Musings at Mori Road

From the time I can remember, Vandana and I had grown up as neighbors. Our apartments were on the same floor and she lived across the passageway. However as we grew up, I became conscious of the fact that she was differently abled with respect to her speaking and mental faculties. I don't even remember the time when I stopped interacting with her and as I grew up I had almost stopped noticing her.  Every time we met in the stairway or downstairs, I used to look down and walk briskly past her in an effort to avoid any interaction - and I am not sure why I did that. Vandana lost her father more recently and her mother was completely bed ridden with illness. Every time I walked past her, I thought about the life she led but then like most Mumbaikars, I was almost an expert at shutting out such thoughts at will. I did not know how to speak to her, what to speak on and like everyone in this city believes, rationalized that I had no time to spare.  It was the evening bef...

The rag picker across the street by now was a familiar sight. He had encroached on the pavement opposite my house and I had a clear view of him from my window. Often as I sipped my morning tea by the window, he would be up and about rummaging the dustbin for things he could salvage and sell. We call it recycling. My feeling on spotting him the first day was one of resentment. Surely we could do with lesser people encroaching our pavements I thought. Over time this Mori Road pavement became his home and he lived there with his wife, kid and a stray dog.   He was a tall man, lean, well built, dark in complexion with long locks of hair, and was at most times adorned in only a lungi drawn up to his knees. Which made me feel that he must be an immigrant from the south of India. As days passed, we started to notice each other, me standing at the window and he perched on the pavement across the street. He would sometimes look up and grin at me and wave and while I had no int...

Returning from work, as I entered the colony last night, I noticed a signboard "shooting in progress". Now that was a first, certainly in my colony where I had lived all these years and most certainly at Mori Road! The whole square was lit up and decked up like some sort of wedding venue. Lights strung down the facade of the building shining brilliantly, the facade had a new coat of paint and in addition to the lights there were lanterns, floral patterns and a small makeshift fountain at the center. The crew with wireless headsets on was moving around busily. Some of them kept ushering onlookers like us back and for a moment I felt like a guest in my own back yard. Mr. Singh, an old resident and someone who lived on the floor above was standing besides me. I was so intrigued by what was happening, that I did not notice him nudging me till he almost shouted in my ear "I say, do you know that Amir Khan is coming here for the shoot?” If I was intrigued a moment ear...

It was busy as usual and it was my weekly visit to the market. I had missed my visit on Sunday and so this weekday evening it was my turn to make sure that there was enough to cook at home. I was getting to the end of my shopping list. The sun was setting and I prepared to head home. “Missed your Sunday routine eh” a familiar voice called out. I turned around and saw Probalda (Probal Banerjee) another Sunday regular at the market standing behind and grinning. Probalda lived alone a few blocks down the road. He was advanced in his years and had lost his wife long back. He had no children. He was frail and with age had acquired a slight stoop. His signature was his walking stick, which had a silver handle. We had got to know each other over the years at Dulal’s Fish market, where almost all Bengalis between Dadar and Mahim meet up to buy fish every morning and I got to know him since the first fish we shared cut in half. Since then I always called him ...

A rag tag hat, black trousers with silver sparkling chains dangling from them, a crumpled white shirt, worn out shoes, a coat that was held together with a couple of patchworks - yet he stood tall in the evening sun looking majestic, calling out to the crowd to gather around for the show. He was beating the drum to draw people's attention to the event. The road right under my balcony has become a venue for many a street performer over the years and with the asphalt surface giving way to a more modern tiled surface, the “naka” (junction) under my balcony at Mori Road certainly looks like the place to perform. And of course, Mori Road will always have a ready audience for the enterprising entertainer, and that includes me. The crowds had gathered by now and the show was about to begin. It was dusk and the streetlights were just coming on. I had never seen him before. A first timer, at Mori Road for sure. He was a magician, a juggler, a clown and a stuntman all rolled int...

I often saw him walking every evening with his bag in the hand to his dispensary. He was a large man and with the advancing of years his walk had a slight stoop but he still stood tall amongst most who met him. I called him Uncle having grown up in his presence and him having been responsible for my well being from the time I was born. I had this innate faith in his ability to cure me of any ailment and get me up and running.  Like me for most people at Mori Road, the doctor’s magic potions were something that you just had blind faith on. For every person who visited his clinic, he would scribble something   that then went to his compounder (medicine man) who prepared the potion. I often tried to peer through the 2X2 viewing pane half bending down to get a sense of how the compounder mixed these magic potions and it was fascinating to see the mixtures getting ground and packed into bottles and the pills used to be wrapped in small newspapers pellets to designate the dosages. Here it ...

The post office in my lane still looks the same since the last forty years. For years, I had not visited the post office, though I used to be a frequent visitor once upon a time, when my grand father who was an avid writer of letters used to send me to buy him his supply of stamps, inland letters or post letters written by him every week. The intensity of this activity used to be particularly high as Pujo (as in Durga Puja – referred to as Pujo by Bengalis) approached every year as he probably wrote to everyone he knew to wish them for Pujo. He also used to eagerly wait for the postman ringing our doorbell every afternoon for the reply to his letters. Over the years the postal department knew our address well enough and I remember those delivering letters to our address, simply on the basis of my grandpa’s name being written on the address line, although the rest of the address was often incomplete or incorrect. That said, the postmen in the area also knew that Pujo was a big occasion ...

It was immersion day and Lord Ganesha was making his way home. Mori Road was busy again. The drums were beating furiously, and the immersion processions began trickling in from early evening. From the time I was a kid big enough to peer over the balcony, I would stand transfixed and watch every procession and its idol making their way through the street. Nothing much has changed till date much to the amusement of my wife and I still stand transfixed on my balcony watching. Of course I have a companion now – my daughter. As the evening wore on as per tradition the smaller idols gave way to bigger ones and the revelry reached a crescendo. Mori Road was alive again. The street was lined with women, children, the young and the old. And, also a blind man. He stood quietly by the sidewalk. What made him noticeable was that he carried a lot of garlands in his hands and as each procession made it’s way up the road, he hobbled into the middle of the procession and found his way to the idol and ...

A hundred hands and heads bobbing up and down in unison to the beats of the drums, flags waving in the air and interspersed with the bursting of crackers – it was the evening before Mahalaya and the Mother Goddess was coming home under the blazing lights. It was the street urchins in the front, followed by the band, the men folk with bandanas on their head and then the women and children in their best attire. There was the local corporator, the owner of the local grocery store, the hardworking fisher folk, street urchins and the guys who hung out on the street corner doing nothing – all dancing to one single tune. Mori Road was alive again and there could not have been a better welcome back home after a hard three months on the road across the western world. The idol placed on the mantle and with the midnight hour approaching the street fell silent again. This was the night of Mahalaya and like all Bengalis I adjusted my watch to set the alarm for a 4 AM wake up call to catch the chant...

A tug on my arm. The smile of the street urchin, his arms outstretched. Traffic, smoke, heat, footpath vendors, beggars, honking of cars, confusion and an endless mass of humanity headed in the same direction. Yes, if you are guessing, it is Mori Road again. It is Wednesday, the day of Navina (the concept being that if you go to Mahim church for nine consecutive Wednesdays you get what you wish for) and it is also Christmas! Everyone is headed to the Church down the road. For years, I had not visited the Church down my lane though it is considered to be one of the most sacred places in Mumbai. But this year I deferred to the wishes of my wife, and so on Christmas morning instead of my customary practice of lazing about and dreaming of turkey and chicken, I was very much on my way to church. I fished for a coin in my pocket, almost toppled over with someone pushing me and then lost sight of the outstretched hand. All in a flash. My wife stopped to buy candles and flowers while I hopped...

Mori Road is busy again. Lights, sound and action. It is Mahalaya, the firstday of Navratri. Durga Puja is round the corner. It is time for celebration once more. I remember as kids we used to look forward to the Pujas and my mother used to march the entire family to the tailor and have us measured up. We used to make for a well-attired family by the time Shasthi (the firstday of Durga Puja) would dawn. From the time I was a kid the Puja grew on me and I became increasingly involved with the Puja. I just liked being therewith the wonderful form of Shakti in Godess Durga. This Mahalaya was a bit of a disappointment as my radio decided not to work and hence I spent mostof the time doing some useless introspecting in the wee hours of the morningwhen the Chandi Path is broadcast. It had been one helluva of year. A true roller coaster ride. It zoomed past too fast I thought. But I guess in Mumbai every second person doing a bit of'introspection' would think the same. It was 4 am in ...

It was the Sunday before Mahalaya and it was my annual effort to makemyself look good. So I was sitting on the high chair of Popular Hair Saloon with the intention of having a good crop done, though with each passing yearthe crop on my head becomes an increasing challenge even for the best of barbers. So I restrict myself to a maximum of two hair cuts every year so that the barber has enough to harvest. The months that had gone by had left me with little time to take a look at myself. So as Munnabhai (the barber) prepared his tools to work on me, I took a close look at myself in the mirror. The only proof that I had a decent disposition in my earlier years are my photographs and that is whatI use to usually convince my wife that she did not get such a raw deal after all. Well, except for a new hue of white and grey in my hair and my eyes sunk in a little deeper than usual (a la Marlon Brando), I still could identify traces from my erstwhile photographs still intact. Munnabhai was bac...

This year has been a hectic year and I had been traveling for the almost two months out of the last three. So while there has been a lot happening at Mori Road – the magical lane in Mumbai where I live, I was not there to usher in Mahalaya – the first day of the Puja on the night of the 13th October. Usually I stay awake and listen to the chants of the Chandi – invoking the Supreme power in the form of Godess Durga on All India Radio. It is ritual that I rarely miss. However, this time I was on the other side of the world at that time and rushing out of the airport at NY. It was six in the evening and NY was as aggressive as it could get. I managed to jump into a cab and headed for Manhattan. It had been a tiring tour the last two weeks before that. I was feeling exhausted and as the Manhattan skyline appeared on the horizon, I started to doze off. Usually the Puja is a time for intro-spection and when you are as far as in Manhattan rushing through thick traffic – you sometimes wonder ...