Bishu Pagla and Tuntuni

Mashi Pishi had shrieked in protest, when Baba had put little Tuntuni, in the arms of Bishu when he stood in one corner of the room, trembling like a leaf. “She’s yours too” Baba had said…and Bishu had looked up at Baba , his face shining like a thousand bulbs…he was in love again…

But that was the only thing “Bishu Pagla” was capable of! Loving unconditionally was the one thing he knew, everybody said. Nobody grudged him anything . “Oh he’s just a madhatter” they would say if they saw him crying unconsolably when the little kitten broke her leg or when he broke into a jig in the first showers of the monsoon. He could run as fast as an arrow, swim like a fish….he was one of nature’s own…Everybody in the neighbourood knew if Bishu was around.

He had the most mellifluous voice in which he sang Robi thakur’s songs. One after the other song he would sing, wandering about aimlessly from morning till night, and everybody would stop and listen. An officegoer who was all stressed about his work, would leave with a smile on his face if he heard Bishu sing, as would bawling babies who would forget to cry and listen to Bishu sing with utter amazement.

But Bishu a.k.a Bishsheshwar was not always like this. He was the tallest , strongest and sharpest boy in Class long before health drinks came into vogue. He was Baba’s best friend in school. They were inseparable. Hedmastermoshai always called them his manikjod…his two jewels. But Baba always credited Bishu. “He was the more intelligent one and would not hear of it if i felt lazy and did not want to complete my lessons. He would finish homework in a jiffy and would keep guard till I finished my own!” Baba said.

Yet fate had something else in store for Bishu. Bishu was only a small boy when his father had passed away, leaving Bishu to his mother’s care. To Bishu, his mother meant the world. He could not bear the thought of anything happening to his mother. No one knows what had really happened on that ill fated day. All they saw was a full grown man lying in a pool of blood and Bishu clutching on to his mother’s lifeless body. They said Bishu slit the man’s throat, with the sickle that lay at the entrance of his home. But no one knew for sure. That was the day, when Bishu stepped into some other world.

Baba had tried, tried hard to jolt him out of his shocked state. But Bishu would stare at him blankly every time he would speak of that day. Baba knew that the pain was so deep that no mortal could heal the wound. Bishu remained in his childlike state, sometimes crying, sometimes laughing calling out to Baba and his mother ocassionaly. The two people he had grown to love.

Baba stayed by his side, and Bishu became a part of his own family.

When Maa came home, Bishu stayed up all night to paint a lovely portrait of her’s, that till date adorns her bedroom wall. Maa had no problem with Bishu around the house. But Mashi Pishi would always complain. They admonished Bishu, shooed him away, when he came to Maa, like a little child asking for food . They told Maa to be careful, of the “batty creature” but Maa being Maa had just smiled. She knew better. She cared for Bishu as one does for a little boy.

When Tuntuni came home, a little pink bundle of joy, Maa’s eyes had searched out for Bishu. Bishu had told her that Tuntuni would come . Maa Baba, the brand new parents took Tuntuni upstairs, while Mashi Pishi made a big din and blew the conch shell and distributed sweets. But Bishu usually the first to participate in any din of any sort, stood in one corner craning over everyone nervously twitching his palms to get one look of Tuntuni. But he couldn’t. Mashi pishi made sure of that.

It is when the din susbsided and Mashi Pishi had taken their leave that Baba called Bishu in. Bishu looked at her and Baba saw in his eyes the love for his daughter, that perhaps was stronger than his and Maa’s. His big sad eyes were tearful and there was a big grin on his face. Tuntuni too who had been fast asleep had for a moment opened her two little eyes and looked up at Maa Baba and Bishu and then in the next moment had fallen asleep with the most beautiful smile on her face, as if secure in the knowledge that all was right in her world.

Baba had insisted that Bishu be a part of the rituals when Tuntuni’s annaprashan (rice ceremony) began. Mashi Pishi’s protests were silenced when Baba gave them one stern look. And Bishu had cradled Tuntuni in his arms. Tuntuni had nestled close to his chest and smiled her toothless grin. Bishu and Tuntuni were best friends from that day on.

Bishu would cry if Tuntuni ever got the slightest fever or so much as let out a tiny sneeze. Maa always said it was more difficult to calm down an anxious Bishu than to look after Tuntuni if she ever fell sick, like little babies do. He would stand at her bedside and talk to her, telling her stories, singing her lullabies till Tuntuni fell asleep.

Bishu was Tuntuni’s playmate. They played everything from hide and seek to ranna bati together. And when she was tired, she would nestle up to him and say “ Tell me a story Bishu.” To Tuntuni, Bishu was a story jukebox, he even smelt like the old warm books of Dadu’s s study. Sometimes when Tuntuni walked into Dadu’s study she would look up in amazement at all the books that adorned the study of the walls…”You remember every story in every book?” she would ask Bishu…and Bishu would say “ Why yes! Of course…I sleep in one book everyday…didn’t you know?” and both would break into an uproarious laughter.

Bishu told her tales of many a lands. From Hanuman’s tales of bravado to the beautiful princess Anastasia of the west. Stories flew past little Tuntuni eyes. She no longer knew fact from fiction, Bishu had created for her a world in which she could create her own characters, who laughed, sang and danced with her. Bishu took her to the pirate ship, where they would hide in the dock, or sip lemonade with the Famous five or go on a secret mission to Mt Kilimanajro.

But her favourite tale was that of Tuntuni. The one in which she would be clever Tuntuni and he the naughty tom cat who would come to eat up her little ones. And everyday the cat came to eat the little birds who could not by then even open their eyes, Tuntuni would think of a smart salutation, and send off the cat home. This continued for days at end till Tuntuni’s little ones’ learnt how to fly.

One day when the cat came to Tuntuni’s nest, Tuntuni no longer bowed in reverence to the cat. Instead, she called him names and flew away with her little ones in tow, while the naughty cat kept fuming in vain! At the end of the story Bishu would said “Tuntuni pakhi ude gelo! Hulo bababaji jole molo!” (Clever Tuntuni flew away and Hulo was left high and dry). Tuntuni would clap her hands in glee, everytime she heard the story and Bishu would laugh…

He knew his Tuntuni would fly away too. And fly away she did. When prince charming came her way, she knew she was in love. He was like the prince who Bishu had filled her thoughts with, the tender loving face, the strong arms and a heart of gold. It was time for Tuntuni to leave. She knew she had a whole life ahead of her, but her heart ached for Maa Baba and most of all Bishu.

The day she left her father’s home Tuntuni wept as Maa Baba escorted her to her carriage as Bishi had told her would sweep her away. The wedding was just like he had told her, that was of princesses. Her prince would love her too and they would live happily ever after, but Tuntuni knew Bishu would no longer be a part of her life as she knew it….she wept inconsolably when Bishu came to bid her goodbye….For once he was not the one crying.

Mashi Pishi were at it again..making snide remarks but both Bishu and Tuntuni couldn’t care less as they held on to each other. It was as if they knew it was their last ever meeting. “”Tuntuni pakhi ude gelo….” He had said as she left…..she looked back…from the car…..and it swished past her childhood home…. She knew Bishu would sit up there on the doorstep till daybreak, till all the din subsided.

Tuntuni came off to a wonderful land with prince charming. Everything was as beautiful as she had thought it would be, Tuntuni became a storyteller, not like Bishu though. She made a living of telling stories of the real world, of making money, of profits and losses. Sometimes the reality was too stark, and harsh, but she always had Bishu’s tales to delve into for solace. She could still feel like the little girl wrapping her arms around Bishu’s neack asking him to tell her a story.

Bishu would not come onto the phone when Tuntuni called back home. Baba would tell her that he sang and wandered aimlessly and got shooed away by mashi pishi, but he would still look at Tuntuni’s things for hours at end and stare into the space. He slept in Dadu’s study sometimes as he had done when Tuntuni was young.

Yesterday Baba called. When Tuntuni was working on a story of the real world, Bishu had died, peacefully in his sleep. Would Tuntuni come home Baba had asked?

Tuntuni had paused … a thousand images of childhood flew past her eyes as if in a black and white montage….before Baba asked again…. “No” she answered with a smile in her lips and a tear in her eye. “Bishu cannot die Baba. He’s just asleep in one the many book’sin dadu’s study.” She said. The phone went dead at the other end….

Tuntuni went back to her storytelling…of the real world…of real things….

Salaam Bombay!

I saw her right there.....standing at the end of the platform. Dadar station which is usually choc-o-bloc at any given time of the day...wore a relatively empty look, being late on a Saturday evening. For a moment I hesitated..."Is it really her? Should I  be walking up to her?" ...I thought  for a split second. The very next,  I admonished myself. Here was my first best friend....standing at an ear shot...I had a sudden urge of running up to her and just embracing her in the warmest hug...like I used to... when I was a little girl!

Basanti ...was our maid's daughter. But Padma di's  (her mother) entry into our household was quite accidental.  Her mother in law Taru Pishi was the trusted aide of grandmother, from the time that she had stepped into our ancestral home as a young bashful bride. Taru Pishi was, to say the least a matriarchal figure, and yeilded an authority that no one dared to challenge. Even as an old a bent woman she had a thunderous voice that kept everyone on their toes. The maids that came to cook and clean, the gardener, driver et all! She was pretty much the voice for my petite grandmother who barely spoke above a whisper. For Taru pishi,  "ma-thakuran's " word was the words etched in stone. Needless to say, popularity wasn't her middle name. 

But as a cruel twist of fate, Taru Pishi had a paralytic attack at the age of  60, taking with it, not only the left side of the body but also her booming voice. She spoke alright, but her speech was garbled and she spoke half sentences. Enter Padma with her little daughter Basanti...to take care of her mother in law and us. Quite a contrast to her fiesty mother in law, Padma di took up all of her duties with a smile. No longer were there the maids hurling abuses at Taru pishi behind her back. An easy camaraderie btween the servants that was the handiwork of Padma di made the Banerjee home run like smooth oiled machinery. 

However, Taru Pishi  despite being nearly bedridden would always find fault with Padma di...calling her a "alakshmi" because her own son had abandoned her for another woman! My grandmother who had initailly resisted the change, perhaps unsure whether the younger woman would be able to shoulder all the responsibilities,  relented after seeing how competently Padma di managed everything, and all of it with a smile!  Moreover, she was now a confidant of my mother. My grandmother, who was never spoke more than necesarry and, silently encouraged the bonding of these two younger women...But all of this happened before I was born. 

When my mother came home with me in her arms, Basanti di is said to have exclaimed with genuine concern  "But she has two slits for eyes! How is she going to see?" only to evoke thunderous laughter from everyone around! Of course my Mongolian features was something she teased me mercilessly for as long as I can remember! “China mem” (Chinese mem-sahib) was what she called me, much to my chagrin! When I was baby, as my mother told me later, Basanti di a girl of 5 or 6 then, would sit around for hours as my mother tended to me..."a little person who either sleeps or eats all day!" ...she would say and sit by my babycot for hours at end....and the slightest turn would be reported pronto to my mother! 

In many ways, we were bonding much before either of us realised. As I grew up, she was my constant companion. I followed her like a shadow everywhere and our favourite haunt used to be one corner of our huge terrace where she had made a makeshift tent for me with an old sari. We collected all the odds and ends...from dolls of all shapes and sizes to marbles , discarded utensils,  an old stethoscope, which my grandfather had no use for...and many such knick knacks. It was our own world. She was an indulgent big sister, a trusted companion and my escape from the world of adults. 

When I started nursery,she would wait till I came back from school and would have little gifts...some days it used to be a beautiful gulmohar that blossomed in splendour making our sunlight terrace look etheral...on others it used to be a thonga (small paper packet) of alu kabli )  (potato chat) I had developed quite a taste for especially as it was forbidden. She even covered for me once when my grandfather caught us squealing with laughter my hands smeared with chat masala. Padma di slapped  her that day…and I cried feeling the sting on my baby cheeks.

This other time, she brought me a pink satin ribbon that  had come off a present that had arrived in the post. This was to headband for Rani, my doll with only one arm, whom both of us had a soft corner for. The other arm had been mutilated by a big bad hulo (tom cat) who had found  Rani lying around outside our tent, as we went away during our mealtime.  Since then Rani always got special attention among all our other "children". 

In more ways than one- Basanti di was my first exposure to the city I call home now. During one summer vacation that my grandfather had decided that we take a holiday in Puri, Basanti di was taken away to Bombay by her maternal uncle, who worked as a porter in the railway station. An excellent orator, she had come back in all of  a week, when we were away for more than a fortnight. While, I had brought her back  a bag full of shells, and a furry purse, she had come back with innumerable tales.....of  the beautiful city of Bombay..

I remember herdescribing the VT station as "huge open room with beautiful high walls where thousands and thousands of trains come and go!" The lights outside the station right behind which her mama had a kholi (shanty) was like the "house of the queen!"  she said. Even the chats in Bombay she said tasted much better.....(I dont agree on that though!). Eager to impress me she even said she saw Amitabh Bachhan on the streets of Bombay having chat right at the exact same spot where she had been visiting! Though I was too young too figure out the magnanimity of the moment…it did not quite occur to me that she could be spinning yarns! I remember her breaking into a Hindi song number and us doing little jig to that in the joy of having seen the Big B!

Our tales were endless...Basanti di was growing up to be an attractive young girl. Padmna di was insistent that her daughter get an education and did not have to end up working as a maid.So on my mother’s recommendation(being a school teacher) Basanti di procured an admission in a local Bengali medium school. But it didn’t take me long to figure out that her heart was not in the books. It was cinema that had enthralled her…every flick Bengali or Hindi she would see, she would come back with the detailed stories. Watching films back then, was a taboo in my home. Not only was I not allowed to watch films, even TV in those good old Doordarshan days were switched off firmly, even if there was so much of a hint of a commercial hindi flick.

So Basanti Di’s tales enthralled me. How Bachhan dealt with a troupe of goons with a single kick or how Mithunda danced effortlessly to “halwa wala aa gaya” I gobbled it all up with wide eyed interest. My mother however strongly disapproved of this, but despite Padma di’s reproaches, Basanti di wouldn’t relent. She even saved up the money her mother gave her to buy lunch at school to buy movie tickets. While Padma di worked hard to give her a good education, Basanti di had other plans. She had dreams of becoming Sridevi some day. “ See if I don’t!” she would tell me “ And you will gt to watch all my movies for free!” she’s sayas I would nod along in excitement.

And then it happened. One day when I came back from school, I saw a broken Padma di, quite inconsolable as my grandmother and mother tried to calm her down. From downstairs I could even hear Taru pishi screaming that her mother had bad influence on the girl. I went up to my mother and asked what was wrong but my father ushered me out. Later after much questioning my mother replied in a single sentence that “Basanti has gone away.” Although I missed her around the house, I knew heart of hearts that Bombay was her destination. I even prayed that she got her break in then movies as she had much desired.

Slowly but surely, Basanti di’s memories faded and became a happy relic of my past. I got busy with academics and in course of time I developed a dogged determination to come to Bombay, albeit for  different reason. Working in the financial capital as a financial journalist was a dream that I had begin to nurture and God was kind. I did find my vocation in Mumbai and have now lived in the city nearly a decade now, half of which I have been lucky to have spent with the husband. I had nearly all but forgotten Basanti di, till I saw her at Dadar that day.

Our eyes met, but before I could even walk up to her, she saw me. For a split second her expression was that of having seen a ghost and she darted out of the nearest entrance….I called out after her and even followed her out, but she had disappeared without a trace in some by lane. I came back to the station angry and hurt. “What kind of a city is this, I thought to myself "How could she not have spoken to me! She was MY Basanti di….isnt it?” I thought to myself.  A thousand possibilities clouded my mind as I made my journey home. Needless to say I was at my snappiest best, and the husband had to bear the brunt of it!

I wanted to forget the incident, like the many, one learns to ignore during the course of  city life, but it continued to haunt me. Every time I would be at Dadar station my eyes would involuntarily seek her out. One such Saturday, much later than I had spotted her, and was partly successful in washing away the pain, an old woman in burqua came upto me  and handed  me a note, before I could even ask her who she was she had pushed her way into a Borivali bound local.

What followed –will always remain with me as a myriad of memories. In the note that was written in an unsteady hand of Bengali, Basanti di had urged me not to be angry with her, that she had indeed recognized me the other day, but did not know how to face me. After much hesitation she invited me to her kholi. Her letter said that it was no place worthy of me and that she would perfectly understand if I did not chose to come, but nothing would make her happier if I did indeed visit.

Misty eyed I put the note in my bag ,and  set out to find my way to a shanty that was located in one of the many overcrowded by lanes of the city. I knocked at a door that was partly open, and there she was.  For a moment as our eyes held each other we saw our past rush through like a flashback in sepia tone…We held each other in tight hug for what must have lasted for more than five minutes, and wept. It was as if all the unspoken emotions had finally found home.

We had a lot of catching up to do, and she asked me a million questions about my parents, my brother and my husband. The selfless joy that I saw, was a rare find in this city, when one thinks twice before sharing one's happiness with others. She squealed in delight like a child when I told her that I was a journalist now, assuming that I was a TV reporter. She did not hide her disappointment though, when I laughed and said that I write for a magazine and was not some hot shot reporter chasing film stars as she had imagined!

It however took some goading from me to find out what she was doing. And then it all came out—the unadulterated truth that may have well been a movie script. Her maternal uncle who had once brought her to Bombay so many years back had seen “potential” in her then. Thus in her pursuit to be in Bollywood when she had found his address and send him a letter, he had lost no time in sending for the naïve girl. That is how she arrived in Bombay with a man who claimed to be her uncle's friend. 

Too stary eyed to have smelt a fish she had followed him into a cheap hotel that the man claimed her uncle had arranged for her. Just as she thought that the man would take his leave after having put her up, he began to make burly moves and before she knew it, she had been raped mercilessly by a man, old enough to be her father. The next day a very drunken man arrived with her uncle and the act was repeated right in front of her perverse uncle.

She had contemplated suicide that night, but her senses took the better off her, and she fled from the hotel, not knowing another soul in the city. She traveled aimlessly across the city for two days till she came to VT station, that brought back vivid memories of her childhood. As luck would have it , a film unit was shooting with some junior artists around the station. Basanti saw in the film unit her last chance of survival and waited on a empty stomach for nearly a couple of  hours till they broke for lunch.

A lady with a kind face saw Basanti hanging around. She took pity and offered her some lunch. During the course of the lunch, she asked Basanti if she wanted to earn a quick buck. Already wisened by her experience when Basanti refused, Amina Bi as the older womanhad introduced herself caught the drift of her thoughts. As she had begun to move away, Amina Bi caught her by the hand and made her stand by her forcefully as the film unit began to gather. “ It’s a crowd scene. Pretend that you are moving in a hurry” instructed Amina bi. In the “scene” that lasted for about half an hour, the filmwalas gave Rs 50 to each one present. That was Basanti’s first salary.

"Go beti” Amina Bi had said “You have enough money to buy food for two days.” Her kindness touched Bsanti’s heart, and she fell at her feet and narrated her whole experience. Amina bi listened to her story and nodded silently at the end of it. “You did wrong beti. Its not nice to have pained your mother.” She had said. “But now that you are here, I will take care of you!” Amina Bi had said. That’s how her journey began in films. From a junior artist she has graduated into a group dancer and has done bit roles in films where actresses such as Karishma Kapoor, Raveena Tandon, Urmilla Matondkar and Shilpa Shetty have played the lead. She preserves the stills from each of these films till date and has made a “portfolio”.

“My dreams have altered Mamoni she says (an endearment she used to call me by) but they are not dead.” She says with the same spark that I was familiar with. Today she has saved up money for her mother’s old age, and intends to bring Padma di to stay with her soon. Padma di, who is still at my parent’s has forgiven her daughter and accepted her profession. As we are deep in conversation, a little boy comes and flashes a million watt smile as he puts down a plate of delectable chat in front of us….Basanti di looked at me and said “ I had a hunch you would come, so I had sent him to get your favourite!” she said.  

We sat ther sharing chat like the good old days of our girlhood and giggled just like the way we used to in our hideout on the terrace…..united in our pursuit of happiness…. “Salam Mumbai…” I said in my heart, as I left her place…promising to meet again soon!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Friend

Noises. Within the mind and heart
Wretched noises…
Rattling noises..
"Oh stop!" he said!
They would not…
They took shape…
Gruesome monsters
Wrecking every semblance of sanity within

"Mad is bad" the wise men said
And drove him away
He cried… he pleaded
He explained the noises
They did not hear…
They looked at him bemused….
He believed he was mad

A strange belief
A strange relief
He no longer cried…
A boy came and touched his shoulder
"I am he" he said
I will be your friend
Together they laughed…
And played
The noises disappeared..

He cried…in sheer joy
"I have a friend"
The boy smiled
His eyes were heavy
He slept on the green grass
Alongside his friend
Hand in hand
Happy

He heard the music….
Soft and serene
Within his mind and heart…
The monsters melted away

I have a friend.
He said and looked at the boy
A smiling face looked
In the clear refection of the still waters
"I am he!" he said…
"Your friend!"

I WANT TO BREAK FREE....

A  rainkissed solitary afternoon

A lonely drive….

A journey has begun..

With no particular destination…

The people I meet have faces ..distinct characters..some past..some present...

I recall them all …

The next moment they all blend into one…

I sink into a deep slumber

I wake up in a cabin by the sea…I can smell the moss

The head is heavy…have I been hit?

But I don’t feel injured..just heady…

I cannot decide whether it is good or bad

Seems like a dream..

My childhood passes by…

The first tricycle…

The first time I felt the slap of a rude math teacher

The colour of pain…it felt purple…

I can see myself run….I feel breathless

The palm of my first love in mine… I feel the warmth

A rush of red in my veins 

The mossy smell gets stronger.

The clouds descend on the cabin…

I am floating on them….

I cross the seas

I see the good. I see the bad…

I feel happy and sad all at the same time

I am now the wall..the graffiti on it ..my life…every brick wears a mark…

The pensive guide by it…

Thou shalt not pee on me..

He will ensure that you don’t

The rains come lashing down

A loud splash…

I jump into the sea…

But I don’t drown …

I swim effortlessly…

I watch the lofty structures being built overhead…

The creature is great..big..and kind…..I think….

I am washed ashore by a big wave

I want to stand on my feet

But I have none…

I am in a net

No!! let me go I scream!!

But no one can understand

 I enter the world of the man…

The big and kind man...is now a hunter

The ugly faces rush back...

And I am hunted

But No…wait…

Its not who you think I am

I will not be hunted

I turn back…

And fight

Tooth and nail 

I will be born today

I will celebrate freedom

Celebrate the undaunted independent spirit

Will break the bondage of my soul

I….will be free!!

 

 

Wonderland as I saw it.

“Hiiiii…eeya man…what are YOU doing here?!” a big booming voice I heard as a loud thud landed on my back…and almost threw me off balance... “Al! ” I thought with a smile even before I turned back… Al had by then grasped me in a smelly bear hug..her shirt reeking from a hard day’s work.
But I didn’t mind, because a sincere heartfelt warm hug from a friend is to die for! Alice…or “Al”as I fondly used to call her showed no signs of being a woman..besides her large proportions. Her hair was always cropped short..and I don’t remember seeing her in anything but a loose shirt and a jeans.
Apart from a tiny cross that she wore across her neck with the thinnest ever chain …jewelry was alien to Al. ...What’s more, she insisted on wearing a large and ugly male watch on her right hand. From a distance there was no way you could guess Al was a woman…and when teased about it..she would always take it in her stride..with a loud hearty guffaw…..
Alice and I go back a long way…this tale is from the time when I was a fresher in Bombay , working for a financial daily then. I was barely six months old in the city, and was still trying to figure out the topography of places beyond office and home...I used to take the trains to work and had just got a first class pass.It was early days yet …in what now seems like a lifetime association with the first class ladies compartment.
Bombay trains have the first class ladies coach segmented, one half of the coach or the “dabba” as it is better known is for ladies to travel in for all 24 hours, while the other is transformed into a general compartment after 9.pm…But when the trains are empty some men, for reasons unknown invariably hop into a ladies compartment. The ones travelling in those off peak hours are usually suave office goers or upper middle class housewives who find it beneath their dignity to say something to these mischief makers though everybody will frown upon their presence. Alice did not belong to that category…
I was on my way to work from an appointment I had in Bandra ( called the queen of the suburbs, Bandra has been home to a lot of Christans who hail from Goa) and Alice and I happened to board the same dabba.
No sooner than the train had picked up pace a 20 something man hopped onto the ladies compartment and was whistling a then popular Hindi film tune as he swung from the railing, completely ignoring the decorum one needs to maintain when in a public. A handful of ladies who were on board…rolled their eyeballs and cast nasty glances at him, but nobody protested. That was reason enough for Alice to take charge….having put down her heavy bag under the seat..she turned around and held this lanky fellow by the collar and in her customary Bandra accent said “ Kya man? Tum sharukh kaan hoyenga…par herogiri is compartment mein nahin dikhane ka samjha?!!” The booming voice and the iron hand that had grabbed the youth was enough to scare him..and he was more than happy to scamper away as soon as the train entered the next station.
Having chased him away Alice settled on the seat next to me and with a large grin on her face.. ….and good humoredly said “u’ve gotto fight for your rights in this city man” I grinned back at her and complimented her on her act. We got talking and she was very excited to learn that I wrote about stock markets…and said “ I will take tips from you? I can make money fast-fast in the share bazaar na?” A rookie at work then, I was mortified, as we were forbidden to talk stocks let alone recommend….nevertheless I put up a brave front and spke some gibberish about the merits f long term investments. Al was suitably impressed and I felt pleased with myself…..
Since that day Al used to make it a point to board the same train as I did and we had a gala time chatting away till I reached my destination. I learnt AL was a supplier of the yummy sponge cakes to a famous store in south Bombay. I offered to buy cakes from her but she insisted on giving them to me for free…embarrassed I did not ask her a second time, though she raved about her plum cake and how I absolutely must attend her Christmas party. I always thought it was just good manners on Al’s part to invite me on Christmas and I never thought I would actually land up at her place.

But I did. Albeit not at Christmas and came face to face with the real Alice. One fine December day, when the world at large is vacationing and we poor scribes have to scrape the bottom of the barrel for stories, I was in Bandra waiting to meet a source. I had arrived early and was loitering on Bandra at Linking Road ( most famous for its street side shops that sell everything that would interest a woman, primarily the shoes that are available for as low as Rs 50) this is whenI bumped into Al and she wouldn’t spare me till I dropped in to her place, Still having some time to go I relented and accompanied Al to her place that was close to where I had a meeting.
I found myself entering a dilapidated building with Victorian arched windows with multicolored glass panes and wooden flooring that lent an old world charm to this mystery building that stood sandwiched between two very modern structures. I entered into a quaint little home with an old fashioned couch sitting pretty in the middle of the room. The mantlepiece on the wall was adorned with what seemed like relics from the past…among them I saw a pic of a pretty girl in her late teens with a printed floral dress leaning on a man with a large moustache, and dressed in a impeccable pin stripe suit. I couldn’t help notice that the man didn’t seem to be very attached to the woman who was leaning on him ever so lovingly….
Just then Alice came out of the kitchen with the much promised plum cake and two cups of tea. Unable to hold my curiosity I asked her whose picture it was…she grinned and said “that’s me man! U cant recognise me or what??!” Indeed I was shocked..Al…as I knew her in a dress? With a man? I just could nt imagine….before I could even shut my fallen jaw..Al said “ wait let me introduce you to someone” and wheeled out a frail old woman in a well worn wheelchair..As I got up to greet her she took my hands in her palm and said “ welcome dear..my Alice says you are a very good friend.” I had some difficulty understanding her speech, as she was mouthing words wit great difficulty , her right side being totally paralysed. I patted her hand back and looked at Al….
“Mamma …and I have been with each other for the last 35 years…Benny and I were married in Goa..thirty years ago..Benny brought me to Bombay and told me I must assist mamma in baking cakes….he was never a husband…and treated me like furniture around the house….ill treated me and used my body whenever he wished. Only a girl then I used to be very scared of him…Mamma was my only support. She knew what her son used to do to me and always said that I should not take it lying down….but I never had the courage to say anything against Benny.
One day when Benny came home drunk and saw that the dinner was not ready on his table, he started yelling at the top of his voice…not satisfied by yelling alone he came and dragged me out of the kitchen by my hair and threw me down. That’s when something broke within Mamma…otherwise a dignified woman whom I had never heard raising her voice came and slapped Benny hard…Startled himself he looked at his mother… “I have given birth to Satan she said…I though I would have had enough influence on you not to shape you up like your father who was a swine and a wife beater but you are no different from him! Leave Alice alone..she will not do what I did all her life! You are no son of mine!” So saying she asked Benny to pack his bags and leave that very night…..Benny an otherwise vociferous man…left without a word..and that’s the last I saw of him….


I didn’t quite figure out what Mamma was doing then…but she told me later that Peter my father in law was just as brutal as Benny was…and used to live off Mamma…and drink and squander off his time while Mamma worked hard to earn a living fore herself….he even left her for another woman when Benny was just a boy of five…..
After Benny left she took me in her arms and apologised…profusely for having let Benny marry me….She said she knew he had a devilish streak…but she had prayed that Jesus will have merc on his soul….and will bring out the best in him after a woman came into his life. But Benny was no different....Soon after Benny left Mamma had a parlysis attck and since then she has been on the chair…she thinks Its God’s punishment to her …but I know better…I am alive today because of Mamma!

From that day on I became her son…I abandoned all my womanly stuff and plunged myself in to the bakery whole time... “the woman gave up her son for me…that’s the least I could do for her!” she said looking lovingly at elder Mrs Fernandes… “The watch you girlies tease me about is actually Benny’s…it tells of the time that Mamma and I went hrough those times of constant fear that gripped our lives. I don’t want to forget all that…..I don’t wish Benny any ill. In fact I am thankful to him for marrying me…Mamma has given me all the love that my own parents did not!”
I am saving up …for a little house in Goa Al said ..her eyes glistening…I have enough money saved to buy a little shanty on the beach….”My old woman wants to die watching sunset on a Goa beach! “
I looked at a whole new Al then…and a stange mother and daughhter in law relationship where there was undying love and sacrifice one each had made for the other…
In my mind I counted the several times I have wrongly judged my mother in law and I felt remorse…I looked at Alice and swore not be be judgemental again…I don’t know if I will be able to do it all my life, but I will certainly remember this lesson that I learnt from Al….
Speechless and many thoughts going through my mind I had forgotten all about the plum cake that lay untouched on my plate….I was almost choked with tears asI looked at Al who was feeding Mrs Fernendes a piece of cake...I saw the Alice then who was in her wonderland with the person she loved the most in the whole wide world!
I was lost in this reverie when another loud thud landed on my back “Eat man!! What are you staring at the cake for??!” I heard with the customary guffaw that I associate Al with…This time I laughed back having caught a glimpse of the real Alice well concealed under the veneer of Al.

Stopped and spotted....

“Nightmarish” is what comes to mind if you ask any Mumbaikar about traffic… The flyover constructions that last a lifetime, the crater sized potholes, roads dug up for the placement of cables or god knows what…and a battered tin placard that says " Inconvenience regretted " is pretty much the picture everywhere. Add to that a half hour of steady showers and life on a so called highway comes to a grinding halt..

Sometime midweek when it started raining cats and dogs in the evening, I thought of making an early exit from work and decided to hit the roads instead of the trains as getting into a train at around 6ish from Santacruz (a suburban station that is closest to my office) is nearly impossible. And as I have said earlier I am definitely not one of those brave souls who can barge into an overcrowded compartment and hang precariously from the footboard! I took an auto rickshaw instead hoping I would reach home faster.

I don’t know what makes me optimistic about the traffic situation..Every time I find myself saying “Ok so last time was bad..It will surely can’t get worse!” But Mumbai never fails to deliver on that count..our respected municipal corporation has duly dug up some more arterial roads just at the onset of the monsoons..making life miserable (that’s about the most expletive I can get here!) for those who travel by roads….So the inevitable happened…I got stuck in a traffic jam that showed no signs of easing up in a hurry…

Now, being a true blue Mumbaikar, I have stopped getting frustrated…and tearing my hair out when I am in one of those never ending traffic jams…I either make phone calls, send text messages, listen to music ..and when I am in no mood to do any of the above I just watch people….that’s by far the best “timepass” as a mumbaikar calls it…..


Its then that I spotted Farida…a little girl of no more than 4 or 5 was animatedly waving at someone…I couldn’t help stare at her face…eyes like a doe, pink lips..and a wheatish complexion….it was almost like looking at perfect beauty..in the form of this child woman. Too young to wear a burqua an oversized scarf…contoured her oval face…At first I thought she was waving at someone in particular…..so I pretended not to notice…but it was difficult not to look at such an adorable child…so I waved back….

No sooner than I had done so….the child became a little conscious..the way children are with strangers at first …so I made funny faces at her and she broke into a giggle…we were less than a feet apart ..she at the window of a Maruti Omni and me in the rickshaw…soon this little girl was animatedly making faces at me as well…I whispered slowly for her to read my lips“ tumhara naam kya hai” (what is your name) I asked..” Fa-ri-da” she replied imitating me ..with coy smile…

I don’t know how much time passed as Farida and I played a little game of making animals with our fingers…she would emulate what I was doing and make now a dog and now a deer that was happily scampering along..and all the time her giggle like the sound of trinkets kept background score…..I seemed to have forgotten about the traffic jam and was indulging in child play.

We were engrossed in our little games…when suddenly a stocky man…with a skull cap and a huge beard stepped out of the Maruti and with one swift movement shut the window that Farida was leaning out from..whats more he made a sharp about turn….and with a look of scorn said “ hum apni aurato-o ko aap logon to ki tarah besharam nahin banate” ( we don’t make our women shameless like you!”)

I was so astonished by what he said I could not react…and neither did I care for some fundamentalist who was looking for an excuse to strike up a war of words..

All I could do then was look at Farida…our short lived camaraderie rudely interrupted..she was as taken aback as I was..the window having been slammed on her face…tears welled up in those beautiful doe eyes and she looked at me…That was perhaps the most helpless I have felt in recent times…I had a strong urge to step out of the rick and to just snap up this little girl in my arms …….but I did no such thing…

Just then the traffic started moving as well and the Omni whizzed past my rickety auto rickshaw…but I could see a little hennaed palm…pressed hard against the back pane of the van….and those large eyes locked mine till the car went out of sight….I don’t know if I will ever see Farida or whether she will recognize me if ever we happen to meet again….all I can do is pray…pray that The God in whatever form he is worshipped blesses her soul..and gives her the strength to break free from the fetters that that are binding her today….

And I pray that men all over the world stop binding women …crush their spirits..take away the light from their souls and most of all STOP doing all of this in the name of God!

And then...there was light.

I spend a bulk of my traveling time in trains..as readers of this blog must have figured by now. Thankfully my profession gives me the flexibility to travel off peak hours most of the time, which is why I find myself in stations and trains trying to figure out the many visages of this city that always seems to be on the run.

If you are not in tearing hurry to reach your destination and care to examine the faces of these people of the "daily passengers" they could tell you different tales…that are now entertaining and now full of pathos…. forty minutes odd minutes of solitude. If you look close enough you could almost watch many a thoughts fleeting across the faces of the millions that take the trains to work everyday.

But today I will shift focus from the train to the platform and tell you yet another tale…..

Daily passengers by virtue of stopping by the same station at least twice a day are most likely to be known to vendors of fruits or small household wares enroute.
These vendors park themselves on the footbridge overhead the platforms (albeit illegally). However the convenience of picking up one’s daily quota of fruits or other essentials keeps us lesser mortals from picking up a row. Since every living soul (at least the ones that travel in trains) is struggling to make ends meet in this city, nobody grudges a thing against these vendors.

I happen to know one such Nagamma whom I pick up my fruits from Goregaon station (my home station located in the western suburbs of Mumbai ) . A woman of generous proportion, she finds it uncomfortable to hunch over her big basket of seasonal fruits and is usually sprawling around till of course a customer comes around. On my way back home from work I stop by her almost everyday and without fail she greets me with a cheerful “kaisi hai madam?” helping me smile despite a woeful journey which more often than not sees me toppling out of an overcrowded ladies first class compartment in the evenings.

Nagamma is the most cheerful among the vendors around and is the undisputed leader of the pack. She chides when necessary and yet manages to see that the rest of her kin win their daily bread, for example she will persuade me to buy a “gajra” (as small garland of flowers) if Sridevi a young girl who sets shop next to her hasn’t made much sales during the day.

For the last few months I have noticed a younger woman who turns up at around 8 p.m which is the close of “bijness time” as Nagamma prefers to call it. This woman although young enough to be a daughter to a 50 something Nagamma looks older beyond her years…and is always dressed in a glitzy black outfit and garish makeup. Yet there is something about the woman beyond her clothes that will make you look at her twice. What it was…I found out much to my surprise.

Having asked the husband to pick me up from Goregaon station, one evening, I happened to reach earlier than I had assumed I would. As I waited for him to arrive, I saw Nagamma and Lata share a glass of cutting chai before a group of children gathered around these two women. While the older children chit-chatted the younger ones were making fuss around Nagamma.

“ Uff these little brats wont let me finish my tea!” grumbled Nagamma feigning anger as she asked Lata to take on! “ C’mon children..lets go to the platform I heard Lata say. “ Hang on Lata..that Raju is missing again…as she huffed and puffed and caught a little boy who was scurrying down the stairs.”
Thinking that Lata was taking these children down to the platform to beg for alms, the journalist in me toppled out of what had been a silent spectator.

“Wait!” I almost screamed…where do you think you are taking these children I asked with a tone of authority…as Lata and Nagamma looked backed in alarm! “To class” littled Raju chirped in..thinking I would come to his rescue! “Class??” I asked in a tone of disbelief. Nagamma a smart business woman had figured by then what was going on in my mind… “Yes madam..Lata teaches these children..why don’t you go with her” she said anticipating that I would not believe what she was saying. “Most certainly” I said..and marched along as if to prove that Nagmma was bluffing.

A small group of five or six children aged 5-10 scampered along as Lata walked a step behind me. I was led to a little makeshift room with asbestos sheet and plastic and I saw there took my breath away. There was a blackboard and some dog eared notebooks in once corner of the room. “ These children cannot afford night school, as they have to earn a living for their family.” said Lata. As I looked at her dumfounded with a million questions in my eyes Lata told me her tale of how her “husband” had brought her to Mumbai several years ago and sold her off to a filthy contractor for a few thousands. Though she had made her escape that day, she ended up in the flesh trade, just to earn a living “ I had studied till class seven” she said and I want to pass on whatever I have learnt to these children. “ It is a process of ablution for me. I teach these children till such time as my customers arrive around midnight. “ I wear black to work everyday, helps me merge with the darknees of the night.” She says with tear filled eyes. Raju having sensed something wrong comes and puts his arms lovingly around his Lata didi, as Nagamma arrives with hot vada pavs for the class! “Khali pet padhai thodi hogi” (as if you can study with an empty stomach!” this surrogate mother grins as Raju jumps on Nagamma. “Madam aap bhi lo naa…(madam why don’t you take one! ) she urges as genuinely as she sells her fruit. I bite into a greasy vada pav with a meek smile and before I can mumble an apology…Nagamma silences me…at least you came to our little classroom she says with a smile as I make an humbled exit, the scribe in me silenced. I walked away wth my head hung in shame and prayer in my heart for these two unlikely partners who were rendering social service in an obscure little corner of the world.