Yogi and Hasan

At 11, the April sun was streaming in Borivili. Rama and me waited for an auto to the famed Borivili market to buy mangos for pickles. Vidya, Dakhi, Ganesh, Shreya and Chiyu have put in their orders. When me wants an auto, it does not come; or floats past with passengers. As sweat streamed us, an auto stood beside us, empty. 'Station, Borivili market,' said me and the young, UP Bhaiya with forked teeth, from Gorakhpur, nodded the head. At the red signal, the auto paused and me was surprised as in Borivili, traffic signals are a decoration for the police to pack in haftas. Everyone breaks the signal, if caught, oblige the police with a Rs.100 note. 'Time nahin hai,' is the reason. Nobody has time in Mumbai, no clock and no watch. And to be honest, Rama and me always had time and more for well near 40 years. As the red signal refused to turn green, the UP Bhaiya for Gorakhpur, asked if it was alright if we were dropped a bit away from the market. Didnt quite get the question; stared. Then the Gorakhpuri explained: 'Mere pass badge nahin hai, licence nahin hai. Police pakadega tho fine bharna padega.' Rama asked: Licence nahin hai? Then, Yogi, the Gorakhpur auto driver, said he had a 'gaon ka licence.' Then me told him, like some Samkara: 'O tho Mumbai mein nahin chalega.' Yogi turned serious, said he was not committing any crime. Just earning a day's expenses to live in Mumbai. He dropped us a few metres away from the market; we paid him Rs.30, the metre was running at designated speed, so he said. Perhaps, none lives in the midst of absurdity than a UP bhaiya. A nothingness is the Bhaiya norm. Nothing ever tears him up or her. In Mumbai, on Yogi Nagar Road, they are dressed in dirt and dust; spit and eat the same place; they are beyond desires; nothing matters to them; they can laugh; any problem earns a 'kya karoon saheb.' They are Yogis today, the Yogi who has taken over Modi in the media. Modi is out like Kohli. Yogi overtakes Maya. Yogi and his auto speeded away with a customer. And there is Hassan from Metro Workshop. With some nudging he came to repair the car of son Ganesh; the battery had run down, it had to be charged, he said and me did not understand. Handed over me mobile to Hasan to chat up Ganesh. Next day Hasan turned up, worried. A car customer came to Metro with a defective battery; he like all Mumbaikars had no time; there was a board meeting with some 10 Dubai smugglers and he had to rush; Hassan plucked out a running battery from a car stranded for repair, helped him and the Mumbaikar in turn promised to return the battery. 'Jadli se jaldi', the Mumbaikar emphasised. Battery has not come back. Hasan is chewing oily finger nails as the Boss will cut pay. Mobiles the number given, no response. A Mumbaikar has his and her own norms. A Mumbai absurdity. 'Ab kya karoon saheb,' he asked. Me scratched the April sun off me back; offered him a bottle of cold water and a cigarette.