Mumbai Through My Eyes

The first thing you notice about this city is the dust. It hits you in the face and fills your nose with a tingling and sneeze-inducing sensation. You notice the garbage and spit littered streets, with an assortment of transportations on the roads. You notice people walking window to window at every red signal, some begging and some selling. You notice an occasional gesture of charity mixed with the predominant indifference. You see a horde of people thronging the sidewalk. You see buildings crammed into tight spots. You see haphazardly made 'chawls' and also posh flats and the occasional bungalow. You see big shopping malls, gaming cafes, tall and menacing buildings that reflect modern evolution. But amidst all this, you see the most unique city in the whole of India.
The train stations are the most unique parts of Mumbai, and perhaps one of the most important. The number of people travelling by trains every day, or just crossing from east to west or west to east, is too high. There are makeshift shops on the sides of the platform, where you get clothes, duplicate cosmetics, mobile phone accessories, mosquito bats, and some odd items here and there. Every station has a Jumbo King vada pav joint close by. Oh yes, vada pav is a staple in Mumbai, and so are Pani Puris and Golas. One thing you'll surely notice is that rickshaw drivers are really honest.
Mumbai has many people, and you brush past them without stopping to see who they are, and you never know whether they'll enter your life again or not. Maybe they'll be very important to you later on, but you'll never remember brushing past them during soe busy day. This gives an air of eagerness to Mumbai, an air of mystery.
Theres a barrier between the people here. As mentioned before, you see the occasional charity shown by people, but if by chance the eyes of the beggar and the eyes of the giver meet, I doubt there'd be any acknowledgement in either of their eyes. There's always a windopane seperating the two worlds of the rich and poor, and you're often caught with your reflection staring back at you. Everybody's busy with their own lives. After all,everybody's in a race against time, as if each day is reduced to half its time. Everybody's in their own shell, and maybe they've lost the driving force.
This city is one of dreams. So many migrate here in search of a better life,a better dream. Often though, reality is much harsher, but there's a special enduring feel here. People give themselves false inspirations and move on, living in harsh conditions but still never giving up. There's a lot of poverty, but in a more selfish note, it as benefited me. I've become more humble, I've begun to appreciate the many things that I have while others haven't. There's always the rich and the poor. This is a mixed town, everybody's a hair's length away but there is still that small length separating all. You eventually ask yourself,who's better off.
The true beauty of this city lies in the sea, and also in the south area to a certain extent. There's Juhu Beach and Marine Drive. Truly, the air of the sea s different, always fresh, always welcome. In this city, where everybody's lives change at every instant, the sea is the one place that always remains just the same. ironically, it never lets anything in its reach remain constant. Lines in the sand, footprints, scribblings,they ll eventually get washed away, erased. Yet, everyday, hundreds throng the beaches, lovers and loners aside, and there are many who sell food or click photos for those looking to preserve memories.. Yup, if there's an opportunity to make cash, nobody lets o of it, not in India's NYC.
This city never sleeps. The days are crowded, and at night, there's always someone outside, there's always the lone street vendor, the barking dogs. You're never alone. This isn't a Utopia either, but I have no view regarding the darker side, and hopefully I never will. All coins have another side. However to walk the streets in the evening, with music filling your ears, and to observe the different people throng the streets, each with a different goal....there's always a new observation. You always see the mothers waiting for their kids' school buses. There are always hawkers and bargainers. There's always a group of old men huddled together around a tea stall,exchanging stories of the past, and their views of the ineffective youth.
One of the biggest feelings you experience is that of the city itself. It feels as if Mumbai's the silent observer, always watching the lives of every citizen, watching every struggle,satisfaction,joy,strife and rage. New buildings rise every day, more people set foot into this city, but Mumbai always watches, but never utters a word. It's got eyes everywhere. It sees the little parts that make life what it is. Mumbai sees those chance meetings I talked about earlier, but never comments. Usually if we notice a coincidence, we show some emotion like surprise or angst. But never Mumbai. It shows no emotion, it helps not the weary. It's just there.
You may wonder after reading all this that why do i love Mumbai. Truth is I don't have an answer. You ask any Mumbaikar, you'll never get a proper answer. They may say that they love the fast paced life of Mumbai, or that they love the malls and comforts.. Fact is, none of these answers are satisfactory. None of them are true. Truth is nobody knows why. They just love Mumbai. I know I love Mumbai. I feel the city's presence on the inside. I feel its gaze, its non-judgemental face. I feel it look at all of us despite knowing everything and still be expressionless. I see the people go through each day without much purpose, but I see in them the desire to find one. This city has a lot of the poor, but they too, in most cases, live in contentment. People may be indifferent to each other, but there's always those little things that connect us all, and I've never seen it anywhere else but here. There's a place for everybody,everybody's welcome, and everybody has a chance to reach their dreams. You're never truly alone here, you always feel the city's gaze. You can just go to the south part,walk the Marine Drive, hang out. If you have a bad day, just put on some music, enjoy the stomach numbing street food as you gaze at the multitude of people away from their homes, engulfed in their present tasks and lives., as you feel the never-ending gaze of the city. Mumbai's bigger than the TAJ or The Gateway of India, and Mumbai has proven its integrity before. Aamchi Mumbai indeed.

I Read Mumbai's Diary

I've lived in this magical city for the past 3 years.I must say,when I moved in,I was weary cus I was leaving my old friends behind.But Mumbai made me feel different.I changed,and I became somebody else,somebody better. Naturally,when I first heard of Dhobhi Ghat,a.k.a Mumbai Diaries,I was thrilled.I did go see the movie,and it stays true to it's name.It certainly is a small excerpt off this beloved city's diary.You'll find a little of you somewhere in this film,take my word on that.But it's not just the fact that Mumbai's brought to life here.It is the simple fact that the characters are so fleshed out,so real,you can see yourself doing the actions that they do.You see a little part of their every day lives.You see that no matter how many people there are,this big city watches everything,but stays silent and expressionless like the old neighbour of Aamir Khan's character.Yes,this city does see us all,it sees the little tid-bits that give us joy,it sees those chance meetings whose significance goes unacknowledged all the time.You may brush into somebody today,but you just move on.Maybe someday,that somebody may become a major part of your life,but you'll still never remember that one chance meeting for a brief second.Mumbai sees that,Mumbai remembers this coincidence,but remains ashen faced.If you or I see a coincidence,we always show some emotion,like a slight smile,or disgust,or surprise,or even slight sorrow.But impossibly,Mumbai watches the tides crash every single day.It sees the troubles of the poor,the extravagance of the rich,lives being lived in so many different ways.Maybe Mumbai knows the truth,but still it remains silent.you'd wonder what's so good about such an impersonal city.Well,truth is,I can't tell you.No one can.You have to live here and see the little parts of every normal day,and you'll realise that there's a soul here,there's a slight connection between people.Yes,most people just ignore your plight and walk away,but there's this warmth.Of course,this city has its own share of shadiness,but is there a Utopia?I have to,absolutely have to thank Kiran Rao for opening this small page of Mumbai's diary.I love Mumbai,I always will.And I love Dhobi Ghat :)

P.S:I call this city Mumbai,not Bombay,unlike most of my friends.They think it's an embarrassment to call this city by it's new name.Well,it doesn't matter,I'm comfortable with Mumbai :) 

The Statue

"What comes easily is never respected".......




The sculptor walked onto the sand with just a bag containing a chisel and a hammer. There was a magnificent rock,the size of a young lad. The sculptor could smell the beach,but he had no time to experience the soothing smell. He was going to give life to that piece of stone, and nothing was going to disturb him. He couldn't hear the faint knock-knock sound coming from a little far away. To him, the stone was everything.


The sculptor began his task. He began slowly, starting with the eyes. He made them big and expressive, almost life-like. The eyebrows were shaped like the thatched roofs of mansions, an almost perfectly inverted V. The nose was sharp and long, with big nostrils. It took the sculptor four hours to get this much done, but he was as patient as a loving mother would be to her baby. Nothing disturbed him, not the birds, not the crashing of the waves, not the knocking noise from afar. The sun began it's descent, and a small shadow began forming at the base of the stone. Like all else, the sculptor took no heed of this. He went back home right after he finished the nose.


He came back early next morning. He was determined to finish the statue. He worked on the hair,long and thick hair. He then went on to finish the legs with great detail. He worked on the toes, then the ankle, and then the knees. By the time he had reached the waist, it was afternoon, the sun was right at the top. Strangely though, the shadow which was once at the statue's base had now reached up to its thighs. The sculptor hadn't seen it though. He sat down for a small lunch of fruits. As he sat on the sand to peel off the skin of the orange, a child came by selling balloons. The sculptor took pity on the frail waif. He called the child over. The child, seeing a potential customer, eagerly rushed forward. The sculptor peeled his first orange and gave it to the child. To her hungry stomach, food was as good as a sold balloon. The child and the sculptor sat and ate the fruits together in savoured silence, as the sun began its descent once again, and the shadow, its ascent. They finished the food, and the sculptor began picking up the peels and putting them in his bag, as the child got up with her balloon bag.  Before leaving, the child gave a grateful smile and began walking away. Before disappearing into the horizon the child yelled, "That's a beautiful boy". The sculptor could hear the faint sound of the child. He smiled, but he still couldn't hear the knock-knock sound in the distance. The shadow, by then, had touched the statue's chest.


The sculptor finished the hands. He gave immense detail to the palm and the fingers. He worked on the shoulders, reasonably broad, then the chest. He etched a shirt and a pair of shorts, and the statue was given the finishing touch of thick lips that curved into a slight smile. The statue was finished, but fate had plans of its own.


The sculptor took a look at his statue. It was marvellous, resonating innocence and nobility. But something was off. There was no knock-knock sound, only the waves disturbed the eerie tranquillity. The statue looked really dark. The sculptor's gaze reached its base, and he caught sight of the shadow trailing away into the distance. The shadow had completely darkened the statue. The sculptor sat down, waiting for the sun to move so that the shadow's cloak would be lifted, and the true beauty of his work could be marvelled at. The shadow didn't move, and neither did the sun. They both stayed their ground. The sculptor got up and decided the trace the origin of the shadow. He walked a long way, determined to find the Colossus that overshadowed an innocent child's image. He finally reached his destination, and the sight that beheld him took his breath away. There was a statue, slightly bigger than his own. It depicted a boy and a girl facing the horizon, holding hands. There was genuine love on their faces, and the skill of its creator was so great that even the tenderness with which they held each other's hands was visible. The sculptor stood in front of this work of art. He saw the joy radiate from their faces, as the innocence of youthful love danced in their eyes. The girl was stunning, the boy was average looking, but both were perfect for each other. The sculptor noticed a hammer and a chisel kept at the base of this statue. The sculptor picked them up to examine them. They looked brand new, no wear and tear. It seemed impossible, miraculous. He waited there for a whole hour, hoping to see the great man who performed this impossible feat. No one came. The sculptor took this special hammer and chisel, with the hope that he could also imbibe life into his statue, and give it the same royalty that this statue had. He could see no way of making his statue any better. He then realized, it was what the statue lacked- a companion. The sculptor set out to find a stone of considerable size and quality. But every stone he came across was either too small or large, or too weak to handle the strain of the chisel. He gave up. He made one final change to the boy's face. He gave it an expression of sorrowful expectation, the one of a man lost in this world, without a companion\, and he made the boy look like he has fallen on his knees, begging escape. The sculptor left the miraculous hammer and chisel at the base of his own statue. He packed his things, and set off at a slow pace. If only he could somehow make the world see his love for that statue, it would outshine the love between any boy and girl. Before leaving the beach behind, he turned around and gave one last look. The sun still stayed where it was, the shadow ever imposing, his statue all alone. The sculptor walked away with resignation.


Every day, the sculptor would look at his statue from the distance. Nobody stopped by to see it. Who would want to see an over-shadowed statue that doesn't have everything? After all, joy was just round the corner. The sculptor secretly hoped that someone would find the appropriate stone and use the miraculous hammer and chisel to give light to his darkened statue, a companion. Every time he gazed from the distance, he could hear the waves crashing, and he felt they were weeping in agony, seeing such neglect. The one person who had once appreciated the beauty of his statue, the balloon selling child, would walk past it every day, but even she forgot about it. Despite himself, he looked at it from far away every single morning. Despite himself, he gave himself the idea that nature would show mercy and erase the down-casting shadow. Despite himself, he hoped.

Hatred By Monotony

A man stands on the shore of a beach.He sees the waves crash,he can smell the sand.He can hear only the waves.There's nobody else.The man begins to love the isolation.His own world,peaceful beach,lovely atmosphere.He enjoys it for a week,then slowly,his enjoyment begins to fade.Slowly,the smell of the beach fades.It's there only the instant you enter.For the man,it's been a whole week,with nothing else but a vast empty land of sand and crashing waves.He wanders,but sees only endless,clear sand with no sea-shells,no rocks,no signs of life.Just him in his world.Soon,he loses smell,he gains desperation.He runs,tries to swim.He swims and swims but collapses due to tiredness.He prays he'll drown,but he wakes up on the same shore.Soon,all he can hear is the crashing of the waves.The same monotonous sound,never too loud,never too soft,always there with the same pitch and fury.He hears it when he wakes up,he hears it while he's reminiscing,he hears it while he sleeps,he hears it in his dream.He sleeps with the waves.




Interesting dream,isn't it?

When The Going Gets Old,The Tough...Use Botox

This isn't anything philosophical,or too worldly I guess.This is the film lover in me talking.So....you know what you're getting into :)

You often find women(and some men) trying to look younger by using botox and facelifts.You usually find their faces to be wrinkle-free,but rigid and expressionless.It sort of ruins the energy of the youth,and also the benevolence and experience of the old,a true birth of the phrase "mixed bag".Somewhere in the middle,in an attempt to relive the past and at the same time,stay with the current of the present,people are neither here nor there.There's a saying:"When the going gets tough,the tough get going".The going certainly is tough.People,their views and beliefs,society's rigidity,they are all undergoing changes.So,in an attempt to keep at par with the world,we all "get going".Of course,we it's not necessary that we go places where we would like to be.Now,back to what I had in mind.
I'm a lover of fine films,of all ages.Thanks to the portability of technology,I've been able to lay eyes on many works of art from yesteryears.I see today's films too,atleast those films which noted critics think are spectacular.I see a world of a difference,and every time I notice the difference,a botox-riddled face comes in my mind.Films used to be about stories,and they still are(in some cases atleast).But on the golden days of the 90s and early 2000s,it was only and only stories,the director never got carried away.Now,you see people getting carried away like a feather amidst a tornado.To be frank,I'd see such movies which have wonderful stories but contain excess of something,and I'd walk out with an incomplete taste.I'd also be surprised as to how critics can be so positive about certain such films.It's a clear image of the truth,that the world and it's views have changed,and are still changing(exactly why critics love these 'new' ways of storytelling),and films too are trying to change.But the actors and directors are still the same.So they take the botox,metaphorically speaking.To make my point clear,here are a couple of examples.
The Kids Are All Right is an excellent film about a lesbian couple and their children who seek to find their sperm donor,and all the twists and turns that ensue.Wonderfully told,wonderfully acted out.But where things go "excess" was the sex.Too much detailed display of sex.True,some amount of intimacy is needed to lay the base of any relationship,but is it necessary to keep animal-like harsh and vulgar sex,that too in much more than plenty amount?It ruined the flow of the story,it felt like an unwanted thorn.God knows what the director had in mind.But the critics loved it.So maybe the world itself loved it.What does the world need?An excuse to watch pornography?Go to a porn site for pete's sakes,don't ruin films with it!
Then comes Hostel,a film classified as "horror".I guess the only "horror" part in it was the gore. Horrifying,really,to think a man can perform such cruel acts of torture. Blood flows like the waters of Niagra Falls,actors have a miraculous way of screaming their lungs out through most of the film and still have an intact voice,and I guess the director wanted the audience to have a surprising capacity of patience.I was revolted.But...you guessed it,it was well received.Is this what horror has come down to-screaming actors being dismembered on screen?Or is it just to satisfy the bloodlust of the crowd?Seriously,an overdose of botox.
Of course,not every old person takes botox,and certainly not every film is riddled with the limbo feeling in-between past and present.I'm talking about romance.Film-makers have indeed evolved,quite successfully might I add.Romantic stories have taken a modern turn,featuring present day lives,modern characters,and still,the beauty and the alien believability of love has been preserved.Love Actually did one helluva job.
Actions films-overdose of botox.Not only do most of the old stars who still think they're in the fray use botox on themselves,but use botox on the film.Films nowadays are filled with an "ensemble" caste.Wow,I'd pay Rs200 just to see many over-built stars shoot each other on screen.But these movies make tons of cash.So,I guess the world wants just that,instead of the classic hero-bad guy struggle with some destruction and gun-fire.What has the world come to these days.
True,an old man or woman can't grow young,they can just try to look young.This world is ever ready to embrace new(and perhaps revolting) customs.That which is considered controversial now may be everyday sight tomorrow(can you believe it,Scarface was considered to have 'extreme' violence).So,film makers too take the botox(again metaphorically speaking).Films are an art,and you can make em only in some ways,and it's stupid to sacrifice the ancient ways that have proved successful just so that the world's need for new things is satisfied.Stop Using Botox,Stay Natural!!