How we lived..

It was a warm, wonderfully manic Monday.

What with the massive traffic snarl and the usual penniless me, I decided to go back to my roots and do as the old vibhu used to. i.e. Walk and use public transport.

Being the year end, dearest ancestor of mine, who pushed me out into the big bad world, decided her PPF account needs to be refilled. Caveat: It can only be done in Ghatkopar, a distant suburb that is accessible only by a magic carpet or the suburban train system.

Early in the morning I rush out of the house to catch my neighbourhood station bus and what do I discover? It's not waiting for me like I imagined, but stalled in the traffic. After fifteen minutes of waiting, even the driver heaved a sigh of boredom and shut the engine. Unfolded his daily paper and sat back to read. Of all my years in Mumbai and traveling in the bus system, first time have I ever seen a bus driver, proudly sitting on his throne and reading a paper.

Taken as a hint to exercise my fat legs, I descend from the bus and start trudging towards the station. With the radio plugged in, blaring inane bollywood songs accompanied with even inaner RJ chatter, I start feeling the heat.

After a couple of days in rain kissed Delhi, this torpid heat of Mumbai seems kinda tough. Like a special brand of hell created just for me. So, picking the best defense against weather, I plaster a brave smile on the face and walk on.

Soon, I reach the station strangely rejuvenated. It has been an unusually long time since I actually walked in the morning sun and I can feel my body produce Vitamin D and all this excess Vitamin D is adding a zing to my outlook. I stand in the queue and purchase my second class return ticket to Ghatkopar, the suburb with the magic bankers, who still return 10% odd on your investment in this day and age.

Pretty soon the trains there and I am sitting in this great locomotive, hurtling along towards my destination. A warm breeze blew in through the window and I wondered. How often does my city change it's shape. Each year I travel on these and some landmarks remain while some are re made.

Get off at the connecting station climb the stairs to the other platform and I wonder, am I getting older or have they increased the steps over here. Finally huffing and puffing I reach the platform and clamber abroad. Its peak rush hour and I squeeze in about half the space I usually take on God's green earth and try to get comfortable.

At last, Ghatkopar. And man has it changed. Gone is the hustle and bustle of the beetling rickshaws. Now a massive bridge where they are building a brand new Metro system in place. With the roads all closed for traffic, with a small pedestrian only lane in place. Hmm, walking is much easier now.

I had forgotten the small gradient that had existed since time immemorial or the last earthquake that lifted the small hill above the surrounding plains and panted my way out to the bank. After an entertaining fifteen minutes overhearing a old guy fight with the manager, I go to the other branch where the computers and the people who man them sit.

Stand in the line and she says, SYSTEM DOWN. I ask her (politely) by when it will be UP? and guess what she says SYSTEM DOWN and then as if this is the end all be all of all words, she wraps up her day and picks up the paper (second one for the day. The paper business is doing really well nowadays).

So dejected and sweating I trudge back. By now I have already leaked about ten liters of the precious fluid through my pores and am looking for a water bottle. With dread in my heart I check my pockets to see if I can safely afford the twelve rupees that this ambrosia costs. Well just about. So there it goes down my throat and I feel a modicum of relief.

Back in the crowded trains with the rest of Mumbai's humanity pushing and pulling me, I finally make it to my cool environs of the office. It's not even half a day and am already bushed.

No wonder the research says.. those who use public transport weigh less!

V

Life in a traffic Jam.

Anarchy, Chaos, Siege. Not words usually used when you come out on the streets in the benign country of India, but today I discovered that they should be.

According to the exalted intelligence of my great city's town planners, one of the arterial roads in my area needs to be closed for about a couple of months. So, they shut it down.

With little information to the hapless motorists used to their routes for the last so many years, suddenly the route to work was infinitely more interesting (to me) and annoying. Lefts that were routinely free disappeared like a pimple on Ash's face in the glossies.

Now nobody knew what the roads held for them next. In like fashion all the chauffeurs decided to take a turn right in the middle of the road to find an alternate route that they thought existed. But little did they know. Suddenly the men in white armed with whistles and an ugly countenance, pounced upon these motorists to re direct them to the lock jam. All pleas about the all important meeting, the pregnant dog and dying great aunt were summarily dismissed without so much as an hear.

Soon, a great river of cars had formed. With little islands of calm in between where a paan chewing man would proudly survey the line formed behind his one puny little palm. This was the man, the lines of whose palm controlled the destiny of the rich and the poor alike. The man in the Mercedes to the man in the bus, both brought together in a manner our ministers only aspire to.

With strings of invective flowing all around, suddenly people realised the whole futility of all this. With forbearance only Indians and especially the ever suffering Mumbaikars can achieve, they got out their cell phones, rescheduled the meetings and got to discussing the match the Indian team had miraculously saved. While I got off the bus to trudge to the station.

All hail the Mumbaikar!

V