For the longest time, the best road to drive over was the Western Express Highway to the airport – I used to call it ‘lollipop’ road when I was a kid– there were regulation size circular advertisement boards with the ads painted over in the centre of the road….’lollipops’! Today the state of the roads in Bombay is much improved, but still not as good as some of the wider roads here in Delhi; this fact looses me quite a few arguments here in Delhi.

This is why I watched in glee as the colourful deadlines of the Commonwealth games came (and went) while the management of the Delhi’s streets went completely awry. You would be driving down one of the two ring roads and suddenly have to swerve to avoid a random pile of rubbish (usually construction refuse) dumped in the middle of the road for seemingly no justifiable reason. As the Commonwealth Games’ opening ceremony drew closer, the piles of rubbish grew in number, size and frequency – potholes upside down!

This continued, until after one particularly heavy shower, journalists hungry for any ‘breaking’ news stood gleefully (oftentimes knee-deep) in slush at what were meant to be ‘world class’ facilities and pointed out how ill-prepared we were for the games. Immediately the city swung into action expressing collective ‘horror’ at the state of affairs. It worked – the debris was cleared; from the main streets at least.

But as the slush was cleared and the city’s streets were gradually brought to (ahem!) international standards, we were witness to the appearance of seemingly random lines drawn, it seemed, for now particular purpose. I watched in fascination over the next few weeks as they started with an elaborate exercise of measuring the road widths after which engineers in yellow hard hats would stand around with a variety of spanking new instruments and debate – where would the line be drawn? This was followed by the subsequent chalking of the lines on the roads and then eventually the use of some seriously heavy-duty yellow paint. I promised you, it gleamed!!!!

Then inexplicably, at random intervals, patches of blue paint appeared within the lanes and eventually the mystery was unraveled – these were the lanes to be used exclusively for the CWG traffic – the logic? A dedicated lane ensures that the games schedules are not deterred by any traffic jams. All good in theory…I wanted to see how this would work in practice. The BRT corridor is an excellent example where traffic regulation was attempted, and then it seemed, the city’s management just sighed and let their lofty ambitions of traffic control go south!

India’s drivers have an amazing ability to ‘squeeze-drive’ – what, by international standards is a regulation 2 lane road suddenly becomes four lanes (or dare I say, more?) on India’s roads. Delhi is no exception to the rule, but the capital being what it is, goes one step further and has people driving against the flow of traffic simply because they couldn’t be bothered to drive on the right side of the road!

So in Delhi driving is an obstacle race – squeeze into traffic… honk, dodge oncoming traffic … honk, dodge people driving perpendicular to the rest of traffic … honk, dodge people, cows and dogs….honk – honk, honk, honk……honk! During the games, the administration capitalized on one thing that we Indians are all particular about – thrift; I’ve seen people who splurge at the most expensive designer boutiques argue till their voices are hoarse about Rs. 10 to be paid for parking! The administration declared a fine of Rs. 2000 to be imposed on anyone (yup anyone – no exceptions were made) driving in the CWG lane without a reason to be there. It worked like a charm. Except for a few slip-ups, the CWG lanes were empty.

The rest of the traffic lanes, however, were another story. Imagine Delhi traffic in regulation 2 or 3 lane traffic. Now squeeze that image to fit one or two lanes, then add the extra element of rush hour traffic – a newer definition of chaos! After the games, the newspapers were all praise for the ‘management’ of traffic. They printed picture-perfect photographs of traffic following perfect lane discipline … I think those cars must have posed. All the while the CWG cars and vehicles of officials sped down those lanes ignoring traffic signals and speed restrictions while the rest of us mortals sighed in envy.

Then, just one day after the games ended, while driving down Lodhi Road, I saw a most peculiar sight. Almost as if in revenge for having been forced into a semblance of traffic discipline for 14 days, I saw a line of vehicles drive in a perfect line and in unison down the CWG lane – the rest of the road was empty!

For as long as I can remember, I have been getting a cold and the flu. I’ve had it so often, at one point and in frustration, I asked my dad (who seems to know most things related to health) what as the best thing to do. He gave me words of wisdom that I live by even today: if you take medicine, your cold will disappear in seven days, and if you don’t, it will disappear in a week’s time! Honestly, I don’t know if this is universally true, but it does work with me. I prefer the seven days with medicine because it just makes the period bearable. I mention this, because about two months ago, I had a particularly nasty deadline looming. As luck would have it two days before the deadline, I developed a really bad bout of the flu. The only difference this time is that I was sneezing in the time of “swine flu”!

Overnight I got unsolicited advice about what my symptoms were indicative of and how only the best hospitals would be able to diagnose what kind of flu I had. Of course they steered clear of me each time I sneezed for fear of catching it! I was even advised by my bosses to take a day off and rest - these self-same individuals who will call you back to work from an operating theater without any remorse were suddenly advising rest?

Suddenly everywhere I turned people whipped out bottles of hand sanitizers and began discussions on basic hygiene. At public places, face-masks began to make their presence felt. Of course being Indian, the normal disposable masks (surgical or otherwise) suddenly appreciated in value by at least a factor of 10! The kind of mask and its protection factor became a topic of debate. So I went online to find out what the fuss was all about.

Mask No. 1: The most common surgical masks seem to be those used in a hospital by doctors performing routine examinations or an operation. These were also the most common masks I saw being used by people. But they were hardly a fashion statement and certainly did not provide 100% protection – many websites state that a surgical mask will prevent fluid from the individual wearing it to enter into the atmosphere, but it certainly does not prevent atmospheric bacteria from affecting the individual wearing the mask! So on to Mask No. 2: the moulded surgical mask manufactured by companies such as 3M that lists among its advantages, a single elastic band allows you to slip on and remove mask quickly and easily, and the fact that it is soft and lightweight for comfortable wear. No indication here either of whether the user is protected – so points for looks, but not for protection. Mask No. 3 is called the N95 Respirator Mask. This super cool mask, reports US News, fits tightly around the mouth and nose and has filters that can block about 95 percent of the flu virus – and it is a significantly better look than the previous two masks. Some pictures online show how people have coloured in designs onto their masks as a fashion statement – case in point, the Aloha Masks with the tag line: “Staying healthy never looked so good”! (Also see “Swine Flu Fashion“)

Can you imagine what would happen if this idea caught on here especially as we are at the beginning of the festival season – we could have Ganpati masks, Eid masks, Diwali masks, Durga Puja masks, Navratri masks, and of course, Christmas masks (to name just a few) – the marriage of health and fashion probably never had such earning potential in India before. (seriously if anyone reading this decides to manufacture such masks, please remember that I would like due credit, preferably in monetary terms).

As luck would have it, after my one day of mandatory rest, I was packed off for a meeting to Bombay within the week. I took myself off to the airport and dutifully waited to board the flight. I tried my best to sneeze politely and quietly, but there is precious little you can do. Inevitably, there was the loud sneeze accompanied by the disapproving stares. The most disapproving was Mrs. A traveling with her husband and their two children aged around 10 and 12 – one boy and one girl. I would like to say that the children looked adorable, but unfortunately their faces were covered with surgical masks! So I did what any disapproving stare warranted, I smiled and struck up a conversation with Mrs. A. Initially I bent in the direction of the table as I spoke, but Mrs. A looked ready to round up her brood, turn tail and run, so I gave up and spoke louder instead. I found out that Mrs. A was traveling to Bombay on a holiday – why Mr. A couldn’t cancel and reschedule in such a difficult time was beyond her, and what would the photographs look like? All mouth-shout covered and all? I nodded in sympathy. You know, said Mrs. A, masks can prevent you from getting swine flu (apparently she read it on the WHO website; she gave me the website): you must place the mask carefully to cover the mouth and the nose and tie securely to minimise any gaps between the face and the mask; try it sometime beta you’re very pale. I nodded my thanks and said I would go and buy a mask right after my meal was over.

The waiter came along and served me coffee and Mrs. A and her brood with snacks. I watched in fascination – what would they do? Was there some magical provision to eat through the masks? or Would they save the food for later when they were in a safe area?

None of the above – Mrs. A and her brood proceeded to do what all of us Indians do, prioritize food above all else. They removed their masks and ate…..swine flu be damned, the food is hot. Lets eat – after all, what would happen in five minutes right?

I had forgotten to remove my name from the old voter’s list and onto the list where I am currently staying. Result? I had to drive to a different polling booth and vote. So with the enthusiasm borne of one fed-up with the status quo and (like most) expecting to find solidarity with others, I went to my voting centre bright, enthusiastic and early (ok, my version of early) at 9:30 am. It was in an old municipal school in a nondescript location opposite a roadside slum (as are most things in Bombay!). I was encouraged by the number of people lined outside the centre. There were volunteers all over to tell you your number on the list along with the booth number to go to within the centre. This was part of the election commission’s promise to ensure that the entire voting process take no more than 80 seconds from the time the citizen enters the centre to casting his/her vote. I took 30 seconds…I went to the booth, confirmed my existence on the list, got my finger nails unnecessarily slobbered by ink, voted and was out – all in 30 seconds….why? I was the only one voting in that booth!

The story would be the same in various booths around the city. The newspapers the next day were full of headlines about how the voting percentage dipped below 50% in Bombay when in violence-ridden Chhatisgarh, over 55% of the voters braved the heat and bullets to vote. The expectations were high – - – after 26/11 and in spite of it, Mumbai was still apathetic! The nation was aghast. I was surprised, but it was not unexpected.

26 November 2008:

The remnants of a candle vigil at one of the sites in Bombay (Dec 2008)

I get a call from my mum who is almost in hysterics around 10pm – did you see what is happening in Bombay? Turn on the TV right now? What? I ask. Terrorists in Bombay, she answers. Not again, I think – but then again, how bad could it be? Plus these things are usually over in a few hours right? Wrong. Like most people in India, I was glued to the television until it was time to go to work. At work, I logged in to any news site streaming free live news to get information. I frantically called/messaged friends I knew who worked with the media and who I knew would be reporting to find out if they were still alive. My boss asked me to do something, I nearly said, on a day like this? how can you ask me to do anything? (Thank God I didn’t or I would have been unemployed right now). This went on for three whole days during which I got news from friends, ex-colleagues, and acquaintances who managed to get out of those places where the violence was happening within minutes to spare, people whose family members were trapped in the locations (and some whose family members died as a result). By the time this mess was over, one terrorist was caught alive, some were killed and the city was scarred in a way that other terrorist attacks were not able to achieve. The news channels predictably spoke about whether politicians relied too much on Bombay’s spirit while the politicians predictably crept into their hidey-holes only to emerge out of them when significant security was available. Buoyed on by the mass media, candlelight vigils were held in various places throughout the country. The night they held a candlelight vigil in Delhi, I drove to India Gate and saw the protesters, but could not bring myself to join in. I drove back home and did the best thing I knew to do at a time like this – - I went home to walk the streets of Bombay.

5 December 2008:

Bullet holes in a Shop's shutters (Dec 2008)

I reached Bombay and visited a few people I knew. The first was a friend who worked in the Kalaghoda area of Bombay – an area smack in the middle of the route between VT station and the Taj Hotel. She reached home that day, but spoke of how everything was quiet and how the roads were erringly clear at the other end of Bombay. Another friend who worked for the media had stayed in the office for two days – it was, of course, breaking news time. The concern here was personal – colleagues she worked with regularly were in the direct line of fire. She spoke of whizzing bullets, gun shots and a general sense of chaos. A third friend who also works with the media could not meet me that day. She was visiting two camera-men who got shot while she was reporting. Another friend told me of how he left the Taj the shooting began. He had to meet someone for a meeting an hour later but “didn’t feel like it” and so cancelled; he missed the shooting by 1 hour. One of my students’ father died a little away from one of the hotels; she was not answering any one’s calls.

A few of my students decided to get together for dinner for a celebration of sorts; they had originally planned to go to Leopold Café, but at the last minute decided to go to a restaurant in the Metro area of Bombay. They normally travelled Bombay’s Central Railway trains back home; but on the 26th, they felt lazy and decided to take a cab home. They heard the shots as they were nearing GT hospital and thought a car’s tire had exploded and carried on their merry way….thankfully!

I also met my mother’s old school teacher, Ms. H, who happens to be a Jew. Ms. H is a character; her hair is shock-white and has been for as long as I can remember. Bombay has had a small, but significant Jewish community even before Independence. Those numbers dwindled post-Independence when they moved to Israel and to other parts of the world in hoards. When asked why she did not choose to move, Ms. H said, I am an Indian first, a citizen of Bombay second and then, a Jew. The legend goes thus: as long as Ms. H stays in Bombay, there will be a flourishing Jewish community here! She lives in an old building in Bombay that looks like it has not been renovated since the day it was constructed. Entering her flat is like entering 1950s Bombay, the construction and the furniture. Her TV is of the old wooden type housed in a wooden cabinet with sliding slated doors. She even has an old single-door steel GE fridge in which she keeps biscuits and snacks (she doesn’t cook). Her life consists of giving tuitions which fund her various trips abroad to see family and friends, and attending plays and musical reviews. Her friends include her ex-students and their children and their children! And, of course, she has her links with the rest of the Jewish community in Bombay.

"Have you noticed anything suspicious? Call 100" (Dec 2008)

When I went to see her, she ordered pizzas for the two of us and sat down to talk. And talk she did; the rabbi and his wife were well known and respected members of the Jewish community in Bombay. She described their son as delightful. She had met them only the week before for dinner. When the unspeakable happened, she said that the entire community was in shock. “I have roamed the streets of this city without fear since I was a little girl and today I feel a real threat. Our community has always felt safe in India, why now?” Why now indeed. Very unusually for her, she had stopped going out in the evenings unless she was sure of a ride home. Even trips to Marine Drive for her favourite kulfi ice-cream were down to a necessary minimum.

My Muslim neighbours from the place we previously stayed at are lovely family of six – father, mother, grandmother, and three boys. The youngest was not yet two when they moved opposite us. With two older brothers who were at least 7 years older than he was, he ended up spending all his time in our house going home only to sleep. He was my little brother; he was also a HUGE pest. He would be under my feet every chance he got, making me grateful that I was an only child! But he was also incredibly sweet and gentle for one so young. As he grew up he had a brood of cousins, all younger than he was, who were placed under his care. At the tender age of 8, he never said a word as his cousins crawled over him, hitting him and biting his ears (which would stick out of his head in the most adorable manner). The little pest grew up and decided that hotel management was the way to go. When I spoke to him before the new year of 2008 he was excited about starting the first of his two internship placements. Apparently this is what students in a Hotel Management course do – they serve in the hotels as banquet staff, waiters, housekeeping etc., learning as they climb up from the bottom rung. He was going to be serving at the Taj on New Year’s eve. For those three days in November 2008 when the phones were not working, all I could think of was where was this boy and why was he not answering the phone. The news reports of young boys in the Taj (students like the little pest) who shielded guests from the bullets (sometimes with their own bodies) kept playing on and on in my mind. Selfishly then, I prayed that he would not be one of the brave ones. Finally, one day before I left for Bombay, I managed to speak with him. My first thought was – Thank God he is alive! He told me how, that day, without telling his mother where he was, he went to volunteer with Saifee Ambulance Service. He was outside the Taj for two days serving coffee and sandwiches to people as they came out, helping them to the ambulances and accompanying them when necessary. My second thought was, how soon could I go to Bombay and murder him for his madness? I couldn’t stop shouting at him, you could have been killed! His classmates and friends were inside, he said. He couldn’t sit and do nothing.

8 December 2008:

I walked my old college route – Metro, via Xavier’s past the BMC office and VT station, down Fountain, under the stone arches of what is now HSBC and Standard Chartered Bank, behind the old Bombay University Campus and High Court, past Kalaghoda and the Prince of Wales Museum, down the road towards the Taj and finally stopped at the Gateway. It was a route we walked many many times as students because we couldn’t afford cabs or buses if we were saving up for a movie. All along the route (and increasingly as you approached Taj), there was security cordoning off parts of the road. For the first time I saw a police battalion at Gateway (with guns). The Taj was boarded with white boards and the whole place was erringly quiet. Even the tourists who had come prepared with their cell phone cameras somehow kept to a low murmur. The city, it seemed, was taking stock…licking her wounds; her people were playing a waiting game to see when, as is the case with most people in Bombay, could they get back onto the local trains without fear … back to the business of living in Bombay.

30 April 2009:

Roti, Kapada, Makaan ... Still key concerns (April 2009)

This election, India votes in five phases. Voting day in each phase is a local holiday to enable people to go to vote anytime from 7am to 5pm. In Bombay, rather than a full day’s holiday (do you know how much monetary loss that will turn into?), the city’s firms allowed their employees the freedom to come in a little late after having voted, or leave a little early to go and vote. At the booths, there were good – disucssions regarding the uselessness of the politicians (a fact in Bombay), where money flows into every willing pocket and the people succeed in spite of it all, so who do we vote for? Decisions about who to vote for, it seems, were being made right into the polling booth! There were also those who stood in the lines (a significant number) who said they were going to go in and NOT vote for anyone. Then there were those who did not vote – What is the use? they said, the roads will remain the same, the transport system will be non-functional and the cost of living will remain high. Terror, it seems will not decide the [non-]vote in Bombay, basic services and amenities will.

Two days later, I flew back to Delhi; the results will be declared on 16th May.

The view from the top!

In the inferno that is Bombay during May and June, the only way to get any kind of ventilation is to put down the window. This leaves you open to a variety of smelly experiences and not all of them pleasant. The city boasts of pollution control mechanisms in place….but obviously the buses and trucks have yet to adhere to these guidelines. You roll down your window for breeze and you get a lovely whiff of exhaust fumes, just the right amount to coat your face in the first layer of dirt and grime for the day. And as you pass by Mahim creek, you mistakenly inhale what you hope is a bit of the sea atmosphere. Instead your nose gets reacquainted with the difference between sewage, the other brown stuff floating in the water and just a hint of the sea.

Anyone driving down P. D’Mello road would be treated to an olfactory treat at various points in the day — The early morning stink of inevitable deification along the roadside on once-beautiful old stone structures that the Archaeological Society of India forgot; The smell of diluted soap in a bucket shared by all members of the family; the roadside cutting chai, an amazing mix of spice in tea at just the right amount to help you kick start your hour! In the afternoon, it is the smell of sun-dried clothes all along the battered dividers while more clothes are being scrubbed within an inch of their lives by the women in the slums on the road. And finally in the evening it is the smell of the wood fires being started up to cook the inevitable meal of dal and rice.

The view from my window (December 2004)

A lady once took me to her home in the slums of Andheri for a meal. It was a plain meal of dal, rice and chicken curry. The room was small with 7 people living in it. The door was always open and an open drain ran immediately outside which served as convenient dustbin for the women and playmate for the semi-naked children who alternatively played with the (ahem) “water” or chased the local chickens through the drain. Hygiene in this place was obviously a luxury. And yet in the middle of it all, a wood fire burned filling the house with the smell of food. It was the best dal and rice and chicken I have ever tasted to date.

The best smell of all, is the smell reserved for the months of June to September when the rain attempts to wash the city clean of the smoke, grime and heat. The smell of the first rain is a promise; with each drop (for the time being at least), a little bit of the heat is absorbed. It is an unwritten rule in Bombay that you drop whatever you are doing for a dance in the first rains. And if you miss the first rains, you have a chance to redeem your “bombayness” by going to Marine Drive during the monsoon season and getting drenched in the rain and capturing one or more inevitable waves that break over the tetra pods onto the opposite side of the road! Of course this could mean the distinct possibility of you smelling of whatever someone else threw into the sea not so long ago in another beach along Bombay’s coast.

A non-Bombay person visiting me once screwed up her nose in disgust — how can you live in this city, its filthy! To the uninitiated, this smell of Bombay can have you gasping for breath. It consists of the heat, humidity, pollution, grime and collective perspiration, hope and despair of the population of the city that is Bombay! To the rest of us this “smell” of Bombay, ALL of it, is the smell of home!