Bombay, in the margins

Let me tell you the story of India’s most glorified city.

On the streets of Bombay lives a little Uttar Pradesh and Bihar and Jharkhand and Haryana and Orissa and Bangladesh and Sri Lanka; one cannot point at a dwelling and say this is it, this is where a little of Bihar resides,  it’s like asphalt on the road, found in heaps at every turn, like beggars at every signal.

My story does not include them or their grief. It’s about the lives of twenty million people of Bombay. Not about the people who have come to Bombay in the hope of finding it.   

They have come and emptied their homes and children on the sidewalks of the city. They stand-out like a sore thumb, like knots on a rope, like splotches of pigeon shit on rooftops, like boards of political advertisement spat on the lampposts and trees, which attracts nothing but apathy; they are like pesky flies which hover around in the hunt of food, often snapped-out with a roll of newspaper.

They are like scribbles on the leaf of a book, always living in the margins. And in this story, their side of anopisthograph will never appear.

When it rains in monsoons, the bedroom and hall and kitchen, architected under a single sheet of tarpaulin is washed-out, like the cheap paint of the political hoardings. And when the faces on the gaudy advertisements are distorted, they are taken off temporarily, like several hundred homes on the streets. They both reappear after the last thunderous rain of Monsoons.

Sometimes, when an important man of foreign origin, decides to land his plane at Vile Parle, an impromptu overnight clean-up drive is conducted. Hundreds of houses are huddled into the busses and dumped somewhere outside of Bombay. Thousands of beggars are whisked out of the city. They will all reappear along with the blobs of government spit.

But this is not the story I’m about to tell you. The Bombay you will see will be beautiful. The man of foreign importance will soon alight. He will step into a sedan and speed off. You will see Bombay through his tinted glasses. The gibberish scribbles on the margins of the pages written in convoluted running handwriting will be hidden in dog-ears. I promise the monsoons you will see will have peacocks dancing in the verandah. Children will frolic the school campus. Boats will float around in the puddle. Elephant God will appear mysteriously in the clouds. Snails will slither out of the damp soil. And on one night, a pleasant winter will return after the last thunderous rain of Monsoons.

Roma

Rome smells like the pages of an ancient scripture.

On a hot sunny day, I perambulate the corridors of Colosseum. I wonder, astonished at the vastness of the structure. Heaps after heaps, years after years, thousands of slaves must have stubbornly walked these corridors, carrying tons of stones on their backs. Generations of kings must have marched these aisles, arrogance locked in their heavy strides. Stanch the bloodshed! Their benign hearts must have announced, seldom in their years of monarchy.

After reigns of several kings, after many civilizations, after battles and wars and human tyranny, I stare hopefully at the arches of the Colosseum. The man-slaughter has stopped. The kings have died. Their arrogance escaped through ruins of these arches and dissolved in the air, hanging low on the streets of Rome.

I feel the sporadic slaps of hot air as I spend some time in the city. Voluminous architectural monuments landscape the city of Rome. Roman Catholic churches. Roman towers and hills. Roman temples and fountains. Fountains are big and sculpted. There’s a fountain at every Piazza. There’s a Piazza in every address. Every address has a glimpse of different eras of Rome.

There’s an Old Rome and a New Rome. There’s Rome which welcomes you and there’s Rome which reminds you that you are a tourist with a return ticket. The New Rome makes you sit on the Spanish steps where a local street-group performs jauntily. The Old Rome tires you with the walks around the antiquities.

I tire myself and sit at the steps of a fountain: embellished with bare statues, rarely a robe draped on a shoulder or a lap. The folds of the fabric fall gracefully in the air. As the sunlight gleams on the monolith, reflections of the statues silhouette on the sheets of water. A rivulet falls at the side of the fountain, where tourists gather to drink water in their cupped hands. The fountain is a symbol of pure water.

A couple stands at the circumference of the pool. Theirs backs held straight and facing the fountain. A coin is pressed between a thumb and forefinger. It’s flung from over the head into the pool, after murmuring a silent prayer. Standing thousand miles away from home, with a little furrow in the forehead, they see the coin slowly slide into the shallow depth of water; a silent wish sinks to the base of the pond. The fountain is a symbol of faith.

The sculpted statues are always narrating a story: pointing at some direction, hinting at some history. Is there a Roman riddle? There’s a sudden urge to read the secrets - - not just to know the past but to be able to read it. There’s a sudden urge to fathom the arcane knowledge hidden, in the folds of the fabric, in the shadows of the silhouette. The fountain is a symbol to be solved.

Voluminous architectural monuments landscape the city ofRome.                                                                                   Voluminous architectural monuments lay buried beneath.

I sit at the steps of a fountain, cross-legged, rubbing my palm on the coarse earth. I look at the shadows in the pond. I look at the fading Sun. Soon the shadows will recede unto the statuettes. Soon the Sun will dissolve into another sky.  We need to get home. The finality of thought hits me, and I get up, taking the support of my knee, sucking in a long draft of air. 

Rome smells like the pages of an ancient scripture. The pages are tattered, the text is trenchant, and the sheets are bound firmly to the spine to survive centuries of storytelling.

Praha

Somewhere behind the blanket of pudgy clouds, sun rises and sets in the city of Prague.

Standing on the oldest bridge of the city, I look, not at the artists or their artwork. I look, not at the sauntering tourists tapping their feet to the lilting music of the musicians. I look, not at the flailing yellow trees or their carpets of fresh laden leaves.

Standing at the Charles Bridge, I do not look at the waves of the river underneath. I do not look at the swans at the banks. I do not look at the walls of the far standing forts or the spires of the castles. I do not look. I blind myself from the beauty of the old, old town.

Standing on the Fourteenth Century Bridge, I stare at the vast canvas of glowing sky and look inwardly. I look within. I walk with a lamp into the dark passages of a small vestibule. I find an empty wall. On this wall I etch: the birds, banks, trees, castles, forts and fallen leaves. I paint the bridge. I paint the old town and its astronomical clock. But I pirouette this wall and wonder, how to paint the sky that lights this beautiful, beautiful city. I wonder, leaving the lantern at the foot of the wall.

Somewhere behind the blanket of pudgy clouds, sun rises and sets in the city of Prague. Sometimes, when the daylight filters through layers of thick mist, the sky lights up like soft glow of lamps, like the flames of a yellow bulb that leak through the florescent film of a lantern.

Paris

Paris is like a watercolor painting.

At the boulevard streets, handsome policemen walk up and down the banks of Parisian trees. The cool breeze brushes the edges of their sleeves as they patrol the historic sites. And as they walk, they look at the herds of tourists re-grouping, following, posing, wondering, staring at the edifice, gaping at the skyline, plotting on the map.

The old lady reappears, with her umbrella held high, a flower perched on its tip. She speaks in English, French, German, Spanish, Portuguese. A group follows, their eyes fixed on the solitary flower: red or green or blue or yellow, whatever colour is their flower; and they are bundled back onto the bus.

The bus rambles through cobbled streets. An open café with French windows hosts tourists and Frenchmen. Sitting at the windows, they sip on their coffees and behold the beautiful city.

The city is covered by the vast plateau of artistic mansions. Mansions, ancient yet stylish, and as tall as tamarind trees, converge at a chateau, or a museum, or a church, or a figurine, or a garden, or a palace. Hundreds of monuments dot the city. These clustered dots are joined by Siene, the flat flowing river that snakes through the breadth of Paris. At the steps of the river, there's a row of stalls selling old books and paintings.

I wonder if the city is more beautiful or the art it has produced.

Hongkong : Wordscape

I can't decide. Does Hongkong have more buildings or more people? It's crowded but not chaotic. Fast, Planned, Lively. People live to shop or people LOVE to shop!? (and I learnt to shop!). Chow Tai Fook everywhere. Neon signs that don't let you forget you are in Hongkong. Where you pay even for a pickle. Where time passed a little slowly staring at the largest jelly fish exhibit. Where I met Yin & Yang, the pandas. Where I went only coz I couldn't afford Italy and I am so glad.