Jai Ho. Me and Rama have adda sessions through the day with the longest at lunch. Over rotis, rice, sambhar, sabji, we chew an adda; and an adda anywhere has never lost a topic; there will be something; today, Rama said, ' I may go anywhere; for three days it is fun; then I think of Mumbai and home; I cannot live without Mumbai and me 500 sq.ft of one hall-bedroom-kitchen; my cot and iphone; darshan of Shreya and Chiyu. Porum,' chowing a drumstick dripping in sambhar. Me nodded. Rama is a Mumbaikar sans Marathi and Hindi having clocked some 40 years with a near 20 in Alleppey. Me am a Mumbaikar without Marathi, having timed 48 years with 20 years in Calcutta. An undiluted Citi-zen. In Calcutta, stared and mingled in crowds hanging off buses and sticking out of tarred roads; in Mumbai for 48 years have meditated on train crowds, being a part of squashed humans in Kalyan-VT and Borivili-Churchgate fasts. Loud crowds with uneven beat of drums make me flags, me anthem, me imaginations; mobile towers stand in for trees; packed, high rises float in skies; have walked and walked and walked Marine Drive with more crowds than waves in the Sea; as a journalist trodded Azad Maidan, Cross Maidan and Oval Maidan; Azad had cricket in whites, Cross had circuses and dust; Oval still has the University clock tower chimes dumbed by car horns; and crowds all over, more than the grass on the Maidans. In Calcutta at the Maidan and Lakes, me heard the thud of footballs in crowds. Today at Borivili there are crowds; have always lived in crowds. On Link Road morning walks beat a tattoo to lorry roars, Metro drillers, whirrs of autos, honks of cars, guffaws and loud arguments of olds spending breath on their bravery with files in government offices. Me miss the beat music on Sunday mornings. 'Maine file par aisa noting kiya ki boss dar gaye; aaj kal aisa nahin hota hai,' they tongue the crowds. Today, me is a crowd. Need iphones and TV (sports with commentary), to read a book; at lunch and after lunch need TV or iphone hums. Rama switches on a Mohanlal and Mammotty and their loudness cradle me into a deep snooze. Nights, band music and loudspeakers from marriage pandals, yodel me. 'I need a TV, some noise for sleep,' says Rama and me of Mumbaikar crowd agrees. When friends talk of bunglows atop Himalayas me shudder; me am afraid of being alone in bunglows; can only sleep in noise. Crowds are different. In college, English literature professors moaned of Lamb being a Londoner. A lover of London. Me loves Mumbai. Calcutta crowds are full of themselves, wrapped in Tagore, Vivekananda and Ray. Me never enjoyed them nor Calcutta. Mumbaikar is double toned, heroes are crowded, fast locals mouthing vada pavs; Tuka and Panduranga are pandal music. Yet, they are loud; crowds have a loud music about them; and in Mumbai, crowds dont bother each other. Buddhist Thay talks of meditative walks; me am into talkative walks, me hearing, someone yapping; or all talking. Science elbows art on Link Road but not life; Ruskin Bond in Dehra knows all about trees and silences; Arun Kolatkar imagined railway time tables and Kala Ghoda poems at Wayside Inn. Sitting inside a Mumbai crowd. Crowd sourced. Crowd owned. Crowd lost. Crowd leaves me alone even as it owns. Me am a Mumbai crowd song in a three-quarters and a kurta. Tuneless, yes. Yet, a Mumbai song. Jai Ho.
Tuesday, November 21, 2017
Mumbai crowds
Jai Ho. Me and Rama have adda sessions through the day with the longest at lunch. Over rotis, rice, sambhar, sabji, we chew an adda; and an adda anywhere has never lost a topic; there will be something; today, Rama said, ' I may go anywhere; for three days it is fun; then I think of Mumbai and home; I cannot live without Mumbai and me 500 sq.ft of one hall-bedroom-kitchen; my cot and iphone; darshan of Shreya and Chiyu. Porum,' chowing a drumstick dripping in sambhar. Me nodded. Rama is a Mumbaikar sans Marathi and Hindi having clocked some 40 years with a near 20 in Alleppey. Me am a Mumbaikar without Marathi, having timed 48 years with 20 years in Calcutta. An undiluted Citi-zen. In Calcutta, stared and mingled in crowds hanging off buses and sticking out of tarred roads; in Mumbai for 48 years have meditated on train crowds, being a part of squashed humans in Kalyan-VT and Borivili-Churchgate fasts. Loud crowds with uneven beat of drums make me flags, me anthem, me imaginations; mobile towers stand in for trees; packed, high rises float in skies; have walked and walked and walked Marine Drive with more crowds than waves in the Sea; as a journalist trodded Azad Maidan, Cross Maidan and Oval Maidan; Azad had cricket in whites, Cross had circuses and dust; Oval still has the University clock tower chimes dumbed by car horns; and crowds all over, more than the grass on the Maidans. In Calcutta at the Maidan and Lakes, me heard the thud of footballs in crowds. Today at Borivili there are crowds; have always lived in crowds. On Link Road morning walks beat a tattoo to lorry roars, Metro drillers, whirrs of autos, honks of cars, guffaws and loud arguments of olds spending breath on their bravery with files in government offices. Me miss the beat music on Sunday mornings. 'Maine file par aisa noting kiya ki boss dar gaye; aaj kal aisa nahin hota hai,' they tongue the crowds. Today, me is a crowd. Need iphones and TV (sports with commentary), to read a book; at lunch and after lunch need TV or iphone hums. Rama switches on a Mohanlal and Mammotty and their loudness cradle me into a deep snooze. Nights, band music and loudspeakers from marriage pandals, yodel me. 'I need a TV, some noise for sleep,' says Rama and me of Mumbaikar crowd agrees. When friends talk of bunglows atop Himalayas me shudder; me am afraid of being alone in bunglows; can only sleep in noise. Crowds are different. In college, English literature professors moaned of Lamb being a Londoner. A lover of London. Me loves Mumbai. Calcutta crowds are full of themselves, wrapped in Tagore, Vivekananda and Ray. Me never enjoyed them nor Calcutta. Mumbaikar is double toned, heroes are crowded, fast locals mouthing vada pavs; Tuka and Panduranga are pandal music. Yet, they are loud; crowds have a loud music about them; and in Mumbai, crowds dont bother each other. Buddhist Thay talks of meditative walks; me am into talkative walks, me hearing, someone yapping; or all talking. Science elbows art on Link Road but not life; Ruskin Bond in Dehra knows all about trees and silences; Arun Kolatkar imagined railway time tables and Kala Ghoda poems at Wayside Inn. Sitting inside a Mumbai crowd. Crowd sourced. Crowd owned. Crowd lost. Crowd leaves me alone even as it owns. Me am a Mumbai crowd song in a three-quarters and a kurta. Tuneless, yes. Yet, a Mumbai song. Jai Ho.
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