Curry House !

If you came out of St. Andrew's church. Straight down past the Christ the King statue. Past the grotto on your right, waving goodbye to Graveyard Lorna, who seemed to live there. Negotiated the crossing of the St. Pauls Road and Hill Road intersection. Did'nt get seduced by the kheema at Yatch Beer bar and restaraunt. The beer you had to steel yourself at little harder against. Then passed Carmel Convent. Then turned left into the walkway that led to the little house behind the big house. Then walked up a flight of wooden stairs. You would find yourself at a door that was always open. Keeping guard over this always open door was a dove. And just over the threshold was a chair. A rocking chair which rocked on vertical springs. Shock absorbers of it's own. A red leather seat. And on it sat U. Carlisle. U standing for Uncle. He and his family lived in this magical home. With a wooden staircase. Bunk beds. A breadfruit tree that started it's life in adjacent Carmel convent and was meandering thru it's mid-life crisis past their window. An African Grey that whistled and shrieked even more than a Redemptorist. And the power behind the rocking chair was A. Aylma. A for Auntie of course. When you have seven children, a parrot, a dove and U Carlisle the logistics of keeping them in food drink and clothes would be a nightmare for most people. BUt not for A. Aylma. Who took the attitude that if nine people were sitting down to dinner one or two more was not going to make any difference. So at a table in the kitchen. [ Me often being a part of the one or two more ] You would'nt be able to eat . Because you'd be laughing so hard. At impersonations , at jokes, at stories. Or you'd be caught up in the intensity of a discussion. About anything. And everything. Or you would be entertained by U. Carlisle as he lit up his post dinner cheerooot. Of stories of his trips around the the world. Long ago. Or his son's Colin's stories.Of around the world. But of just days or hours ago. [ He flew with Air India ] . While Cheryl and Charmaine [ Carlisle's daughters ] stitched. Sticthed every costume for every production,for every play that was put up in Bandra during the eighties and the nineties. Priests would drop by to consult with Carlisle on matters pertaining to the well being of the parish. Zonal committees would come asking for advice. Conrad [ Another son ] 's ex- girlfriends would come by not knowing they were ex. As of today. The parrot would shriek it out, but they never got it. It would have been easier to win Kaun Banga Crore pati than to guess who Conrads flavour of the week was. The labourers were many. But the gatherer was one.
And thru it all the equanamity of A. Aylma. The oil in the gear box of this home.
Other students submitted reports. Reports and assignments that they got done on manual typewriters by the guys at Bandra Station. Mine stood out. Beacuse they'd be done by Cheryl. On her electronic typewriter. In fonts that changed. In justified columns. I never had to worry about content. Not when the packaging was the best.
This open hearted generosity. Of spirit. Of time. It was'nt confined to this home. You could visit Cordie. [ Another daughter, with Cordie being short for Cordelia ] who had married and moved. To Madh Island. And the same open door policy. A branch office of the Bandra HQ.
The house came down for a building to come up. The family moved. U. Carlisle made the big move upwards. The kids all got married. They’ve moved into homes of their own.
The door is closed. That’s what they do in buildings. The landscape is different. The people who walk the streets are different. But A. Aylma is the same. And if you drop by the Curry house you’ll know. Overflowing with Carlisle Curry’s grandchildren. With laughter , with warmth and with love.

The Bugoo Bugoo Man

Bugoo bugoo bugoo. Followed by the sound of a cracking whip. Enough to get any five year old to finish his porridge for the next week. Other wise he was told, the Bugoo Bugoo man would take him away. And when you saw the Bugoo Bugoo man he was even scarier than he sounded. Bare chested, long haired, barefooted and painted. Painted with startling streaks of white and vermillion. Cracking his whip in the air. Snaking it back so that it cracked a millimitre over his shoulder. While the woman accompanying him drew out the terrifying bugoo bugoo noise from a drum. Sliding a stick over the taut drum skin. A miniature bugoo bugoo man accompanied him. Sometimes. His correct nomenclature would be bugoo bugoo boy. Also painted and bare-chested. A mini whip in hand. His job was to gather the money. That people gave them. For this sideshow in the break between BEST buses and auto rickshaws.
That’s what we Catholics thought. That the bugoo bugoo man was an end in himself. In his appearance and his performance. His jazz ballet jumps into mid air. But the Bugoo Bugoo man was the equivalent of Fr. Jerry. In the confessional. Where every Friday evening he would give us our penance and absolve all our sins. Including the way we looked at Miss Nigli, the science teacher. Even though we didn’t tell him that one. So you paid the bugoo bugoo man. If you were Hindu. And for all your sins he would whip himself. So that the punishment for your sins was borne by him. And you could go on looking at Miss Nigli.
The bugoo bugoo man still comes around. The woman with the drum too. The miniature bugoo bugoo man is gone. He probably figured that people were getting more virtuous or maybe they just didn’t care anymore. Or was the lure of that job as chowkidar too much.
It’s impossible to get a five year old to eat his porridge now. Choco flakes maybe. If you tell him the policeman will come and get him if he doesn’t. But a policeman cant't even touch the feet of the terrifying, God feared,Bugoo Bugoo man.

Curtain Call.

He was eighty two years old. Four children. Seven grandchildren. He loved them. They loved him. His one daughter much more than the three boys. Twenty two years of retirement. During which he'd taken his grandchildren to school most mornings. The collection in church on Sunday he'd stopped doing five years ago. He drank, a little. He smoked, a lot. And while men half his age were having angioplastys and bypasses.He smoked the Havana that his son had brought him when he got back from his last voyage.
Old ? Ha. A man is only as old as the woman he feels, he'd joke. But this year the monsoon had him feeling cold. Then he got caught in the rain. Luckily he'd dropped the kids to school already and was alone. Otherwise they'd have got wet too. A cold a cough. Two weeks on and no signs of it going away. Breathing was getting more difficult. Walking impossible. Soup. From the daughters-in-law. From the neighbours. They stopped the visitors because it tired him out to sit up.
A cigarette.
Not now. When you're better.
But he knew it wa'nt going to get better. But he did'nt say that.And they could'nt bring themselves to think that. So they moved him into hospital. A dish to pee into. No walking. A needle always in his arm. A tube down his throat. Strange faces. Strange food. The littlest kids were'nt allowed into the hospital. They must be wondering where he was.
The breathing got worse. Then it stopped. A ventilator. ICU . Even the bigger ones could'nt see him now. Well they could. But for five minutes only. And one at a time.
The lights in here were always on. The alarm bell that went off when the guy in the next bed signed out.
He heard his son tell the nurse. That this was no way to live.
And if he did'nt have the tube in his mouth he would have told him. Told him that this was no way to die.

Bangalored....

The days of the old family retainer are over. No more will we have butlers and chambermaids and footmen. Who am I kidding ? We never had butlers chambermaids and footmen. All we had was Fatima. Who was from the heartland of Goa and trying to save enough money for a trousseau. She lived with us. A little bedroll pulled out from under the cupboard after everyone else was in bed. A little suitcase to hold all that she owned in this big bad world away from home. But her job was soon made redundant. By Prema from Bihar. Which suddenly became Chattisgarh. But Prema got Bangalored too. Imperceptibly.With a washing machine from Siemens, a water filter from Aquagaurd, Leela bai the top woman, the Dhabba, from suppliers who changed every month. So Prema went back home too. The dhabba suppliers are now being Bangalored by Jimmies kitchen and Garcias Famous pizzas. The water filter by Bisleri [ 20 litre packs ] Leela bai by Kleen Homes.Bombays best Kleening Services.
Golden handshake ? For me ? I've worked here twenty years. I can't afford to live in Bandra on a pension. I'm moving to Bangalore.

From Dust thou Hast come and to Dust thou must return...

A hundred years ago a family sat down to lunch. Dessert was mango. The Mango seed {ok Bata } was dried. And then sprouted , then planted , then watered. It grew and it grew and it grew. So did the family. The four bedroom cottage was enough for six brothers and two sisters. But it wasn’t enough for the spouses that soon came along.
So down went the cottage and up came the building. The mango tree kept growing too. A shady spread across a road that just about featured on the map. But soon another cottage down the road came down. They needed more power lines. So they dug a little trench . A few roots of the mango tree were in the way. Re-route the cables. No way. A root here a root there they were sure it wouldn’t make any difference. It didn’t t. The mango tree still flourished.
The new flat owners on the sixth floor wanted a compound wall. The stray dogs came in through the barbed wire fence and were using the wheels of their new Ambassador as a lamppost.
Then came telephone cables. They couldn’t be next to the power cables. A whole new trench. The monsoon was causing a problem. All the open ground which used to absorb the rainwater wasn’t open anymore. Storm water drains. Yes. It worked. No more flooding.
Gas cylinders were on their way out. Piped gas was in. No more waiting in line at the gas agency. No more trying to highjack the delivery man when he was delivering a new cylinder to Mrs. D’souza on the second floor. Another trench. A root here a root there they were sure it wouldn’t make any difference. It didn’t . The old mango tree still flourished.
Internet access. Broadband , no less. Needs separate cabling. Far from the power lines which would cause data loss. Far from the gas line so that their was no risk of puncturing them during installation. Far from the storm water drain so that there was no chance of water getting into the junction boxes. Wow. We could video conference with JoeBoy in far away New Zealand. MP3’s of Sting’s latest and even whole movies. Internet radio.
The sewage lines kept getting choked. More flats. More people. More people more crap. More crap same drain. Same drain, Overflowing manholes. Bigger sewage lines. Problem solved. Some sort of root had actually come thru the concrete. Into the drain. Cut , clear, plaster.

A month ago a family sat down to lunch. Dessert was mango. The fruit of the tree in the garden. Each family in the building got an equal share. The last year each family got fifteen mangoes.. We must take some to Borivli when we go to visit the grandchildren.

A week ago a family sat down to lunch. The rains came early this year. Thunder and lightning. The storm water drains were over flowing. The damn municipality hadn’t cleared them . And for no apparent reason the mango tree keeled over. Damn. It uprooted a whole section of the compound wall. Telephone. Dead. Internet. Extremunction. Gas , turned off at the mains. Electricity. Dead. The sixth floor peoples’ new Octavia. Smashed. The lift shaft. Flooded.
Lets cut down both the neem’s and the jackfruit tree before they fall and cause even more damage.

The Via Dolorosa

On Pali hill tucked away between the high-rises is a lane that every body thinks goes nowhere. But it goes to Calvary. Or O’ Cavalario as it was known many moons ago. The approach in the old days was from the base of Pali Hill. And lining the pathway up to what was a private chapel were the fourteen Stations of the cross. So there amidst the trees and birds you could wind your way up the hill and meditate on the path Jesus took to Gethsemane. The really religious would crawl up the hill on their knees . On what was a mud path. Stopping at each station to read the meditation that went with it. Culminating in a mass said by Fr. Fonseca,[ whose family built the chapel] if they timed it right. There are garages and hutments between what used to be Veronica wiping the face of Jesus and Simon of Cyrenne helping to carry the cross. The chapel remains. It’s been deconsecrated so it remains a chapel only in name. The holy water fonts are still there. The insides been partitioned off to make a living room and bedrooms for more recent Fonseca progeny. But on a late Bandra night after the BEST buses have stopped plying their Dr.Ambedkar Road to Chuim route. And the kids on Pali hill have put their Hyabusas away for the day. You can almost hear the footfalls of the people from fifty years ago. Recreating a journey that happened more than two thusand years ago.

Guest writer... from a Bandra Aunty....aka Annabelle Ferro

CAUTION! YOU ARE ENTERING THE AUNTY ZONE

Anyone who has encountered a ‘Bandra’ Aunty will not forget her in a hurry. Spotted mostly at the ‘Big Bazaar’ – not at Upper Worli but Lower Bandra, she is usually marketing – not at Dalal Street but Chinckpokli Road. She is armed with an umbrella – okay, parasol if you wish, and carries a bazaar bag, usually picked up from Mapusa market.

But that’s just her look. Get past that and discover what she is all about. She’s a broker – usually fixing her ‘deals’ at the market or at a funeral. (You know what baba, Dolcie’s son is back from Dubai and is looking for a girl.) Or giving you market tips (Arre baba, Vincy’s potato-onions are much cheaper than here) Or announcing the FY 08 results (Wot to tell you, Flavia’s house went up for re-development and each flat got 30-30 lakhs!)

She’s adorable. You’d better believe it, especially when you’re cruising down Turner Road, your car volume playing happy Abba tracks, and a group of kids overtake you screaming – “Arre Aunty, go faster”. Or you’re at the Bhaji walla and he returns your change with a “Thank you Aunty”. Or a chakka accosts you at the signal saying “Aunty give Five Rupees”.

You wake up to reality – admit it, you are 40 plus and you have hit the ‘Aunty Zone’.

Armed with your Reeboks, a backpack, a baseball cap (I draw the line with the parasol bit), you decide you’ve got to act your age. You head for the Big Bazaar to bond with your fellow sistas.

You bargain for fish. You think you’re going to get a great deal. You envision yourself bragging about it to other aunties. Thrusting your palm at them saying – I got big big pomfrets for only 50 rupees a pair. When you decide to pick up some vegetables.

To feel younger amidst your kind, you choose a bhajiwallah that’s old and grey. He
respectfully loads your bag, returns your change. Then says, “Thank you Mummy”.

ANNABELLE FERRO
aberferro@gmail.com

To ER is Human

The first rains bring out all sorts of things from the woodwork. The first of them being the local football team. No field with turf. No open ground . Just the road. With two strategically parked cars forming one goal post and a stone and the watchmans chair forming the other. The game gets under way and in a sliding kick that's supposed to send the ball shooting into the goal, you hit the lamp post instead of the ball. 85 kgs of muscle fat and bone drives your ankle into a shape that God never intended it to be when it connects with lamp post steel. Even though the lampost base has been slightly corroded by Blackie, Bonzo, Champ and all their canine visitors. Does the game stop for you ? Ha ! The youngest player on the field [ i.e. most expendable ] is bundled with you into a rickshaw and you head to Holy Family Hospital . Up the ramp hobbling on one foot into the ER [ as it's known on TV ] or Emergency as it's known in very hospital in India from Breach Candy to Baba . By now your ankle could give the Bandra Fair baloonwallas a run for their money. But there's a line for treatment. An old man who has'nt crapped for four days and a little boy who's only been crapping for four days. A young girl who used a kitchen knife on her wrists intead of the potatoes. An old lady who also as a broken ankle.
Pathetic attempt at humor by the Doctor on duty.
" What Aunty you're also playing football "
Ha Ha.

So they examine your foot, collectively gasping ,these hardened residents of emergency. Damn that lamp post. You're now put into a wheel chair. Wheeled off to the Xray department. Where they have Kodak moments with your foot. By now Mummy Daddy and Nana are all in the hospital. Some kind soul deigned to go and inform them after the football game was adjourned for a lack of light.

Pain killers have sent you into a haze reminiscent of Saturday Bandra Gym nights post 10.00 p.m. A Doctor twists your foot back. Causing you much more pain than the lamp post caused. he looks happy. Either a sadist or the satisfaction of a job well done. Only time will tell. He plasters your foot from toe to thigh. Three weeks of bed rest. Single room, double room ? Just for two days.Ward says Dad. Single room says Nana. Dad wins. He's paying.

You think you've died and gone to heaven when you hear hymns at 6.00 a.m. the next morning. Over the PA system that you can't turn off.It's a catholic hospital. And this is what they do. The hymns soon lead into mass. And at the communion there's a prolonged silence. Until the door to the ward swings open to reveal priest with communion chalice in hand and Sister / Altar girl in tow. Breakfast in bed has nothing on this.
You hop into your wheel chair for the long ride home. You go past emergency where the line today seems even longer.The old man is back. Down the ramp. into a rickshaw. Back home. Where you sit at the window and watch the football game every evening and hope your ankle will heal soon.
And wafting up to you you hear those magical words
' Putru men Savio '

Roti Kapada Aur Makan

You’ve had the roti’s coming for a while now. The kapada has progressed from Flying machine jeans to genuine Levis and the makan has finally been paid for with all the EMI’s squared away. And old Maslow would have said the next need for your self fulfillment is a set of wheels. A used Maruti second hand is what you think your budget will stretch too. New ? No. After just having finished house EMI’s you don’t want to get started on car EMI’s.And the wife does’nt know how to drive anyway. So let her cut her teeth on gear shifts and driving with the handbrake on , on a car that does’nt demand thoroughbred care.
Every Thursday you pore throught the automobiles for sale section in the TOI. Like estate agents you soon find out that used car salesmen too have a code which is all their own. Slightly used, perfect condition, Paris owned [ A typo on the part of the ad booking agency when the seller wanted to say Parsi owned. ] Destroying visions of you having the same car that Paris and Rick used. Slightly used, [ in 1948, and probably never serviced since then ] . Perfect condition.[ If you hitch a pair of bulls to the front then yes it’s a perfect bullock cart.] ACTG. Relatively simple, AirConditioned with Tinted Glasses. Doctor owned. Because he took care of his patients does that mean he takes good care of his car? Company owned. Yeah, companies don’t stint on servicing and oil changes. [ But the MD’s sons could probably do Bandra to Marine Lines in 12 minutes flat at 3 in the morning when that car was new. ] Immaculate paint work. [ It actually is immaculate because the paint is all that’s holding the tin work together. ] And brand new tyres and brand new battery puts a lakh or more onto the price of a car that was brand new when Henry Ford decided to give the horses a run for their money. Fully Loaded. Two words when the seller is paying per word for the classified. To say that the car has radial tyres, power windows, Blaupunkt music system, Power steering, power brakes, and a buxom bikini clad blonde who pops out of the glove compartment to serve you tea on your way to work every morning.
Finally you find the car of your choice. Right colour [ Silver ] Right price.[ Within five digits ] Right condition . [ Let the wife wait a few years to learn to drive, this car has you feeling possessive already. ] So you break the bank and enchash your LIC policy and drive away happy. Back to your CHS.[ Co-operative Housing society ] where you have no parking. Stilt or open. Where the road that leads to your palace has round blue boards with red streaks across them for a hundred miles in each direction. All the neighbours want pedas. Buy the buggers stale pedas since it’s a second hand car. But God loves you. And Jo-boys stilt parking is empty ever since he sold the car before leaving for New Zealand. So you call up his uncle who has to wait for Jo-boys monthly call before authorizing you a roof over the head of your new [ ok New, second hand ] baby. The wife wants to know when you are going to demystify accelerator brake and clutch for her. She did chip in with her last years medical allowance that she had claimed with fake doctors bills and was saving for a new gold pendant. Tommorow, surely tomorrow.
The watchman is commissioned to clean and wash the car every morning.
Anthony at David’s Garage and Suspension works looks at the car and his face lights up. Time-share in Goa here I come.
You put in a music system. Only cassette player and radio. But theres an adapter cassette that you can use to connect your Discman to the system. The wife quickly gets the hang of sitting on a level plane over speed brakers and potholes to keep the cd’s from skipping.
Whats that burning smell ?
It’s from outside.
Hell, the handbrakes been on all this time.
I asked you what that red light was and you said “ Battery “
The Java is languishing .
That’s life mister. Maslow knew what he was talking about.

Conrad Curryisms !

1] If your cock lays an egg in my garden, who's egg it be's ?
Yours!
if you think a cock lays eggs.

2] NRBB { Non resident Bandra Bugger } at the Bandra gym at 7.00 p.m.
"Hey! How you doing ? Yeah! Have a good one ! "
Same NRBB at 10.30 p.m. just before the last drink order.
"Putru men bugger."

3] Fruit wallahs sell all fruit other than bananas and the guys who sell bananas sell only bananas and nothing else. { Conrad Curry did'nt say this but he could have }

Space Truckin'

Red barrel on two wheels pulled by a once proud bullock. Kerosene and ice , delivered by bullock cart. This does not make for happy bullocks. Where earlier a car was either a Fiat or an Ambassador they now have to accommodate Lancers and Jaguars and other equally dangerous to bovine missiles. They have to pull up at multiple traffic lights where till a few years ago they had the run of the road. To get a bullock cart [especially when it’s loaded ] into 1st gear from neutral is not anywhere as easy as moving a stick shift. In fact when the inertia of the vehicle starts holding up traffic the cart driver often has to use the tail shift. And where does a thirsty bullock go for water ? The piaos [water troughs ] that stood outside the market where bullocks and horses drank their fill gave way to road widening. The piao outside St. Andrews Church is now a heritage monument. [ Non Functional ] .
The ice has to be delivered. Soon. More out of necessity than a Domino’s type sales pitch. The kerosene is not so critical, so a detour to Bandra Talao for happy hours is not frowned upon. And then comes the day that every bullock dreads.
Getting a pair of new shoes has all the joy of going to the dentist. Your feet are bound together and then yanked out from under you. You come crashing down on your side. A chisel is required to get your old ,now worn thin shoes, off. And then new shoes that have you saying Just don’t Do It are hammered on. In quadruplicate.While every single person between Byculla and Bhiwandi with all their visiting cousins from Belapur stand around watching. Watching your fright and pain. Hopefully the new shoes will keep the new paving blocks from wearing your hooves out. They fill up the old pathways with tar and paving blocks and you got to worry about getting shoed.
Kerosene gives way to LPG cylinders which were easier to deliver on cycle carts. Which now rust near the gas agency thanks to piped gas. Ice now can come straight out of the fridge or delivered in neat little 1 kg bags.
So what happens to the bullocks ? Do they fade away ? No. They just die . At Deonar.

Care Of.., If we could all keep care Of., Care of everything we have.

Ganesh came to city. To the big city from a village far away. There he had a home, a father a mother, even a few cows. And with all of that an address. Here in the city he had nothing. No home and no address. But his second cousin twice removed did. So Ganesh shared his address. Not his home. Only the address. And twice a month he went to his cousin Ramu’s house. Where a letter came for him from his far away home. It had his name at the top. And then the all important… care of.
Ganesh.
c/o Ramu….
House no…….
Road no. ……..
………..
Mumbai 50.
Letter came and letters went. Then the neighbours son opened up his own PCO. So come Sunday morning he’d make his first call home. The village shopkeeper [ who also had a phone by now ] would send for Ganesh’s family. And 20 minutes later he’d call back. Because Ganesh was so far away in Bombay they had to talk really loud. The whole village privy to their conversation. That they would pretend not to have heard when Ganesh’s father filled them with the news of his sons doings. Soon Ganesh had a deal going with the PCO. Re.1 for all outgoing calls. 50p for all incoming messages. He now had a phone no. A Care Of no. It helped him get work. It helped him know when his mother started interviewing prospective daughters-in-law back home. It helped him let the village know that he’d been working as a painter’s assistant’s assistant three buildings away from Amitabh Bachans house.
Care Of does’nt exist anymore. Who needs an address ? Who needs a Care Of phone ?
Not Ganesh. He’s now 9820278021.

The Philosophy of Maya.

I have a sister who married and went to distant shores to seek her fame and fortune. Yeah yeah, she just followed her husband. Soon enough unto them a little child was born. And they named her Maya. Maya comes home to Bandra once in a while. Returning from a dosa at Balajis I pointed out St. Joesph’s convent. In all its brick red glory. With the mangalore tiles on the roof. With arched windows and long corridors. This building I told Maya was were her Mom went to school. She semi glanced at it and turned to me and said “ Who cares! “ Not ‘Why is it important ‘ Not ‘ don’t be a sentimental moron’. Not ‘ I’ve seen better and bigger ‘ But “Who care’s !” Not a question. A statement.
It opened my eyes to the baggage we carry. Some of it good some of it bad.
And for the bad. For petty jealousies. For someone who didn’t say hi to us . For someone who did’nt call us for their party when we always call them for ours. For the fruit walla who gave us bad mangoes after we’ve been buying fruit from him for twenty years. For the friend who borrowed that book and dog-eared it. For the neighbour who’s son wants to give Roger Drego a run for his money in the sound business. For the maid who takes Divali holidays in January. For the boss who thinks a pay packet buys your soul. For the Uncle who won’t give you the terrace keys. For the relative who did not remember you in his will…“ Who cares!
It’s a double edged sword this philosophy of Maya’s. It cant be used as an all encompassing philosophy. But once you get the power of discernment as to what’s important and what’s not.
“That’s when you can look your devil in the eye and say ‘Who cares’!

The Novena to Mrs. Savant.

Because you don’t pay attention in class. Or you have a single digit IQ. Or the Hindi teacher is on maternity leave and the French teacher is the substitute. Or you're the only person with a moustache other than Mrs. Lobo , the teacher. Or all of the above. You need tuitions. So your mother asks for the strictest or was it the most economical ok cheapest, tution teacher. makes a down payment and you lose two hours a week of play time.
Every Monday and Thursday you have to report to Mrs. Savant ( Hindi and Marathi ). you sit there trying to figure out the mysteries of another language. You don t really care about other languages. So what if its your national language. So what if it's your mother tongue ( if you're EI that is. All you want is to get that magic figure of 33 marks. They then give you two grace marks to reach that magic passing percentage of 35. So while Mrs. Savant tries to imbibe great literary attributes to stories you don’t even wish you cared about you keep looking towards the wall. That’s where the clock hangs. Present perfect and other tenses have you craving for the future. When you just might be able to get in a half hour of road hockey before it turns dark. And then adding insult to injury you are given tuition homework. Oh cruel world !
hockey today ? you'll be lucky if you can get a game in tomorrow. Did they make Marcellus suffer like this ? Or was he left free to practice dribbling and penalty strokes. It's Mrs. Savants fault I'm not going to be in the Indian hockey team for the LA Olympics in five years. And the first terminal exams come around and you don’t reach 33. You've just about made it from units to tens. If you'd plunged a knife into Mrs. Savants bosom you couldn’t have hurt her more. It's a personal failure. After all the practice tests after all the homework after all the answers she personally took up. Not one to linger over past defeats she gathers her forces. She has you reporting at 8 o clock in the morning. She’s sacrificed her morning cuppa to hold your hand on your text books. Michelangelo didn’t put so much of work into David. She asks her daughters to take your work up on the odd day that she gives something else more priority than she gives you,
Hockey ? It’s been sudden death for your hockey games. Your hockey stick is looking at you with despair. The last time he was used, was to kill a rat that dared venture into the staircase. Is that what The Indian Maharaja has come to ?
The exams come around again. Mrs. Savant has offered up her prayers for you to the whole pantheon of Hindu gods. Your Mother is saying flying novenas to the Infant Jesus. The Bania is happy because his candle sales have gone up.
How did you do ?
Good.
That’s what you said the last time and you failed.
No, this time I really did well.
Ha ! Lets see when the report comes.
And you wait for the postman. With bated breath. That’s a lie. The report is the last thing on your mind. With the summer club on. With swims at what passes for a beach at Carter road. But one day it arrives. The large brown envelope. With the school stamp on the back, telling you and the world that you’re born for greater things. [ For all the Non Stanislites our school motto was “ Born for greater things “ ]
And you’ve passed you haven’t just passed you’ve got a first class. In everything. And theirs a little note that says that you got the highest marks in Hindi in the class.
Thank you Infant Jesus but you know you really did’nt do even half as much Mrs. Savant.

and the living is easy...!

The exams are over. Its the best kind of double whammy. One , the exams are over. Two the holidays begin. No more books, no more uniforms, no more tutuions. There are books actually and depending on which stage of your life you were at, these were now either Archie comics or Desmond Bagleys, or Alistair Macleans, or westerns [ Sudden was and is the best ], or Asterixes or Lucky Lukes or TinTins and Phantom's or Mandrakes.
There were circulating libraries where you would sometimes be exchanging your comics twice a day if you could wheedle the ten paise per comic reading charge out of anyone. You hired your comics. You read them. Your siblings read them. And then you traded them. Who says we catholics don't have a streak of Bania in us ?
Cycle rides in the early morning would find us speeding down Pali Hill trying to manouvre our bikes with both hands in the air and adjusting our direction by subtle weight shifts in the seat. The building compound would have a badminton court marked out and the neighbour whose wall formed one of the boundaries of the court would be requested to keep her windows shut. So that the court conformed to International Badminton association specs. In size at least. Racquets were wooden framed and co-operatives were formed for the purchase of shuttle cocks. The only reason play was called to a stop was when those elders in flats that had a ring side view of the action felt their siesta was more important than the game of rounders that decided your place in the sun. The top of the water tank was our table tennis table. The water tank was partially under ground and about two feet came thru the earth to form a TT table that for anyone below fourteen was the perfect height.
Card games that Las Vegas will never know were played with a skill that Bandra Gym Card Room regulars never saw. Seven hands evolved into Mehndi Court. Money Money was banned between 2 and 4 in the afternoon because the game generated excitement and the excitement generated shouting and the shouting interfered with said elders said siesta. Rummy would sometimes be played with as many as ten packs . Sometimes before the time your were done dealing someone would have declared hand rummy. Donkey Donkey. Why was it always Donkey Donkey and not Donkey. Money Money and not Money. The guy who wrote Louie Louie must have been from Bandra.
Holidays were when summer clubs opened in every parish. Summer clubs that had a cupboard full of comic books that you could read as many times as you wanted. Which had access to real TT tables with real nets. And at the correct height. With chess and snakes and ladders and ludo. With school fields attached that were now devoid of students and the private domain of the members of the summer club. Thursday evenings a bedsheet would be hung up on one wall of the many out of use classrooms. Charlie Chaplin, Laurel and Hardy, Bud Abbot and Lou Costello would join us.
Pigeon shikar would happen so regularly that the surviving pigeons would be contemplating moving to Canada or New Zealand under the asylum seekers quota. Trips to the beach were yours for the asking. Or cycling. Dont go too deep. Dont track sand all over the house when you get back.
Guitar skills were honed. Songs were copied off record jackets. Piano and violin lessons came to a standstill. The Beatles ruled while Eta Cohen and John Thomson languished below the piano stool.
But all good things must end.. And April advances into May and May advances into June. And new text books are bought by your older brother. And your mother insists you put new covers on all his old text books that you have inherited. NO. just putting new labels wont do. The pants he's outgrown are the ones you've grown in to. Just like the pair of shoes one size too large that has cotton stuffed into the toes so that they don't slip off.
New school bags for every one. Even the maids son. Somebodie's old is someone else's new.
And school begins again . And the living stops being easy anymore.

The Nana of Spices.

Many many moons ago there lived in the village of Manori a girl called Emily Ferreira. She was from the largest house in the village called " The Big House ". There was even a special chair in The Big House for the Bishop who was a regular visitor. She enjoyed playing the violin. She enjoyed the parish feast. She enjoyed cooking .
And then from the mainland came a proposal. A proposal that would take her away from the island of Manori to Khotachiwadi. To another big house.To No.1 Khotachiwadi. Which she entered as the bride of Joesph Chaves. Where she started her family. Where she soon had nine children. Where she went to church everyday. Where her children went to school. Where they grew up. Where her children went to college. Where they got married. Where she went to the chapel for the roasary in the month of May.Where her husband died. Where she wondered how to stretch a rupee to pay for the college fees for the younger ones in her brood.To pay the taxes on a house fit for a king without being a king. The stables had already been rented out. The old servants quarters too. She the turned to what she knew best. Her own special hand ground masalas and her wine making. She'd always taken the tonga or the tram to Crawford market to get the freshest ingredients for her masalas and the best grapes for her wines. But now she made more than what she needed for herself. Much more. And she sold it. And that paid for the school fees, the uniforms, the college fees. For the Nurses training fees for her eldest daughter. Only to see her contract TB . And the weddings. One joined the convent. The ones who started working chipped in for those still in college.Her children got married. And soon they had children of their own. And thats when she became Nana.
The weekends were when the family would descend onto the old family house. Coming in from far away Bandra. To spend a Sunday. When Nana would take the cutlets out of the meat safe. The meatsafe with bowls of water in which its legs stood. To stop the ants from getting to the cutlets before we did. When she would have left the dough for the fugias to ferment overnight and would hand them over for instant consumption as she lifted them off the fire. Where the chicken for the came out of her chicken coop which was right next to her kitchen.
Seventeen grand children. The only time she sat down was to pray. When she would say seventeen decades of the rosary. One for each grandchild. When she saw the longing in a grandaughters eyes who saw somebody else with a game called Monoply. She went out a bought her one too. So what if the currency was in rupees instead of pounds. And the trading was for Bhendi bazaar and Churchgate instead of Trafalgar Square or Charing cross. She still made the masalas and she still made the wines. And she'd still be sold out before evryone who wanted them got as much as they wanted. And her house always smelt magical. With the mustiness of old cupboards. In which lurked old blotters and mortuary cards. With sausages hung to dry from kitchen beams. With wine and fugia dough fermenting. With a grandfather clock that tick tocked right thru the house. A balcony big enough to play badminton in. With windows so large and so many that in kite flying season kites would come sailing in. With drumstcik and loveapple trees that gave fruit expressly for her grandchildren. With wooden floors that would be polished till the mirrors in the house were redundant. Rooms that were so big that when an extra bedrooom was needed all that was needed was a partition. With bathrooms that you had to walk so far to get to that when you reached them you'd almost forgotten why you'd started out in the first place. Tenants who lived in the old stables and made the best puranpolis in the world.
She loved Laurel and Hardy comics. She would tell our parents not to be so strict with us. She would always have an envelope for us on our birthdays. And we'd be looked upon with envy by other kids because we were Auntie Emil's grandchildren.
She did'nt get a day older in the twenty odd years of my life before her death. One day she was there, and the next day she was'nt.
All her life, she did not go gently into that still night. She raged, she raged with all her might.

Go west young man, go west !

The life line of Mumbai is its railway line. carrying it's minions along is length and its breadth. Figuratively speaking, because Mumbai doesn’t really have a breadth. On either side of this great divide are home's and people. Just a stone's throw away from each other [ especially if you're a budding Shiv Sainik ] but a world apart for everyone else.
So the saabs and memsaabs on Pali hill [ Bandra west ] employ servants and drivers ok ok maids and chauffeurs from LIG colony [ Bandra East ] LIG ? Low Income group. MIG colony . middle income group at the reclamation [ Bandra West ]. In Bandra east you have chawls in Bandra west you have colonies. the difference ? About Rs.15000 per square foot. Bandra [w] got it's Joggers park. Bandra [e] houses Bal Thackeray. Bandra [ w ] has Olive. Bandra e Highway Gomantak. Bandra [w] has Pot Pourri. Bandra [e] has highway Gomantak. Bandra [w] has Out of the Blue. Bandra [e] Highway Gomantak.
So what do you do when you are chucked from the nest and the real estate surrounding the nest costs way more than HDFC HKB or even Citizen Bank is willing to give you. Do you think of going to Bandra [e]? No ! You move to either Malad or Borivli or Missisagua or Sydney and if all else fails Dubai.
You go there for concerts crossing the great divide of the railway line. You go there for exhibitions at the wide open spaces around the Bandra Kurla complex. You even go there to work with Citibank or IDBI. If the size of your wallet exceeds the size of your brain then you even send your kids to the American school or the Dhirubhai Ambani school. A heated pool and airconditioned classrooms ? I digress.
And when you ask someone where they live and they say Bandra, its assumed Bandra [w]. Because people in Bandra [e] don’t say Bandra for their mulluk. They say Behrampada, or artists colony or LIG colony.
Is it because Bandra [w] was here first. All those hundreds of years ago when the Kohlis hung around Danda and Chimbai. When Bandra [e] was a swamp and the water birds really did nest in what would later become the Salim Ali bird sanctruary ?
So as long as the railway stays on the ground theres a line that stays in our heads. And East stays East and West stays west and never the twain shall meet.[ R. Kipling ]

Mother Tussads

When you need something, you ask for it. When you need something really badly you go up to the Mount. Where you are then beseeched by all the stall owners near the gate to patronise their stall. There arrayed in wax before you are legs ,hands,hearts,houses, ships,books and an oddly shaped flat piece of wax. lungs you're told.Your need determines your purchase.Legs and hands are simple. Hearts get more complicated. Do you give a heart when all the fat from the goa sausages and pork chops has made an angioplasty imperative.Or do you give a wax heart in the hope of Sandra giving you hers ?
Houses are wax gingerbread cottages complete with sloping roof chimney and wicker gate. All we want Mother Mary is a two BHK in either Nirmala colony, Little Flower, Virendra colony, Salcette society or St.Sebastians. And if not a 2 bhk then a 1 bhk and if not even that then we'll settle for a one room kitchen that we'll convert to a 1 bhk.
Joe boy cant decide wheter to try for the job with the cruise liner or wait for his New Zealand immigration to come thru. He decides to keep himself covered and buys the wax boat. War and peace does not have the literary weight of the wax book on display. Is it for the success of your next book. Ha ! For Ms. Rowling maybe. Mundanely the book is only for your success with Navneets twenty one question sets. The oddly shaped shaped lungs you'll hopefully never have to buy and patches will therefore hopefully never appear on your real lungs. Damn those four squares and charminars and sometimes wills.
Babies. Take your pick, male or female. If the good lady of the mount answers your prayers and sends the stork to your house you're praying she'll know that the wax dolls looks are not what you have in mind for any future progeny. Otherwise you're moving to Elm Street. There are wax bats and balls for future Sachins to give. There are cars and there are motorcycles. Ratan Tata,s nano is going to destroy this market segment. And there are planes. Big demand. Future airhostesses, sorry, cabin crew, future pilots, future Richard Bransons.
And then theres a whole grab bag of stuff whose petitioning is covered by candles. A crotchety mother-in-law, a crotchety daughter-in-law, a promotion at work, pre-mature ejaculation [ pre viagra days these ] , that the sensex hits 20,000 soon. New Zealand , Canada, Australia.
And on a recent visit my daughter Aalia discovered they don't have wax puppy dogs. So she made do with a candle until she gathers enough wax drips to mould her own .

Red light !

In front of me is a taxi. Usual Bombay yellow and black. Held together with rust a hope and a prayer. There’s a tin trunk on the roof. In the front passenger seat sits a man. On the edge of the seat. He doesn’t seem comfortable in the taxi. In the back seat sits his wife and two children. One of them is standing up and looking out thru the rear window. Suddenly right below her on that panel between back seat headrest and rear window lights up the brake light. It confuses her for a moment. She blows hard at it ,and in a second it’s off, as the driver takes his foot off the brake. And so it goes on. Every time the light comes on, she blows hard at it until it goes off.
The only light she’s ever interacted with on a personal level has been fire light. She’s never thrown a switch to see a distant bulb spring to life. On construction sites and road widening projects food still gets cooked over a wood fire or a kerosene stove. They’re probably headed to VT. To catch a train to those places where the poverty line is more than just a statistic. Far away from this place where if she didn’t blow the fire out her whole family would go up in flames.

Elvis has left the building.

A low twang. Bits of cotton fluff left over from the last commision fly into the air. He walks down the road with his oversized guitar. That he uses to fluff out cotton. You give him a flattened down cotton mattress. He carefully opens out the seam. Gets the cotton out onto a widespread sheet. He airs the cotton . Catching sunbeams. And then gets his string twanging. There's a rhythm he builds up. Pluck string throw cotton onto string. Pluck string, throw cotton onto string. And soon he's lost in a haze of lightly fluffed cotton. That gets fluffier and fluffier and takes longer and longer to float back to the ground. He tensions the string as the cotton gets looser. The pitch of his instrument goes higher. Till the cotton is lighter than air. He stuffs the cotton back into the mattress. Collects his money and leaves the building.
And that night even if there was a pea under the mattress you'd never have felt it. Ever.

The dice was loaded from the start...

Once upon a time there lived a boy. And a girl. They fell in love. They wanted to be together forever. Married ? Said the boys mother. But she's a Goan. Married ? Said the girls mother. But he's an East Indian. Wasters ,said both the mothers. You know how that community is, all they do is party and drink. Said both mothers. They dont even know how to make sorpotel. Said both mothers. They work as clerks and secretaries said both mothers. Might as well be a Hindu or a Muslim or even a Mangalorean said both mothers.
So the boy and the girl listened to their mothers. They went their seperate ways. And one day they each got married. And they both lived unhappily ever after.

I'm leaning on a lamp post...

We have roads. Our roads need light when the sun sets . So we have lamposts. The salubrious air of Bombay corrodes said lamposts. Said lamposts need painting. Along comes a silver man. Silver from head to toe. Literally. Because shoes do not for a successful shimmy up a lampost make. His barefootedness exposes his silver toes. He has a once brown rope thrown in a coil over one shoulder. A bucket of paint hanging from the other. He,s up the lampost in less time than it takes for the dog at its base to state its territorial claim. He hauls his bucket up and loops the rope at the top. A dip of the brush' a dab of silver on the post and a few drops drawn by gravity to right below the brush begin giving his coat a new coat of silver. He works his way down , a stroke of paint at a time. All that stops him from being monochromatic are his eyes. He's run out of post. His feet are back on the ground .He coils his rope, picks up his bucket of paint and moves on to the next lamp post. A tin man with twinkling silver toes moving along his own yellow brick road .

Even a stone wants to be more than just a stone !

In the movie As good as it gets Jack NIcholson has this phobia about stepping onto cracks in the side walk. Ha ! Here we have a phobia about stepping INTO the cracks in the sidewalk. When there is a sidewalk. But on the way to school with a heavy bag and a heavier heart we always sought to make light of the journey. Knowing that there was only enforced confinement at journeys end. So how do you make a ten minute walk to Dachau fun. You emerge from your gate and look for a stone. Smoothly rounded off. Not so large that it wont roll when you kick it. Not so small that you scrape your shoes when you kick it. And you then give it a little kick. To roll it ahead of you. It has to stay out of the gutter. It has to stay away from parked cars. At least not go so far under them that your leg cant reach to kick the stone out. You get onto a roll. Kick walk ten paces kick. Kick walk ten paces kick. Oh if life was so smooth. But then comes the crossing. you have to navigate across Turner road. Past the wheel of the bus that go round and round and cars and motorcycles and scooters and cycles. With a kick to your stone that will take it past this obstacle course to a spot on the other side where you wont lose it amongst other stones that wait to grab your special stone into their cloak of anonymity. If you dont kick it hard enough it halts midway and then you got to try and get it moving again with a kick on the run while car drivers question your anatomical make up with regards to your butt and your brains. From there its smooth sailing down Pali road . Until you reach Hill road and the portals of the Jesuits loom large before you. Traffic to the right of you, traffic to the left of you. But into that valley of death rolls your little stone. You mistime the kick and a bus crushes your stone returning it to the dust it came from like a good Catholic. And while you look for it in vain the driver, in the car following the bus, yells bad things about your mother and sister . And you know that many years in the future Mrs. Chawla would feel as desolate for her daughter Kalpana as you do for your stone who wanted to be more than just a stone.

Tennis Anyone ?

Archie and Jughead would be nice to Veronica’s Dad so that he would let them use his pool and tennis court. We would nice to everyone [when our parents were around]. But nobody let us use either pool or tennis court. Because nobody had one. If you wanted to go swimming you jumped into the sea at Carter Road. Or waited for school to organize a trip to the Mahatma Gandhi swimming pool at Dadar. With it’s always broken down filtration plant. With frogs that jumped out of your way while you emulated Mark Spitz. { tried to.} With showers that left you feeling grimier than when the trickle of water first emerged. Then St. Stanislaus opened their pool. Which had been shut down aeons ago. Because someone was supposed to have died in it. And quickly shut it down again because water was too scarce. So between the time that St. Stanislaus shut down their pool and the Dmonte Park recreation centre opened their’s [ approx. twenty years.] We played Gilli dandu. Gilli dandu and seven tiles and Atti Patti and Jack and the monkey and blind mans buff when it rained. Up and down the staircase with acrobatics normally seen only in Apollo or Gemini circii.
Tops and marbles. Tops for which we made flat spikes. A spike being the point your top spun on. We’d take carpentery screws to Bandra station. Place it on the track and wait for a passing train. The train would have flattened out the head of the screw. Leaving the threads intact. It would have also sent the screw flying and you had scout for the screw between tracks and passing trains while doing your best to stay out of the cupboard near the cycle stand.You then filed the flattened edge down to a knife like sharpness. This was then threaded into your top. And when you cracked you top down on your opponents tops, it would split them like a ripe mango that slipped thru the jowla. { Net bag used for catching mangoes } .
Marbles we could play at home.[ When grounded]. Cement tiles were easy enough to make a gull in. A gull being the hole into which you had to get your marble from a pre determined distance. You could only play marbles when Mummy was asleep or out. We’d drilled the gull below the sofa. And the inhabitants of Alcatraz would have been proud of our skill at concealment.
We’d play table tennis on the dining table. With books opened out on edge to form the net. War and Peace made for a good section of the net because it held up to hard smashes. The Readers Digest’s tended to foldover with even a little topspin. If you stamped the ball it squashed. To unsquash it you had to boil it. God help you if the powers that be found you using the milk chatti for this.
Your place at the game was determined by a game of rounders. Which had to be played without waking parents who were indulging in a Sunday afternoon siesta. So you ran around the table on tippy toes. Trying to keep the ball in play longer than assorted siblings and neighbours. Neighbours whose dining table was positioned against the wall or who had that all time classic . The folding dining table. The Wibledon open was never as keenly contested . The only reason play would be abandoned would be if the squashed ball refused to come unsquashed and all the water in the milk chatti evaporated.

Somebody stole my Bike !

Parked the bike on St. Pauls Road last evening. 8.30 in the evening. Lots of traffic from Hill road towards Perry road. Went to see a friend. Got back at 9.30 after having imbibed some smooth rum. No bike. This is not the old Java that Johnny Mario made into a lean mean killer machine. But my almost new Avenger. Am I looking in the right place ? Did I forget where I parked it ? Is somebody playing a prank on me ? Did I have too much rum?Went into all the roads close by. Asked sleepy watchmen if they’d seen my easy rider . Then went home and got the bike papers with engine no. chassis no. etc. etc. and headed to the cop station. Cop said maybe it’s been towed. So headed on to the RTO station . No bike. Back to the cop station . Registered my loss. Silver Avenger. Value Rs.70,000. No. MH-O2-AS-2661. Chassis no. MD2DGDVZZMCK02638. Engine no. DVGBMK16923. The cop kept getting interrupted by a woman who was screaming at this man that the cops would settle him now. Then they were interrupted by somebody complaining about the noise from the Bandra Gym republic day dance. It was 11.30 p.m. by now. Cop promised to put it out on the wireless and all the naka bandhis would be watching out for my Avenger. Yeah! Sure! Screaming woman took my vacated seat and launched into a tirade that would have been interesting if my bike was’nt MIA. Took a rick home. My wife says don’t look on this as a sign from God to buy an Enfield.. And that’s the silver lining.


BIKE RECOVERED
24 HRS LATER. Drove down Chimbai revisiting the scene of the crime. And there parked forlornly against a tree was my bike. Wires stripped out for hotwiring. Fuel tank close to empty. One turning indicator damaged. Nothing Johnny Mario cant fix. Wife says it's her prayers to St. Anthony that got the bike back. If it is . Thank you St. Anthony. Went to the police station and cancelled the complaint so that the cops don't arrest me for driving my own bike. This morning went for a long ride on the Reclaimation promenade to celebrate the Return of the Avenger.

No space on the loft and Steve Jobs is responsible..

Our language is English. Our religion is Christianity. Our grandmothers are Portugese. [ If you’re Goans i.e. ] . Our music ? If you were born Catholic every Non Catholic assumed that there two things you could do well for sure. That you could sing and that you could dance. Whatever you did music was some part of your day. The early morning when you tuned in to Radio Ceylon. Yes Sri Lanka now Ceylon then used to have more English music than all of India. So you had an antenna on your roof. Copper wire that went around the four corners of a wooden frame in ever diminishing squares. You put the radio on and waited two whole minutes for the valves to warm up. Static [ the crackle you got from shortwave radios ] interspersed the music to come up with compostions that improved on the original. On Sunday afternoons you tuned in to the Binaca Hit Parade. One of two English music programmes that AIR [ All India Radio ] broadcast all week. There was the odd broadcast of Rachmaninoff or Tchaikovsky at an hour way past bedtime when no self respecting Hindustani musician would be at the AIR studios. [Most regional broadcasts were live ]. Old Parsees tuned in for Tchai with their brun maska.The second programme was Saturday date. A request and dedication programme. Where you had to mail in your request which was always ignored but the dedication they read over the AIR. Too many request too little time. So Uncles celebrating wedding anniversaries were clubbed together with Joe Boys 16th birthday and both of them were made to listen to Your’e Sixteen you’re beautiful and you’re mine.
If you were from the privileged classes [ rich i.e.] then your Dad had a record player. With the logo of a dog singing into the gramophone horn. Only he was allowed to touch the player. And the records. Delicate stuff. One slip of the needle and the record was marred for life. So the music you listened to was the music he listened to. Soon the record player was on the loft. And pride of place was given to the cassette player. Cassettes onto which you could actually record your own voice. Cassettes onto which you could record music from someone else’s cassettes. Cassettes onto which you could record the Binaca Hit Parade and play it back whenever you wanted. But once in a while the tape from the cassette would get pulled out. You had to retrieve it. Cut out the wrinkled section. Then use your fevicol or Mom’s nail polish to splice the broken ends together. John Lennon would then have daylight saving time on A hard days night. You used head cleaner fluid to clean the tape head and vodka when you ran out of head cleaner. And debated endlessly whether vodka was a better head cleaner than gin. The coloured spirits were all out because they were supposed to leave a residue. And then came CD’s and the cassette player soon took the place of the record player which was handed over to the Jaripurana walla. But you still needed head cleaner , for the CD lens. But you could now use Smirnoff instead of Romanov.
Then Apple invented the Ipod and now the Smirnoff goes into a glass instead of the CD player and the Jaripurana walla does’nt even want the old cassette player . Which you’re getting rid of to free up loft space for the CD player.

R.I.P.

To get to college we used the train, to get to the train we used a cycle. At the point of transition in our modes of transport we needed a place to park our cycle. Right opposite the Bandra Station Falooda walla is the entrance to the cycle stand. We’d wheel our cycle into this gully because there were always too many cycles coming and going to be able to ride in. Halfway down this path was a cupboard. Built into the wall. A simple cupboard 7 ft. x 7 ft. with a shelf running thru at the middle. Two shutters that had no catch to keep them closed . They’d be swinging in the breeze.
If you’d mistimed the oncoming train in your leap between platforms, or were crossing between trains when one of them decided to take off, or your head came to close to the electric pole between Khar and Bandra, this is where you ended up. Wrapped up in a sheet that gave recycling a whole new meaning. You’d make the sign of the cross as you went past if the cupboard was occupied. A sigh of relief if it was’nt. A prayer if both shelves were full.
And the next morning scanning the news paper you would see.
An unidentified male youth was run over at Bandra station. Wearing blue pants and white shirt at the time of the accident. Police are making efforts to identify the deceased.
You’d seen the blue pants peeping thru the rust colored sheet yesterday. He’d been gone by the time you got back from college. One day you’d be able to walk past the cupboard without caring wheter it was empty or full. Or even thinking to your self that ‘ that’s life’ or is it death.

Mama's don't let you babies grow up to be ...Mama's

As soon as Johnny Mario had fixed my Java I hit the road with not a care in the world. Not bothered about the famines in Ethiopia or the falling numbers of the Catholic church or even the rising numbers of the Emmanuel prayer group. When from the end of the leafy road I was cruising along emerged a Mama. , Yes a Mama in full regalia of khaki pants, white shirt, blue cap , red mouth ,( Paan ) blowing his whistle at me and waving me to a stop. I had my license, I had the bike papers, I had’nt run anyone over, I had’nt cut a one way. Or so I thought. The previous night some one had changed St. Cyrils Road to a one way. Or a No Entry depending which way you were headed. So the sneaky old Mama was making a killing. He took me to the head of the road and pointed out the No Entry sign ,[ the paint was still wet ]. And asked for my license. Glaring at me for being the criminal I was.
The fine for cutting the one way was a hundred rupees. So he whipped out his receipt book and asked me what I wanted to do. Multiple choice time.
a ] Pay up Rs.100 and be issued the ticket.{ I didn’t have the Rs. 100 so a] was out.}
b ] Hand over my license and retrieve it from the police station when I had Rs.100.
Then with an smile and a pat on the back to make me feel like his favourite nephew he explained option c ] .
With options a] and b] no credit would accrue to him or to me. Only the Government . And everbody knows that they don’t need any more money. Option c] Chai Pani.
On a fine of Rs. 100 he was willing to let me of the hook for Rs. 50. No receipt of course. But no trouble for me to go to the chowkie. No danger of my license getting misplaced on the long route from St. Cyrils Road to the chowkie. No trouble for anybody really. He didn’t help everyone like this. But he could see I was an honest guy. And how was I expected to know that overnight NO ENTRY was the new status of ST. Cyrils road. But I didn’t even have Rs. 50. So how much money did I have? Rs. 20. Twenty bucks. His sneer was heard all the way in Matharpackady. So he left me waiting while he wrote out tickets for some more unfortunates who were breaking the new No Entry. They paid their fine and were soon on their way. He came back to me and asked for the Rs. 20. He gave me my license back and told me to be more careful in the future. I got back on and headed back up St. Cyrils to take the long road home .

Lets go fly...!

A piece of paper, a few broom sticks [ from the stick broom not the grass type.]and some string. Put them together with a boy from Bandra and you have avionics that rival NASA.You pasted the paper onto the stick frame in what approximated a square. The paper had to be fine tissue papaer but if push came to shove even newspapaer would do. And then you tied a Kuni. One up zero down. Thats one finger measured horizontally above the upper connection of string to kite and and none at the lower end. Kite flying is not a spectator sport. The person who drew the short straw [ i.e. the smaller one who could be bullied ] was given the kite to hoist. He took the kite twenty odd metres away ,faced into the wind and when you yelled at him he would leap into the air and throw it as high as he could. Houston, we have lift off. If the flier didnt co-ordinate his hauling in of the string , ok Manja,, it was many attempts before the apple fell away from the ground. When it did the hoister had to charge back to the flier and stand a few paces upwind of him with the firki at the ready. [If you have to ask what a firki is go listen to Britney Spears.] He had to be ready to give deel. I.e. feed out the manja as your kite soared higher and higher. You had to get it between the telephone and electric wires. Then past the odd branch of the drumstick tree and finally past the television antennae that were the final gaurdians of the gates to the open skies.Then you got older and just flying a kite was not enough. Your manja had to have the finest glass on it to make it the sharpest. Your kite had to be reponsive to little flicks and tichkis for aerial sorties. Your point man who held the firki had to be tuned in to you to know when you wanted deel and when he had to lapete. You engaged in aerial combat [ ok Lugees]with squadrons of the Luftwaffe, from the buildings down the road. Jockeying for supremacy of the skies. Climbing high into the sun so that with one fell swoop the manja of lesser mortals gave way leaving their kite slowly floating away on the breeze. With a flood of chokra boys running after it. Waving long sticks with a twig tied at the end to ensnare the vanquished. And when you where vanquished you hauled your precious manja in as fast as you could before it snagged on the antennae or telephone cables or trees that you had skillfully manouvered thru on your way out. Your firki had to be in the hands of a master, to stop the manja you reeled in becoming one big gotala. This master would turn around and keep the tension on the manja by letting it pass between his legs while he spun the firki with both hands at a speed of twenty frames per second or more. Yeah I should have just said a blur of motion.The gurus of kite flying would engage in a lugee, slice their opponents with a skill that made Jack the Ripper look like Mr. Bean ,then capture the fallen kite in mid-air by entwining their manja with the trailing manja of the loser and then haul both kites in thru the maze . Skill ? The progeny of Neil Armstrong and Sunita Williams could'nt do it. With joint parentage . You have to be born in Bandra for that.

For any clarifications on the terminology pl address comments to Karl. [My cousin] whose Dad, my Uncle Giles taught me how to fly a kite. And who with his brothers Sylas and Elliot are among the afore mentioned Gurus.

Mango fruity, fresh and juicy.

In the beginning was the word and before the word there were open fields and trees. The owners of the trees fiercely guarded their right to partake of the fruit of their trees. They protected their trees form thieving kids [ i.e. us ] with large sticks and dogs that foamed at the mouth and wanted to bite into us with as much enthuiasm as we wanted to bite into their owners mangoes or jambuls or perus. So partaking of the fruit of the earth that God thru an oversight [ In the days before Google Earth ] had planted in the neighbours compound was not easy. It was fun and exciting but not easy.
The closer the tree to the house the sweeter and riper the fruit. The trees further away, beyond eyesight and earshot were easy pickings. so mangoes that had not come to full term and perus that were just barely enjoying their gauva youth were culled before they could ripen into mature adults. We'd fool ourselves into believing that these sour buds were actually tasty. The quantity of salt and chilly powder that went onto them to make the fit for human consumption would have softened shoe leather. While the peripheral fruit trees had been stripped bare the ones closer to the owners eyes would be bending over as the fruit ripened. Sorties would be planned between the time the owner went of for daily mass and his wife got back from her sodality meeting. Between his afternoon Sunday lunch and his 4 oclock tea,[siesta time i.e. ]. The breeze had to be blowing downwind of the dog. If he smelt thieves in his coumpound would break into a frenzy of barking that would have woken the dead in far away Haines Road cemetry. Jams ,jambuls, karvandas, boras, owlas, imlees, our cup ranneth over. But thru all our mauruding efforts there would still be enough left over to ripen. That the owner would pluck and some of which his wife would put into a bowl with a doily over it and send to Mummy. And they would lie in the fruit bowl untouched for days . Because stolen fruit really is the sweetest.

Please come home for Christmas.

Christmas is the time for peace on earth and goodwill to all men. The Christmas lunch is the time for strife and marital discord. Midnight mass has been uplifting. The choir outdid themselves. The sermon was short and therefore sweet. The full moon shining down just added to the magic of Christmas night. And we managed to put behind us for a little time the big fight. About wheter Christmas lunch was at Mummies house or Mummies house. It normally goes in rotation. This year the in'laws house, next year Mummies house. But then visiting children who have come down for the first Christmas in five years or grandparents who are not going to be around next year queer the pitch. And going over for dinner is just not the same thing. It's like a matinee show, backwards. Or a pit stop on the way to the Gym for the dance. Going over the next day for lunch is like watching BenHur on your Ipod. Though the chicken curry does taste better.
Many years later the balance of power subtly shifts. Mummy and Daddy and Mummy and Daddy all come over to your house. The requisite phone calls come in from Sydney, Missisauga and California. You wonder. Did we really sulk at each other for three days because of Christmas lunch ? Over a chicken pretending to be a turkey.
Now we're older and wiser. No we are'nt. Circumstances just make us seem that way. One day we'll learn that it's all about peace at home and goodwill to Mummy and Daddy [ -in-law ] too.

I went to see my Darling ...

... last Saturday night.
He comes around thrice in the year. At late evening. A child in tow. The child and he both singing out loudly. His harmonium struggling to keep pace. Many years ago a woman would come around with him singing while he only played the harmonium. She has'nt been around for a while. Did she go back to the village. Did she join a call centre ? He isn't begging. He's an entertainer. He sings a song for you and if you like it you pay him. In old clothes, or old toys and sometimes money.
Come Christmas time, he visits Bandra. When peoples hearts grow large and their purse strings loose. His repetoire is largely Hindi film based. Yeh Kali Kali Ankhe, gets evrything he's got. No orchestra backing him , or studio editing to cancel out mistakes. Just his whole heart and his soul.
Where did he learn his signature tune ? Where did he learn to play the harmonium ? Where does he come from ? Where does he go? And for how many years more will we see him ? Before he joins the ranks of the barbers who came around on Thrusday morning to give us our haircut. The gas lamp lighters who came around every evening to light the street lamps. The Kalai wallahs who set up their bellows in the compund to kalai our hundis. The soori dar wallahs with their energy efficent cycles. The list goes on, hopefully he will too.

There's an Old Christmas e-mail !

In far away Mississauga they wait for the first snow to herald the oncoming of the Christmas season. In Bandra we wait for the first Christmas card. The postmen would gear up for the extra load. The post office would issue press statements asking you to post your cards early. To bear with them if the delivery of your cards was late. There were Papal postal seals issued specially for Christmas with which you sealed your envelopes. In school for the last art class before the Christms holidays we had to draw a Christmas card. The postman would deliver your mail to the door. Personal mailboxes were for Americans. The postmans Christmas baksheesh depended on this. The foreign stamps would be steamed of the envelope to put into your stamp album. Duplicates were put aside for day trading. The cards brought with them pictures of snowmen and stables, reindeer and wisemen, sometimes pictures of distant cousins of whom this annual picture was all you ever saw of. Handmade cards from those who thought themselves artists. Nativity scenes with Mother mary in a saree for the local touch. All the cards would be strung up from special card holders. Streaming down one corner of the room. Or spanning the doorway from living room to kitchen. Or placed upright on the piano. You always had a few blank cards to spare. To reply to the card that came in from somebody you had'nt sent a card to. The musical cards would tingle Jingle bells when you opened them. We looked at those , convinced that if the country they came from made this then it couldnt be much more diificult for them to put a man on the moon. The batteries of these cards would be over long before Christmas, thanks to the constant demos of the magical musical cards ability to every visitor including those to the neighbours house who would be brought over to see this marvel of science and technology. [ This was in the pre Made in China days ]. There were 3D cards that would come from Japan. [ I still don't know how they do it ? ] But the cows and donkeys and Baby Jesus in them were as real as real could be. There were fold out cards that had the crib popping out at you as you opened the card. Or Santa taking off out of the card as you unfolded it. The really nice ones we'd use as Cristmas decorations. The average ones we'd cut up for gift tags next year. There would be cards from Aunt's who lived down the road and whom you would see at midnight mass and personally wish.
Then came the global village and the world wide web. The postmans bag gets lighter every year. His baksheesh demands are half hearted. The telegram wallah has thrown in the towel and does'nt even come around anymore. And Gentleman Jim is going to be singing
' There's an Old Christmas e-mail ...'

Break Dancing !

There was a long break and a short break. In school. The short break was 15 minutes. 11.00 o'clock and the bull pens would open. 2000 boys would descend ontp the playgrounds. There was a front ground [ in front of the school ] a back bround [ guess where ? ] and The Rev. Fr. Donnelly Gym. The building was three stories high. Yet 15 minutes was enough to skip to the loo, buy your batata wada ,or wada pav if you had the extra bullion. Then get into a game of tops or marbles or even a quick game of football or hockey. The first bell would go off to reverse the exodus. By the second bell 5 minutes later all 2000 of us would have made it back to our classrooms . Where we'd wait , [ whats the opposite of eagerly ? ] for the teacher to appear.
At 1.00 o'clock the bell for the lunch break would go off. we'd charge down the stairs. Cycle home. Have lunch. Cycle back to school and continue the hockey game that had been brought to an abrupt end in the short break. Some of the rich kids had servants , the others had mothers who would bring a dabba to school for them. They'd repair to the lunch room. Not having to commute for food they'd have a head start over the others at the grounds. The 12 pillars on which cricket wickets could be drawn with chalk would have been appropriated by these fattened little emperors before we'd even been told to wash our hands before eating at home. Soon everybody would be back and on the ground. There were two goal posts, one at either end of the field. Which did service for the ten odd games. Together. So you had to remember the color of the ball of the game you were a part of. Five goalies would all be covering the same goal at the same time. While trying to get control of your ball you had to stay away from the others especially if you were in the sixth standard and the other games were the seventh ,eight ,ninth and tenth standards. There was never any audience participation , because there was no audience. Everybody was a player. The bell to signal the end of the lunch break would go off at 1.55. And 2000 boys who could get from class to playground in 25 seconds flat would take at least 5 minutes to reverse the process. Until 3.45 when the bell signalling the end of the days torture went off. And then we'd better our time of class to playground by three seconds at least.

Massacare of the Innocence !

We were at midnight mass last year.Standing on the grounds of St. Andrews. The choir harking us to listen to heralding angels. When Mahia [ My now eight,then seven year old daughter] tugged at me and excitedly told me that she saw him. Who? Santa. She saw Santa flashing through the night sky above Bandra in his sleigh pulled by reindeer. Her eyes sparkled with excitement and she was sure he was headed to our place to drop her Christmas present off.
Every year she'd missed him. She'd fallen asleep to find Santa had visited and left. There below the tree were the presents she'd wanted.
She knew that the Santa's that she saw at Christmas parties or the mall or with carol singers were just actors. The real Santa was the one she always missed. Until now.
A year went by. She came back from school one day and asked me " Is there a Santa ? "
Why? Because her teacher told her that there is no real Santa. The great big Santa conspiracy that every parent is a part of was exposed. I'd fooled her these eight short years.
Mary saw the angel Gabriel. The shepherds saw choirs of angels with the heavens unfolded. The three wise men saw a star. On St. Andrew's grounds on that Christmas night I saw Santa.
Was it a fire cracker? A stray shooting star ? A welding arc on one of the highrises ? Maybe. But thru Mahia's eyes , I saw Santa.

Who will watch the Watchman?

At the entrance to our building sits our watchman. He's travelled a thousand odd miles from his village in Nepal. Crossed the border and come to Mumbai. To gaurd us against petty thieves and direct the Pizza and Domino delivery guys to the right address. He's left behind wife, children and parents, a few fields that he could barely crack the ground open on to sow some rice,his temple and his king.[ Thank yo Ritchie Blackmore ] He works a twenty four hour shift .Twelve hours with us and twelve hours at another building . He sleeps sitting up. The gate has to be opened everytime a car goes in or out. He has a co-operative with the other watchman in the neighbourhood for his lunch and dinner. The Nepal times is circulated amongst all of them , a few days after it's sell by date but it's still pictures of home [ Thank you Deep Purple ].
He washes the cars at the end of his shift. He escorts the kids when they cross the road. He helps the old Aunties of the building with their bags in and out of rickshaws. Suitcases are carried up and down flights of steps like feather pillows when it's holiday season.
At Christmas time he helps us string up our decorations in the building lobby. He climbs the mango tree to string up the star. He knows the intricacies of the water pumps and gives us last mile connectivity with the BMC water dept. He buys the bread from the breadman when we're out and knows how many kelas each house needs per week.
The underground railroad carries money, clothes and people between Nepal and Mumbai. When he gets so homesick that all the gold in Jhaveri Bazaar cannot keep him here he brings his cousin around and introduces him to everyone in the building.
He heads back home. A three day journey. Part bus, part train and a three hour walk at the end of it all.
Our cousins go to Dubai or California, our brothers join the ship or the oil fields, Jo-Boy went to
New Zeland. Somewhere in Nepal is a twelve year old boy who dreams about being a watchman in Mumbai one day.

The Fourth King.

It was a small family. A mother and two children. She took catering orders to try and make the money for food ,clothes ,school uniforms , shoes, rent and the million things that you needed money for. Yet she found the extra money to drop into the collection plate at church and pay her dues to the Society of Vincent de Paul every month.
December was a busy time. Lots of first communion parties, engagements and post wedding dinners. The one set of new clothes that she got the kids thru the whole year was at Christmas. Potato chops and ribbon sandwiches didn't allow for new clothes for birthdays or new curtains for Easter. They'd chosen what they wanted. A dress with ribbons lacing thru for her little girl and the new pair of jeans and matching jacket for her boy.
There was a Tsunami and there was a special collection in church for that. Then came the earthquake in Chile and money for medicines was what they had decided to collect. The neighbours daughters first communion party bill had still not been paid. She could'nt ask them for money now. Not at Christmas with all the expenses thay had on their heads. So she started walking to the market insted of using the bus. She had a cold bath to save on the electricity. The sidings from the catering order ribbon sandwiches served for lunch.
She got the dress with the ribbons and the jeans and the jacket for the kids. They went to midnight mass and prayed at the crib later. They saw the angels and the manger,the shepherds and their sheep. She wondered how difficult it must have been for the three kings . To travel to a strange land. Following a dream that they were'nt even sure was real. Leaving behind their families and kingdoms. She thanked the baby Jesus for her life which she told him was blessed and comfortable. Where she had a roof over her head. Where she did'nt have to travel thru strange inhospitable lands. Children whom she loved and who loved her. And for being able to give them a new dress and pant and jacket for Christmas.

"Lorna" mojhe Mog

Statutory warning.
This blog has very little to do with Bandra.
There is a drummer who lives in Mahim called Raymond Albuqerue. He was on his way to a picnic at Marve. The bus that was picking everybody up started from Dhobi Talao. Worked its way thru Dabul and Dadar and Mahim and Bandra before finding its way to Marve. The group had hired two cottages there. One for the boys and one for the girls. They got around to opening the beer or squash or whatever it was they were drinking . Then over the wall from the girls side came a voice singing " Where the boys are ". Raymond was on the top of the wall from the boys side before the first verse was over. Looking down to see who was singing. Thats when he first heard Lorna. He met Lorna Cordeiro and she wanted to come and sing with Raymonds band. So they fixed it up for 10 o'clock the next Sunday morning. She was there at 9.30 a.m. . And the rest as is often said, is history.

Chris Perry introduced Lorna on the Konkani stage. Chris Perry’s valuable lyrics with his original soul-touching music and Lorna’s inimitable voice created a revolution in Konkani singing.

And the nightingale’s voice of Lorna created the magic in rendering the songs effectively

Lorna Cordeiro, Goa's golden-voiced nightingale, visited Goa during the last leg of electioneering. Obviously bitten by the election bug, crowd-puller Lorna bolstered the UGDP's campaign by glorifying UGDP's supremo Churchill Alemao with songs set to tunes of popular Chris Perry-Lorna hits of yesteryear

Khalap, the outgoing Union minister for law and justice, got Farooq Abdullah and Gujral to campaign for him. Alemao, of course, went with the singers Lorna Cordeiro and Nephie Rod.

Mandd Sobhan proudly presented The Lorna Show at the newly built Milagres Hall Complex, near Milagres Church, on 9th of October at 6 pm. This program was a fabulous hit with Goan Songs, Goan Artistes, Goan Jokes and typical Goan evening.

The panel of judges was Ms. Esmie D’Souza, Mr. David Fernandes and Ms. Lorna Cordeiro. At the end Ms. Lorna Cordeiro entertained the audience with her hits of yesteryears. Later, the Hindu community of the three wards gathered in the Chapel to offer thanksgiving to St. Anne.

This has nothing to do with Bandra other than the fact that Raymond and me were both
celebrating our friend Jessica's wedding and well, she's from Bandra.

Viva Lorna .

Open Season

America has expats, Iran has political refugees, Britain has explorers , we have NRI’s . White shoes . White track shoes. The sign of an NRI. Shoes that have been getting out of heated houses into heated carports into heated cars into mechanically cleaned sidewalks into glass box office buildings and then all the way back again. Without ever seeing mud. Or dirt , or dust. Tee shirts that are white with bleach and have what we still think of as new clothes smell. It’s fabric softner. The fact that we use a washing machine, seems to be enough comfort. Fabric softener and bleach would be total self indulgence.
The handy cam always ready, recording the odd cow or elephant. Every cousin aunt uncle and old neighbour lined up and shot in 8 megapixels for the family album. Eating panipuri at Elco’s with the accompanying bottle of Bisleri. Buying a years supply of coconut hair oil and wishing it could buy a year’s supply of bhelpuri. Making the trip to Goa. And visiting every cousin there including the ones you didn’t visit when you lived in India. Finding out wheter Goa sausages are still on the FDA’s banned list. What about if you seal it in a tin ?
Catching up with condolence visits . Aunts who burst into tears remembering you. Every Aunt tells Jo Boys son that he looks just like JoBoy did when he was small.
You like sweets ?
Just like Jo Boy.
You don’t like studying ?
Just like Jo Boy.
You trouble your sister a lot ?
Just like Jo Boy.
You go to play when it’s time to say prayers ?
Just like Jo Boy.
Aunty I got news for you. Most boys in the world are just like Jo Boy. Pass the nankaties.
Three weeks fly by. Barely opened your suitcases dispensing Toblerones, Black Labels and pictures of the Thousand Island picnic have to be repacked and its time to go. Back home where you’re gonna have to get a new pair of sneakers. This pair is never gonna be white again. Ever.

Green was an adjective not a noun !

Presents were never ripped open in front of the presenter. You carefully peeled away the sticky tape later and folded the wrapping paper and put it under the mattress. [ With the crosses from Palm Sunday ]. To be recycled for the time when you would be the presenter. String that held parcles together would be unravelled and added to the ever growing ball in the cupboard. Old toothbrushes were kept below the bathroom basin to come into service for cleaning the kitchen and bathroom tiling grout [ Ok Joints]. Bottles. If they were white bottles they'd be saved for holding KalaKatha concentrate which mixed with soda gave you something that came closer to Coca Cola than the real thing. Or orange juice or limbu [ Ok Lemon ] concentrate in the summer. Best of all for bottle masala, or vindaloo powder or sec sec or any of the million and one combinations of crushed chilli, tumeric ,pepper, ginger that brought the masalchis from Vasai pounding to our door. The bottle came into service best at Divali when it formed the launcing pad for rockets. If you were brave and stupid you held the bottle in your hand while your not so brave and cleverer friend / brother lit the fuse and ran back. While you tried to get the rocket to hit plant holder hanging on the sixth floor balcony. Beer bottles fetched you a buck a piece. Eleven empty beer bottles got you enough money for one full one.[ Yes I'm that old !] Coloured bottles with caps were used to store wine. The darkened color of the bottle helped keep the wine stable. Fused light bulbs and bottles without caps were filled with water and money plants thrived in them. Crawling up the window grills they were suspended from and bringing nature into ever higher flats. And when the bottle was totally toally gone you crushed it into as fine a powder as you could and saved it for kite flying season when you made your own manja. Empty bottles of Scotch with the label intact were sold to the Jari Purana Bai who came around with a basket on her head. What she needed it for you found out when you bought some Johnny Walker at Christmas time and it tasted like Santra. Paper you lined the dutbin with. You spread out on the staircase landing floor when the barber came to give you a haircut. Or you gave to the altarboys when they had a newspaper drive to raise money for their annual picnic. Old hacksaw blades could be sharpened into the finest kitchen knives with electrical tape wound many times over making a handle. Old sari's were joined together to make quilts and old shirts cut into squares for dusters. Old drawing crayons were the coloring for your homemade Christmas candles. Old curtains were the new cover for the Rajdoot mototrcycle that your father loved more than your mother. [ She was the transfigurer ]. Stale bread made bread pudding for tea the next day. Or bread crumbs stored in a wide mouth bottle to bread the cutlets with. Stale cake...
There never was a chance for the cake to go stale. We're bandra buggers after all.

Operation Flood!

On a cold and grey Chicago morn, another little baby child is born, in Bandra. He grows up and when he's twelve he's told he's got to fetch the milk. You have to be at the milk booth line before the milk runs out. So you stumble out of bed and sleep walk to the kitchen meatsafe,below which the bottles are kept.

To the door and halfway out before you realise your still in your pyjamas. Changed , you make your way down stairs to find the other milk collectors from your building have started off to the milk booth without you. Its December so it's dark and it's cold. You're struggling to remember what your Mother told you last night. Two toned milk [ red striped caps] , one ordinary [blue striped caps] or was it the other way around. You run to catch up with them, clutching milk bottle carrier in one hand and milk money in the other. [ your home shorts pocket has a hole and the money might slip out ]. You're at the end of the line of milk bottles . Everyone leaves their bottle carriers in their order of arrival to mark their place in the queue and tries to find the most comfortable spot on the pavement to sit. The window from which the milk is sold is shut but the service door to the booth is open. The milk truck arrives and the newbies in the line scramble to pick up their bottles and retrieve their place in the queue. But old hands like us know that the line is going nowhere until the window opens. The man selling the milk from the booth has his own supply chain going so out of the 400 odd bottles of milk delivered only 250 [ or thereabouts ] is going to be released into the free market. The professional delivery men with baskets the size of airport trolleys corner more than half the market. They probably come in after dinner every night and spend the night here. [ You would if your daily bread and butter depended on delivering somebody elses milk ] You've reached the head of the line and there's still milk available. Alleluia ! You wont have to go to the Bhaiya's dairy and buy his concoction of three parts milk ,one part water. You head home finding time to look up into the dark December morning sky and see Orion getting ready to be banished into the pre dawn. At home the foil striped cap comes off. You put your finger into the bottle and retrieve what has to be the tastiest, thickest, freshest, everythingest cream in the world. Three bottles, three caps off, [ carefully so that they can be refixed on the bottles, because Mother thinks it's piggish to retrieve the cream with a not too clean finger ]. three heavenly slurps. Why can't you use the handle of the spoon ?

And back to bed you go where you have the strangest dream. That milk will be available in packets. And you can keep it for more than a month without it going bad. That even Modern Stores who until now deals only in Amul butter and dollars has rectangular blue cartons filled with milk on his shelves. That whenever and wherever you want milk you can get it. Yeah sure ! Wishes are horses and beggars will ride.

You can keep the Porsche !!!

All roads lead to Rome and in Bandra they lead to the station. Wheter you live at Bandstand or at Carter Road on the reclaimation or Pali Hill. You wait a few minutes and along comes the big red bus. So you jump over the feet of the junkie who is chasing heaven over a piece of foil behind the bus stop and clamber aboard. If it's rush hour you hang out of the door with all the grace of a Gemini Circus trapeze artist hanging onto his swing. Until the crowd surges inside and you get a foothold on the steps. A balancing act still, but you're not swinging free every time the bus makes a turn. A gaggle of school girls and a school of Kohli fisherwoman in front of you stop you from reaching the conductor. Since Mohammed can't reach the mountain the mountain comes to Mohammed. For the princely sum of a rupee you are on your way to Bandra station. College and school students, office goers, all thrown together on this ship. The Captain [ Ok Driver ] navigates thru the perilous waters of Turner road with it's dug up trenches and jaywalkers and Maruti minnows daring to challenge the might of this BEST whale. Picking up people at every stop and once in the middle of the road when flagged down by an off duty policeman ? Fellow Driver ? Brother-in-law ? He's allowed to get in from the front of the bus. He's not old and he's not infirm. The कसा hai and the बररा hai are exchanged and he's allowed to perch on the bar seperating the Captain from the crew. One of the Kohli women is waving her koyta at one of the office goers who'se front came to close to her back. The Captain gets into the home stretch but suddenly screeches to a stop in tandem with the bus coming in the opposite direction. The Captains are friends. So there they sit discussing the price of copper shares in Bolivia while the world and their dog are trying to get by them to make the 7.51 local to Churchgate. With a wave and a honk we're off again. To be deposited right outside the station where a blue uniformed T.C. checks each person for a ticket as they get off the bus. Right next to him is a Hijra who'se breaks into smile and promises you children as numerous as the sands of the sea for the loose change in your pocket. The Captains brother in law does'nt have a ticket and the Captain has to intervene to keep him fineless. The Captains off again round the masjid and into the depot where he hands over command and repairs into the canteen for a glass of hot tea and hotter bhajias while he hangs up his uniform shirt in the staff room while scracthing his belly thru his half sleeved banian with the satisfaction of a job well done.

Oh Carols !

Christmas is coming. The geese are getting fat. There's a carol singing practise at 4 o'clock. We gather around the guitarist who gives us our note while the organ sits feeling left out of things only because it's too big to walk around with. The usual Jingle Bells and Rudolph are sung in three part harmonies thanks to Celeste who can sings harmonies like you and me brush our teeth. Allwyn is appointed as Santa Calus and he gets the costume out of the choir loft to try it on for size. He's told to buy fresh cotton to replace last years yellowed beard. The collection boxes are cleaned and the keys to their locks found behind the incense burners in the sacristy. The triangles and tambourine are fought over. Till it's decided that whoever get here first on the 20th gets it. The routes are planned. On the basis of last years generosity of said routes inhabitants. The poor and the dispossesed are going to be dispossesed out of our carols this year too.

And we're off. A motley bunch of people. Women old enough to be called Aunty but not so old that they can't keep pace. Uncles whose baritone finds an outlet amidst Johnson bath tiles and are denied freedom of expression at all family parties. Santa Claus with a big red bag, gutarists, triangle and castanet players. We gather around our guitarists in the garden of the first building we visit and wait for the stragglers to catch up. Jingle Bells resounds between building walls and water tanks. Inhabitants come to their balconies. The dog on the 2nd floor bursts into frenzied barking that threatens to drown us out until he's muzzled. The collectors have gone up the stars and start working their way down floor by floor. Trying to stay away from idle chit chat like
" How's Mummy ? " Unless the interrogation is sweetened with milkcream and marzipan. Into Pali Village we go. There's an old blind lady who can't move out of the house so we are all requested inside. A squeeze. She actually looks happy to see us [ figuratively speaking ] . She gets our whole repetoire from Jingle Bells to We wish you a... with Rudolph and Frosty the snowman hanging somewhere in the middle. Christmas sweets and Old Monk make our cup runneth over. We leave , a warm thank you from a happy sightless person who makes 80 yrs look young .
We just
can't wait to get back
On the road again.
[ Thank you Willie Nelson ].
The collection boxes are heavier and running up and down flights of stairs is not as much fun as it was two hours ago. Santas looking macho with white chest hair. [His beard slipped.] The songsheets are being used less as Angels we have heard on high imprints itself in our heads. Carollers whose houses are on the route are abandoning ship. The bright lights of early evening are fading. When the collectors are answered at the door by pyjama clad uncles and nightie clad aunties we know it's time to call it a night. The leftover sweets in Santas bag make the urchins at the traffic light happy as he solitarily walks back home to knock of red suit and white beard and settle down to his potato chops and dal currry for dinner.

Cribbing !

The wheat was planted three weeks ago.. Not for the karif or rabi crop but for the crib. To line around the meadows of your little Bethlehem in Bandra. You get the figures together . Joesph and Mary in a football huddle over a missing baby Jesus. [ He can only be put into place after midnight mass on the 25th. ] The shepherds , one with a crook and one with a lamb slung over his shoulders [ Is it for warmth? Is it a fashion statement ? ] The donkey and the cow. Chewing their cud looking on at their manger being used as the delivery room. Angels doing their balancing act on the roof of the crib . The star that you hang from the curtain rod so that the tinsel drapes down to the angel like starlight. A flame that flickers with the cosy warmth of red and yellow cellophane paper. Wine shops would be visited to get the hay for the roof and to be strewn around the cow and the donkey. Liquor came packed in wooden boxes lined with hay then. Corrugated paper packaging makes for hungry stable animals. A mirror to look like a little Bethlehem pond. Then came the snow storm. Enough snow to make even the Hummer need snow chains on it's tires. Until Mr. Know It All Cousin Reggie told us it does'nt snow in the Middle East now and it did'nt snow in the Middle East 2000 years ago. So no more cotton from Bandra Medical { non sterile type } was flaked down.The crushed brown paper that formed the bricks and mortar of the manger was splattered with wet mud to make it look earthy and realistic. The three kings with their one camel would be genuflecting near the showcase far away from the altar to a baby Jesus they would reach only on the 6th of Jan. Every day they would move a little closer. Showcase to coffee table. Coffee table to sideboard. Sideboard to the pelmet for the great leap across the front door. Pelmet to fish tank roof. Drawn by the star with their gold , frankincense and myrrh. And the tallest of them says " Oh for a handheld GPS " . You wish ! The sheep inhabit your agricultural endeavaours in recycled plastic containers from Jimmies Kitchen and Pals Fish Fry.
All is well in the manager until the next morning when LeelaBai , the maid, troops in to work and you are away at school/office/putting up your mother-in-laws crib. She cleans and she dusts and then proceeds to rewrite the nativity. Mary is hanging out with the shepherds. The sheep cows and donkeys are being shepherded by Joesph. Two kings are heading towards Japan while one waits in line for his Amercian visa. And the tallest of them says ' Oh for a handheld GPS.' She's destroyed your hills and valleys of Bethlehem and it now resembles the plains of the Punjab. Wheat grass in neat orderly rows. Spin in your graves Mathew, Mark, Luke and John.
You being a purist reunite Joesph with his wandering bethrothed, and the shepherds with their wandering sheep. The three kings are once more looking at the star and their camel has been made to toe the line.
In the midst of it all lurks the Santa Claus candle. With a stringless snowman that can't be hung from the nearest Chritmas tree anymore. Baby Jesus safe on the altar hidden behind himself aged 6 and looked at by a slightly aged Joesph and Mary in their Holy Family avtaars.
Waiting for the heavens to open up and choirs of angels to burst into Gloria in Excelis Deo while he takes his rightful place in the manager and in our hearts.