13:15
Water had flown into the college building by now. The library and the ground floor computer centre resembled the ‘Titanic’. The water was rising alarmingly.
Handling the parents was becoming a nightmare. Two class room tables had been joined together to form a temporary information centre for parents. There was practically no light with just a couple of emergency lights being the only main source, apart from candles – which were nothing more than birthday candles really. Mining the names of the missing from the ad-hoc lists that were being updated continuously was difficult and the search often proved negative. Every time that happened, it seemed that all hope had ended for the parents. Obviously, at this stage, it was impossible for them to venture out anywhere else to search their kids. One improvisation we carried out immediately was that we never said “The name doesn’t exist in our list.” Instead, we said “It is possible that your child may have been harbored in a building close to where the bus was stranded.”
The streets in Mumbai had turned into rampaging rivers in the unrelenting rain. Floating Mercedes cars and auto-rickshaws alike bore a grim reminder of nature’s law of equality. However rich or poor, nature’s fury knew no distinction.
Comfortable arrangements were made by the volunteers for the children and their parents to spend the night at NMIMS. The rain after all didn’t indicate to be running out of gas. In an ingenuous effort, NMIMS students had ventured into neck-high waters to collect edible food items from nearby buildings. They received open-hearted responses. Food items ranging from chips, biscuits, and bread to even dal-rice and poori-bhaji were collected this way. This kept the spirits relatively higher in every soul in the campus that night. Grateful parents also offered help in the way of cell-phone calls (in case a particular network was working), food items and harboring unclaimed children in case they lived close-by.
The pre-school children yet unclaimed, disturbed the quiet intermittently with their high-pitched crying. It is at this point that I discovered totally different personalities in some female class-mates whom I thought I knew well. They hugged the children to their breasts like their biological mothers would, walking from one end of the corridor to the other and patting them gently on their backs – in rhythm with the continuous gibberish dialogue. This carried on for hours – tirelessly. I salute the sense of womanhood they exhibited.
At last we had some time to sit and cool down a bit. We were suddenly faced with the prospect of chatting and gossiping to kill time – what a welcome relief! Almost 12 hours had passed before we could even wink.
A foreigner with a camera hanging on his neck soon waded past. The group in a sudden jolly fit asked him if he could click a picture. Even before he could nod his agreement, the group had assumed the ‘say cheese’ pose! As soon as the camera flashed, one in the group exclaimed “Sir, hope it wasn’t a false flash!”
We had a hearty laugh as we moved ahead.
A little ahead, a group member suddenly realized that her childhood dream was to drive an auto-rickshaw. She explained thus to shocked group members “Look, what’s the big thing if one dreams to drive a Ferrari? One can always work hard, earn lots of money and fulfill the dream. If one thinks pragmatically, my dream is much more challenging.” We saw logic in what the fellow MBA said. I held her hand and manipulated her to a stranded driver-less auto-rickshaw. She achieved her dream amidst our giggles. Someone shouted “Abbe meter to chaalu karo!” Our accomplished ‘auto-driver’ friend, otherwise a strictly ‘luxury cars only’ traveler, started looking all over the steering area for the meter!
As we took the flooded roads again, thoughts of how life itself played management games with us that night, with people who were to ride the business world in a few days, came into my mind. How inconsequential humans are in God’s scheme of things! And yet, we all must play our part. We believed we played our part well that night. Yes, satisfaction felt good and warm in the heart. What an experience, an experience in maturity! A lot of people had ‘grown up’ in just a night.
Note: As I write this piece on 28th July, I have reached my 11th floor residence in Andheri (W). There’s no electricity yet, no water supply, no essential food supplies and no cell-phone connectivity. Mumbai, India’s premier city hasn’t yet recovered from a day’s rain that has broken world records, consumed 300+ lives and caused widespread devastation.
What images does the word ‘adventure’ bring to your mind? Paragliding? Bungee Jumping? Rock Climbing? Trekking? Jungle Safari? Well, all right. For me, ‘Hamra Byah Toh Se Hoi’ was also an adventure.
MBA results were out and joblessness reigned. Someone suggested in jest “We are so bored, even Bhojpuri movies would be entertainment!” I picked up the sound-byte. I thought the idea had merit. In the past, I’ve enjoyed many of Mithunda’s past-prime movies like ‘Gunda’, ‘Suraj’, ‘Jallad’ etc. Discerning readers would understand what I’m referring to here – a neatly perfected art of unintended humor. I’m told that many south Indian flicks starring Rajni anna are equally entertaining. If Mithun can kill two villains with one bullet by halving the bullet, Rajni can race electricity to prevent his mother from being electrocuted! Who needs Superman in
I moved the motion convincingly, and it was promptly passed by the house through voice vote.
We had seen posters claiming ‘Hamra Byah Toh Se Hoi’ as the latest Bhojpuri rage. But, there were no listings available on popular media. Someone revisited one such poster to find show timings and the display theatre. Navrang Cinema it was, Andheri (W). My residence wasn’t far away from the venue, so the responsibility was mine to book tickets.
I reached half an hour earlier. The dilapidated structure looked interesting, actually quite a change from the swanky multiplexes we frequent. As one entered the compound, my eyes turned yellow. There was a parking lot for three-wheelers! At least thirty to thirty five auto-rickshaws were parked in discipline. It didn’t take me time to reinforce ‘Target Audience’ for such cinema. The bright yellow-black combination emanating from that area still hurts my eyes!
Next, my eyes fell on the seemingly regular patrons of the theatre, a motley crowd comprising largely of the male species. Most of them were perched, as if relieving themselves on Indian style latrines, on a very thin parapet. The rest stood smoking ‘beedis’, ogling at the posters depicting revealing postures of heroines in upcoming films. They were waiting eagerly for the ‘current’ ticket counter to open.
“STALLS: Rs. 20 Only; BALCONY: Rs. 25 Only; BOX: Rs. 40 Only”
“What premium charge for ‘balcony’!” I wondered and smiled. Much that I knew about the difference in the three segregations, I still opted for ‘balcony’. The biggest motivation was that the counter for ‘balcony/box’ was a separate one. A large queue could be avoided.
The noon show ended at 14:45 hours. A sizeable crowd made its way out, went to the parking lot and drove out in their auto-rickshaws! I gazed at this event, bedazzled. The ‘stall’ counter had opened. A serpentine queue had already resulted. I turned to find that the ‘balcony’ counter hadn’t yet opened and not a single soul stood in the queue there. As I stood at the counter waiting, the watchman came up to me, perhaps in sympathy to my cause. He said “Lagta hai aap pehli baar aaye ho. Balcony ka ticket bhi stall ke counter par hi milega.” I felt like a fool and asked angrily “Aisa kyun?” This perhaps put off the watchman. He twitched his eyebrows and said “Yahaan aisa hi hota hai! Bhalaai ka zamaana hi nahin hai!”
I waited with tickets outside the gate waiting for the rest of the gang. As the show timing grew closer, people slowly poured in from all directions. Auto-rickshaws, public bus, bicycles, on-foot – they came in hordes. An ‘Opel-Astra’ pulled in too. I was pleasantly shocked. Seconds later, the chauffeur walked in, after parking the car. At last the gang arrived.
On entering the relatively empty ‘balcony’, we found most people with their legs placed comfortably stretched on the seats in front. We sat in a virgin row. We had missed a good ten minutes. The seats were rickety, the projector was feeble and the sound system was equally outstanding. As and when the projection blinked into temporary darkness, the ‘stalls’ would erupt in protest.
The story line was that of the age old ‘Thakur and Peasant enmity’. We had not even sat down properly when a song greeted us. As the innovative story line unfolded, we started enjoying ourselves. We couldn’t stop laughing at even the tear-jerker scenes! It was hilarious stuff! Carefully detailed characters came to light as the story unfolded further. There was Thakur Kali Singh, the main villain. Dressed in Gabbar Singh type army fatigues, he usurped the property of the nicer Thakur, of course with generous help from the vamp. The vamp had the central dialogue of the film “Mar jaibe ladoo khaike”, which she uttered umpteen times. It was time for another song.
Then there was the aggrieved peasant family of three brothers - no prizes for guessing that the youngest was the hero. Another song erupted. He studied in a city university, captained the university cricket team, was well built, well mannered, girls swooned over him – overall endowed with all humanly desirable qualities. Of his female fan following, one was a desperate mini-skirt clad bimbo. She was the villain’s younger sister, thereby highlighting a deliberate attempt by the script-writer to complete the loop. Yet another song happened. But, the hero’s heart was always with the traditionally dressed girl in his village. One more song – but this time it caught our attention. The lyrics went “Maanga tha chumma, mila chocolatiya”. We went berserk. Obviously, the bimbo wouldn’t like this, right? It was another song time, this time featuring the bimbo hitting on our dude. The hero burst into a song “Cycle se dhakka nahin maar, shahar ki chori”! Good lord, this was too much. We laughed our guts off. We promptly left thereafter, not risking a very probable headache/tummy ache. So, for readers who expected me to complete the storyline, I beg forgiveness. But I’m sure they can themselves tie up the loose ends.
The piece wasn’t aimed at ridiculing this emerging film segment. Neither was it aimed at ridiculing the patrons of this segment. What moved me to document this incident was the realization that there is no one
Somewhere into the movie, I accused myself of being pompous of my social strata to be mocking at what was a serious entertainment source for others. But, just the next scene again made me roll with laughter. I can’t remember when I last had so much value for the money spent on a film ticket!!! ‘Hamra Byah Toh Se Hoi’ was unadulterated fun – an adventure worth undertaking.
“Why am I being made to wait so long for my turn? The salon doesn’t even have a magazine worth its salt!” My ego fumed. Lovely, wasn’t this luxurious kind of salon. But it was decent, close to home, air-conditioned and of-course it had the services of Raju. Raju had over the years built up quite an understanding with my hair, and thereby with me. But I wasn’t in the best of moods. I started looking at everything in the salon with angry eyes. “The light was inadequate, the room-freshener was offensive, the AC wasn’t working and the hairdressers were slow.” A very nasty myself cursed all and sundry. And then my eyes fell upon this woman hairdresser standing outside the women’s section. She’d probably be in her early thirties, was excessively made up, wore outlandish clothes and with her pierced nose looked typically Muslim. “She looks like a bloody, you know what!” I thought to myself.
Raju ushered me in. Resting my mobile phone on the raised platform in-front of me, I told him up-front arrogantly, “Raju aaj baal baraabar se kaatna, nahin to teri khair nahin. Baal chote karde aur ek professional look de mereko, samjha?” He began work like an artist over sculpture.
“It’s a terrific hair-cut!” Raju had delivered yet again. Also, the fifteen minutes of calming down, sitting in the eyes shut – chin down position had changed my mood. I was very pleased at Raju. I gave him a hundred rupee note and asked him to deduct ten additionally as tip. That brought a smile on his face and he rushed out to get change from the nearby grocer’s shop.
I saw that woman coming up to me. “Why?” I asked myself in light of the images I had earlier conjured up in my mind about her. She faced me, lowered her eyes and in a very polite tone inquired “Kya aapko school ka form bharna aata hai?” I was taken aback. I nodded haplessly in the want of a better reaction. She unfolded a multiply folded yellowish paper, the application form for a junior school. “Saa’b, main padhi likhi nahin huun na.” Her expressive eyes lowered again in embarrassment.
With a borrowed pen, I began filling up the form. It was for the admission of her child to junior kindergarten. Yes, she were a Muslim, an immigrant from UP. After duly filling up her son’s name, I stopped at the residential address column. “Goregaon, Goregaon” She fumbled. I said “Theek se address bataiyye, aadha-adhura nahin chalega.” She suddenly lowered her voice and asked, “Saa’b bada school hai, aur main rahti huun Goregaon ke chawl me. Baccha bada hoga to iska asar to nahin padega? Aap gaur se dekhiye na saa’b, kya poora address maang rahe hain? Sirf Goregaon se nahin chalega?”
I insisted on the complete address. I then proceeded to ask her about her husband. She told me his name and age and then took a big yet pregnant pause before divulging his occupation. “Saa’b, wo kaam kuch nahin karta, bimaar aur berozgaar hai – din bhar khaat par hi pada rehta hai.” She said in a typical matter-of-fact rustic manner. She hastened to add, “Par main ghar ka kharch chala leti huun na saa’b, chal jaata hai apna.”, as if to dispel any sympathy for her. I reluctantly put a ‘–’ against the ‘Father’s Occupation’ column.
As I walked back to my residence, my mind was filled with thoughts. This seemingly simple incident had somehow touched me. But why did it move me? It moved me because it was real. We, the privileged 1% of the country, conveniently prefer to stay in our comfortable cocoons. We go to private schools, have fun, graduate, have fun, go to b-schools, have fun and then join large MNCs to prolong the fun. We being intellectuals conduct debates on whether
On reaching home, I realized that I’d left my mobile phone at Lovely’s. I called up to tell them that I’d collect it on my way to college the next day. As I was walking in, Raju, as cheerful as ever, rushed out with my mobile phone clutched in his palms. “Kaise ho Raju?” I inquired as a matter of habit. “Accha huun saa’b” He replied with a smile. As I was turning away to exit, I stopped and inquired “Raju, kal jo form bhara tha
I was again at the NMIMS campus, sitting alone on a bench. I wondered what would now become of her, her husband and her child. I wondered if she would ever be able to move out from her Goregaon chawl. I wondered if her child would ever be able to educate himself and then make a difference to the well-being of the family. I wondered if she would find another job. But somehow, at the back of my mind, I knew that she had the courage to survive, and fight for another day.
So much for the visit to the ‘Lovely Hair Cutting Salon’.
