Continuation of previous Post.
Bombay is the heart of cinema in India, called Bollywood, aka Hollywood.
“You have such wonderful interiors!”. I gaped soaking in the ambiance contrasting to the shabby exterior.
“You have wonderful taste!Where did you get these prints from?”
“They took the car and covered it themselves. No charge to me.”
“How many such cars are there?”
“About five of us, I guess!”
I snapped the pictures of these living canvases of Bollywood personas before alighting.
Running a quick search on the net, discovered an artist behind Taxi Fabric. Interesting.
Saturday morning is generally quite lazy. After a few kilometers walk and a cup of beverage, it is more so. Rather than walking back, I decide to take a cab. Saturday morning at 8.00 am is in no way a good time to find a cab easily on Nariman point. Overpriced Merus and Cool cabs line against the street, waiting for an unassuming tourist to step out from Trident. I am in no mood to pay price of a Starbucks coffee for the short commute, so do what comes naturally to many Bombayites; hail a kaali peeli.
Kaali-Peeli , translated : Yellow-Black cab; comes in many versions. Gone are the days of the oversized Ambassador, the linear Fiat; now we see stout Korean brands, most newly bought; zipping past and stopping only if they like where you are going. (!)
So, when I spotted a kaali peeli, I got a bit disheartened.
“The old Fiat!” I sighed and waved to the driver.
He caught my eye and soon trudged down the road with his 1990’s engine roaring while I waited impatiently.
I almost shut my eyes while I mumbled out the destination.
It was just a moment, …then…Blink! Blink!
My seat was a canvas of colour. Bollywood colours and dialogues made me a captive audience.
Then I asked him about the interiors.
( to be continued tomorrow)
Its early Sunday morning. Sounds of Traditional Drums. Bright orange turbans. Carpeted stretch of road. Loudspeakers blare music. An MC somewhere in the distance. Selfie Point! Runners. Lycra Sportswear. Branded footwear. French perfumes.
Pavement dwellers watch the show from the comfort of their (un)homes, lying on the cardboard sheet which is their bed.
“A Marathon?” Trying to make sense of what is this fuss about.”Whats that?”
Just over a hundred kilometers from where the periphery of Mumbai city ends, a stretch of road takes us to the eastward side, where basalt rock formations dot the landscape. The landscape is dry and dotted with thorny trees, quite a contrast from the lush lonavala road.
“This falls in the rain shadow area” explains my colleague.
We look at wonder at the miraculous formations springing up as we go further.
If you are familiar with Indian Mythology, you would have heard of Lord Ram and the story of Ramayana. According to the story, an exiled King Ram stayed with his wife, Sita and brother Laxman in a hut in the Dandaka forest. That place is said to be in Nasik from where the Demon King Ravana had kidnapped the Queen Sita. Looking for his wife, the Lord Ram then travelled on foot for a day until he reached the edge of the land where the sea starts. He was thirsty, so his brother Laxman shot an arrow into the ground from where sprang fresh sweet water. This place is today called “Banganga” and lies hidden and forgotten in the plush locality of Malabar hill in Bombay.
Every year starting winters, tens of thousands of flamingos make their way to a little known jetty point in Mumbai. They travel from the Rann of Kutch, which is their breeding ground and make way to two areas in Mumbai, one is a less known jetty point for their morning feeding and the other is their evening spot near New Bombay. when they arrive here in early winter, their wings are a shade of white, but during thier departure they become a pink.
How does this happen? Our guide from BNHS explained that these muddy flats near Mumbai are filled with blue green algae from which the birds’ digestive tract extract the pigment from the carotenoid and an algae rich diet ensures the pink colour to the flamingos. those better the diet, the pinker will be the color to the flamingos.
Rann of Kutch is a good breeding spot for these flamingos but is not rich in blue green algae. The birds travel hundreds of miles till Mumbai to get their adequate dose of nutrition.
However, the story could be short-lived as there are plans to create a trans harbour link over this area and the effects of that on the ecosystem, diversity and habitat is not known.
As the day turns to night,
Glows an amber light,
Not of the warm sun,
But something magically fun.
If I were to tell you that I’ve spotted kingfishers, two pairs of hornbills, a family of coppersmith barbets along with several crows, sparrows and pigeons, parrots during the time it takes to have a morning tea, you may wonder which green belt I am on.
If I were to tell you that I see these birds from a window while having my morning tea, you may further assume that perhaps its a forest or a nature reserve.
If I were to tell you that these birds were viewed today morning in a busy part of the Mumbai city, I wouldn’t expect you to believe me because I couldn’t believe it myself.
I never knew her name. Not in the two years we have maintained eye contact. Sometimes in the early morning of the sun, she wouldn’t still be awake as I’d pass her makeshift bed on the pavement. But sometimes she would lift her head and wave to me. Some passersby thought that she was insane were ready to help me out and to “shoo” her away. But my smile and the wave back would puzzle them.
Today was different. I started in the same usual way. Stepped out from the wicket. Waited for my cab.
Then I saw her approaching my direction. With tarpaulin slung over her shoulder, I expected her to give me the same sweet smile that she had been giving for months and I was eager to smile back to her.
She soon came within an arms distance and recognized me. Instead of a smile she burst into tears.
“He stole everything” she cried, pointing at a group of men on the other side of the street.
Amazed, I looked at them in shock and they reciprocated the same. The building security guard waiting to wave her away from me. Time seemed to stand still.
“That one!”, she said pointing at the group hidden by the bushes on the other side. ” I had left everything under a tree and he stole it and put it under his. Even the ( couldn’t understand this word) that my mother had given me. Report him to the police. He is a thief! ”
A cab arrived and I stepped in while consoling her that I would. I saw her move forward with her only belonging, the tarpaulin, slung from one shoulder, brushing the ground against her petite frame. The cab sped off.
“She lost her husband a couple of years ago,” I told the cab driver. ” Stays on the street.”
He gave me sympathetic nod and asked me “Where to?”.
I told him the way to the design insights class and we proceeded on a quiet journey ahead. Discussing about technology, for people, who already have everything, was the last thing on my mind today.
Nostalgia is when you think and remember about something which has happened in the past. But what do you call the feeling of ownership over which you never experienced before and live in it.
Let me explain. I live in this building which very soon will be a hundred years old. It’s not the only one in the locality. This is the old part of Mumbai. Most buildings here are the same age. Some shops proudly display the made-in-last-century tag on their facades. There are not many people who live here now. And perhaps lesser who love the old world charm.
Recently one of the oldest departmental stores rebranded itself. Into a men’s store, trying to keep up with the changing face of the environment. I’m glad that I picked a great ice-cream scoop and umbrella before it shut shop to renovate and its shelves replaced with men’s attire instead of exotic lemon pickle. While this financial district of the past is now gradually transforming into a fashion promenade, with likes of Feragammo and other luxury shops opening up, there is a bit of pain at seeing the old shops disappear giving way to the new.
You then drive over the newly built flyovers and glance at countless facades of intricate detail given to neglect, waiting for them to crumble, so the land may be reused. You look at this beautiful entrance hidden under wires near Parsi Dairy and wonder what it must have been newly built.
Then it strikes you what is really missing in this part of the town. It’s not the lack of space; it’s the beauty and of not using it well.