; My attempt at an explanation bore just one word 8212; 8220;adventure!8221; And I could see him nod, not exactly in a direction that looked, even faintly, like approval. So there, I said, all yours. The city and its ways. Go jump!
The journey to Mumbai had been uneventful except that it was from January to June. And they called it winter. As I tried to make myself at home in this newfound winter, I could smell a lot more coming. The fish, to begin with. I mean, alright, it may be one of the most delectable things in the sea but it isn8217;t my idea of a tingling fragrance. So the city has me running all the time, sometimes after trains, sometimes away from fish marts, and at others, into trouble. A friend of mine had told me, 8220;The best way to know Mumbai is to walk its roads, travel its trains, on your own.8221; And lo, I was on my feet, with my Walkman plugs tucked well into my ears, all set for a wild go.
They say language doesn8217;t matter, the feeling does. Sure, except that a new language can get all kinds of strange concoctions for food served to you when all you asked for was a little more curd. Then it has you boarding wrong buses all the time just because you had the Marathi 18242; mixed up with 98242;. From the look of it, it8217;s just a little twist in the middle but then, it can twist you and your wits pretty much around. Like, the other evening, when I walked to the bus-stop with that hey-I-can-handle-it-all swagger, there was only the evening breeze to be enjoyed and nothing, but nothing, could go wrong.
Except the bus. As it screeched to a halt, I made my way into the pack as gracefully as I could with one foot dangling out, hands wrestling with the handle, the bag and all. After inching in, I shoved a five-rupee note at the conductor with a cool 8220;one Shivaji Park please8221;. A studied look and a strange grin after, he said:8220;Shivaji Park? Wahaan nahin jaati!8221; My jaw could have dropped had I not held on to it, to stutter: 8220;Yeh Number One nahin hai?8221; The man grinned while I heard another one 8211; 8220;Number Nine ko One bana diya8221;! With the heavens still saving some mercy, the bus stood still at the traffic lights and out I scuttled, far far away from it, never looking back. Haven8217;t worn that swagger again. Not at bus stops. I keep track of numerals instead.
Then another day, my landlady asked me to fetch a pack of milk. Handing me five bucks and two more, she said that would buy me the needful. As I stood at the shop counter, asking for a litre pack, the man across announced, 8220;Rs 12.50.8221; I raised a brow, looked considerably hurt and said, 8220;No, I want the six-rupee pack.8221; Throwing me a sympathetic one, the man asked, very politely: 8220;Miss, which milk do you want?8221; 8220;The six rupee a litre,8221; I maintained. He guided me to a very poor looking shop. Well, I returned empty-handed, only to be told that, yes indeed, I was supposed to collect the half-litre pack, not one! It had been the Marathi mix-up yet again.So much for aamchi encounters.
