Bombay – the Gateway to India and the riches of the East India Company is a city that sits on India’s west coast. In the late 1800s and early 1900s the British invested a lot of money in the city’s infrastructure turning it into a magnet for the young and the ambitious.
Several young men came to Bombay to find their fortunes. Many of them came from little villages and towns from the State of Gujarat. And most of them found their way to a little part of town called Bhuleshwar.
Over the years, Bhuleshwar transformed itself into one of India’s largest wholesale markets. And less than 150 years after it was formed, Bhuleshwar had burst at its seams, incapable of supporting the very large community of traders and commerce that it had given birth to.
It has been said, and not entirely in jest, that if you were to simply stand still in Bhuleshwar – you would soon find yourself in a different part of town, propelled there by the sea of humanity that inhabits it. In 1970, it had a density of 1500 people per acre (contrast that with .5 per acre in little known Stormville).
Several of the markets have been moved to other parts of town. And new generations of Gujaratis are moving out to the distant suburbs where they can have a little more room to raise their families.
Kandivali is one such suburb in Western Mumbai. Instead of the crammed 150 sq ft tenements, they now live in 1000 sq ft skyscrapers, most with little lawns and gardens. In the evening the men and women congregate in the compound in groups, recreating that lost sense of community they had in the old neighborhood.
I’ve been spending a lot of time in an area called Mahavir Nagar as I shuttle between my parents home and that of my sister-in-law. Actually, its probably even just a subset of Mahavir Nagar, because it is just one big block of buildings.
Last night I did a leisurely walk through of the shops in this block – all tiny mom and pop stores of the good old Bhuleshwar tradition. The owners run the businesses and typically know their clients by name. In fact, my parents discuss the owners of different stores with their neighbors.
And what a set of businesses! You will find all kinds of food – Gujarati, South Indian, North Indian, Punjabi, Chinese, Mexican, Pizza, Sandwiches – Jain and Hindu varieties and all strictly vegetarian. Realtors, insurance agents, pathology labs, doctors offices can all be found on this block. Wait – is that a nursing home ? There is a gym, a slimming center and a diabetes treatment center.
Last night, waiting for my ride, on the opposite side of the street – I spotted the large liquor store – that carries champagne – all 3 varieties sold in India. Guptaji delivers fresh vegetables and fruits to your home. There are raw fruits and farsan, bhel puri, pani puri, sev puri. Fresh squeezed juice is Rs 10 for a large glass, the man apologizes thinking I will complain about how expensive it is – I’ve paid as much as 50 in other parts of the city.
Other stores sell jewelry – precious or fake – clothing and fabric, items of home décor, dry goods, electronics, consumer durables. There is even a photo studio and a store that sells items needed for religious ceremonies. There was a shop selling automotive accessories – guess you’d have to leave the block to buy a car – but there’s the car rental place on the corner. There’s the travel agent where you can book your tickets to visit your daughter in London or your son in Sydney.
Hmm I did not find a shop selling funeral supplies – but come to think of it I’ve never seen one of those anywhere.
One block – everything that you could possibly need for your home or to live…….. and they all deliver inside Mahavir Nagar…….Fascinating – the Gujarati spirit of free enterprise is alive and well, even if the road is filled with potholes and construction debris.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Bombay - it is no more!
September 13th, 2009. That was the day on which I finally accepted that it would never be the same. The time was about 7:30 in the morning. The rickshaw was crossing the nallah on Link Road in Andheri or perhaps it is Jogeshwari. As the sun peeked out from behind the smog laden sky, and my nose was assaulted by the full force of a Mumbai morning, I finally accepted that my romance with Bombay was over and that Bombay existed only in my imagination.
I had marveled through the floods of 2005 at the resilience of the people of Bombay. On 7/11/2006, I had waited anxiously by the phone to hear that my niece and her mom had reached home safely, and I tried not to think of the trauma my sister-in-law went through as she saw the victims of the bomb blast at Bandra railway station.
I proudly cheered on the integrity and unquenchable spirit of the young heroes of Slumdog Millionaire, turning a blind eye to the criminals who tested that spirit.
On 26/11 I wept as I watched the carnage in South Bombay, and I wept again when I heard that a dear friend had been one of the hostages. And I took comfort in knowing how he had held onto the indomitable Bombay spirit to the very end, believing he could charm the terrorists into letting him live. I read every single story about the attack, and while my heart bled over the senseless carnage, it also swelled with pride at the bravery and the determination of the people in the attack. Along with every other Bombayite, I applauded the determination of the hoteliers to re-open their doors, to restore their establishments to their full glory and deny the terrorists any semblance of a victory.
Through twenty three years of living in the United States, I had firmly held onto my image of Bombay – a slightly chaotic, but generally efficient city, united in the honest and determined pursuit of wealth and self-improvement, a city in which people minded their own business, and respected your desire to make an honest living. And while its streets were not exactly paved with gold, you did not need much to get started. You could count on the infrastructure to work, most days anyway.
You could count on being safe, even at 2am in the morning, and you could count on public transport. Yeah, you could get yourself into trouble – but you really had to go looking for it, it generally did not go out of its way to confront you.
The city teemed with energy. No city quite matched Churchgate station at rush hour – though New York city tried occasionally (and I haven’t been to Tokyo – but I suspect it is far more orderly).
And then just like that, that Sunday morning, I realized the Bombay I was thinking about was a figment of my imagination. Today’s Mumbai is larger, more crowded, more chaotic and the will to make an honest living has turned into a miserable drudge to just survive.
Oh yes, the spirit lingers. It even thrives in some pockets. But I am starting to think that that is the exception rather than the rule. Yes, the slum dwellers find things to be joyous about their condition. And yes, that is all part of the indomitable spirit. But seriously, is the choice to live in a slum, an actual choice they make?
People of all communities and religions live alongside peaceably each focused on earning their living. But isn’t this also where we have seen some of the worst communal riots ? Isn’t this the same city where a mob attacked a TV station because it had had the nerve to criticize their leader ?
Today, I think the various terrorist attacks, the various “acts of nature” that have inflicted harm on Mumbai were all avoidable. Or at the very least their impact could have been blunted through better management and infrastructure.
Instead of holding on firmly and with pride to the image of my college mate who is now one of Mumbai’s most respected policemen, I pray for his safety. I pray that he may just be allowed to live his life as he chooses, and I wish he would not choose to live it so dangerously.
I had never reconciled myself to the black cages that adorn every window, or the mosaic of cement lined cracks on building built in the late 50s and 60s, and I am sure that that was somewhere in my consciousness that Sunday morning.
I had been to a high school reunion the previous night, there I had met classmates from primary school from a zillion, ok 30+, years ago. It had been a wonderful evening of reminiscing and reliving of old experiences. We had talked till I fell asleep.
At 6:45 on Sunday morning, I left to take a ride to Kandivali where my parents now lived. I had expected to experience the serenity and peace of early Sunday mornings as I remembered them – People strolling along the promenade on Carter Road, others walking to the temple or church dressed in their Sunday best. Mostly just peace and quiet as most of the population slept in after a late Saturday night.
Instead, I encountered a few maids walking large Alsatians. I gingerly avoided the little mounds of dog poop and flagged down a rickshaw. The air was still and very stale. No fresh dew, no soft gentle morning breeze. The smell kept getting worse and by the time I reached the nallah in Andheri, I realized that there was very little about Mumbai that was pretty or orderly. It was just dirty, unkempt and run down, and that ideal city that I carried in my heart – that was just a figment of my imagination.
I think I still love that imaginary city. And I think I shall keep looking for it in Mumbai and every other place I go to.
But BOMBAY- Aas! It is no more.
I had marveled through the floods of 2005 at the resilience of the people of Bombay. On 7/11/2006, I had waited anxiously by the phone to hear that my niece and her mom had reached home safely, and I tried not to think of the trauma my sister-in-law went through as she saw the victims of the bomb blast at Bandra railway station.
I proudly cheered on the integrity and unquenchable spirit of the young heroes of Slumdog Millionaire, turning a blind eye to the criminals who tested that spirit.
On 26/11 I wept as I watched the carnage in South Bombay, and I wept again when I heard that a dear friend had been one of the hostages. And I took comfort in knowing how he had held onto the indomitable Bombay spirit to the very end, believing he could charm the terrorists into letting him live. I read every single story about the attack, and while my heart bled over the senseless carnage, it also swelled with pride at the bravery and the determination of the people in the attack. Along with every other Bombayite, I applauded the determination of the hoteliers to re-open their doors, to restore their establishments to their full glory and deny the terrorists any semblance of a victory.
Through twenty three years of living in the United States, I had firmly held onto my image of Bombay – a slightly chaotic, but generally efficient city, united in the honest and determined pursuit of wealth and self-improvement, a city in which people minded their own business, and respected your desire to make an honest living. And while its streets were not exactly paved with gold, you did not need much to get started. You could count on the infrastructure to work, most days anyway.
You could count on being safe, even at 2am in the morning, and you could count on public transport. Yeah, you could get yourself into trouble – but you really had to go looking for it, it generally did not go out of its way to confront you.
The city teemed with energy. No city quite matched Churchgate station at rush hour – though New York city tried occasionally (and I haven’t been to Tokyo – but I suspect it is far more orderly).
And then just like that, that Sunday morning, I realized the Bombay I was thinking about was a figment of my imagination. Today’s Mumbai is larger, more crowded, more chaotic and the will to make an honest living has turned into a miserable drudge to just survive.
Oh yes, the spirit lingers. It even thrives in some pockets. But I am starting to think that that is the exception rather than the rule. Yes, the slum dwellers find things to be joyous about their condition. And yes, that is all part of the indomitable spirit. But seriously, is the choice to live in a slum, an actual choice they make?
People of all communities and religions live alongside peaceably each focused on earning their living. But isn’t this also where we have seen some of the worst communal riots ? Isn’t this the same city where a mob attacked a TV station because it had had the nerve to criticize their leader ?
Today, I think the various terrorist attacks, the various “acts of nature” that have inflicted harm on Mumbai were all avoidable. Or at the very least their impact could have been blunted through better management and infrastructure.
Instead of holding on firmly and with pride to the image of my college mate who is now one of Mumbai’s most respected policemen, I pray for his safety. I pray that he may just be allowed to live his life as he chooses, and I wish he would not choose to live it so dangerously.
I had never reconciled myself to the black cages that adorn every window, or the mosaic of cement lined cracks on building built in the late 50s and 60s, and I am sure that that was somewhere in my consciousness that Sunday morning.
I had been to a high school reunion the previous night, there I had met classmates from primary school from a zillion, ok 30+, years ago. It had been a wonderful evening of reminiscing and reliving of old experiences. We had talked till I fell asleep.
At 6:45 on Sunday morning, I left to take a ride to Kandivali where my parents now lived. I had expected to experience the serenity and peace of early Sunday mornings as I remembered them – People strolling along the promenade on Carter Road, others walking to the temple or church dressed in their Sunday best. Mostly just peace and quiet as most of the population slept in after a late Saturday night.
Instead, I encountered a few maids walking large Alsatians. I gingerly avoided the little mounds of dog poop and flagged down a rickshaw. The air was still and very stale. No fresh dew, no soft gentle morning breeze. The smell kept getting worse and by the time I reached the nallah in Andheri, I realized that there was very little about Mumbai that was pretty or orderly. It was just dirty, unkempt and run down, and that ideal city that I carried in my heart – that was just a figment of my imagination.
I think I still love that imaginary city. And I think I shall keep looking for it in Mumbai and every other place I go to.
But BOMBAY- Aas! It is no more.
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