Sunday, March 29, 2009

STREET SMART

This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.

STREET SMART



These tutorials for slum children are literally run on the streets, finds Rishi Majumder



Achyutam Battula (name changed) sits on a pavement chewing a broken bangle piece he picked up from the road. The son of illiterate, slum-dweller Telegu speaking parents (his father's a construction worker who spends most of his money on alcohol) he can barely understand Hindi, let alone English. He's in the second standard of a Municipal School, but prefers to spend his time climbing lampposts. What kind of classroom would it take to educate him? Try the pavement and street off Juhu Versova Link Road, with batches of students arranged class-wise (standards one to nine) on Chatais, a blackboard and paid teacher attached to each. "We started with two students – now we have 800," smiles Nanddas Kotawala, a trustee of charitable organization Asha Kiran, which set up this tutorial for children for Municipal schools as well as other interested slum dwellers five years ago. The classes span seven locations in Andheri West, six days a week, in the mornings and evenings.

"I came here like him in my 3rd standard," says Venkatesh Balakrishnan, in class seven now, pointing to Achyutam. "But now I'm doing well in school. I've seen this doctor in my slum. I want to be like him..." "Sure a student can concentrate on the street side – as long as the teacher can make them!" comes from Pramilla Kalbhar, one of teachers hired on the basis of a higher secondary degree and the "compassion to connect with a class" – they're given a trial run to determine this. Besides free teaching, the children's text books, stationery and sometimes school fees are taken care of by the trust. For students who don't speak Hindi or Marathi, the trust has appointed Telegu teachers and translators. "But most important is accessibility," remarks M S Kohli, an honorary trustee. "So we've located these 'centres' all over, rather than sticking to buildings, so we can be 5 minutes from the children's residence." They've also enlisted bus services to get in kids all the way from Kandivali.

But finally, comes the lure: "Idli-wada, Wada-Paw, Halwa, Puri Sabzi… even chocolates," lists volunteer Ramesh Raut. In addition, there's prizes to be won for regular attendance and scoring good marks in the school exams. Taking this carrot to a psychological level is "asking the children what they'd like to be and connecting the subjects to that end" as per teacher Renu Kesarvani (remember the doctor?). And to complete the endeavour children who pass class nine are enlisted for their 10 th standard, all expenses paid. "Still, out of 20 students who reached class 10 last year, only one cleared the Matriculate," Raut mulls. One at a time, the adage goes…

MUMBAI'S BAHAI AND ARMENIAN GRAVEYARD

This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.

"All the graves here are really old," says 13 year old Shahid. Shahid and his mother, after his father's demise, live with his Naani – a local bai – in Madonna Colony, Antop Hill. The colony was set up, just post independence, on an ancient British grave yard. So amidst cramped two storied hutments and open gutters stands a classic stone pillar, with sculptured Roman motifs. A tombstone was found while digging a drain in one house and cast into the street. A piece from it acting as floor stand for a makeshift roadside stall reads: "John Cowa… Who Died September 1…" Abbas Akhtarkhavari testifies to the adjoining year having read "1753".

Akhtarkhavari, employed by the Baha'i Spiritual Assembly maintains the nearly 2 centuries old Armenian cemetery in between this settlement and another newer one. This burial ground lost 3000 square feet of land to the other hutment group. "And was about to lose more, before Shaapoor Rowhani and Dr Aram Yegiazarian changed things," Akhtarkhavari tells. Rowhani, a Baha'i, owned Fountain Sizzlers at Fort. Dr Yegiazarian, an Armenian, ate there post Sunday service at the Armenian church. Both their graves lie in this cemetery. Their friendship sprouted the idea that the Baha'is should manage the graveyard of the dwindling Armenian community, keeping encroachers at bay, in return for shared space with Baha'i burials.

But old grave encroachments aren't new. The destruction of Armenian and Baha'i cemeteries in Azerbaijan , Georgia, Turkey or Iran has caused outcry for quite awhile. In Mumbai, the grand Byzantine building that's gone from being the Royal Albert Sailor's Home to the Maharashtra Police Headquarters today, was built on the site of the city's first British cemetery. Antop Hill was chosen as a site for Chinese, British, Armenian, Baha'i, Hindu and Muslim cemeteries because it was uninhabited. Today, the city's growth sheaths an underlying clash in the area between it's most voiceless: the immigrant poor and 'departed' dead.

"In memory thoult cherished be, While a spark of life remains, Till the dawn I long to see, when we both shall meet again," says an epitaph on an Armenian grave, under a white marble cross with flower and leaf sculptures. "Whither can a lover go but to the land of his beloved," spells a Baha'i reciprocal. Akhtarkhavari explains the different attitudes: "The Bahai's see this life as a 'womb' we leave to go to God." Another difference is that unlike the Christians, the Bahai's build vaults where they lower their coffin in the ground. "For this cemetery I've often created 'double vaults' to bury two family members - one above the other - in the same grave," says Akhtarkhavari as a boy carrying buckets of water for his tap-water deprived colony looks curiously over the cemetery wall. "But this isn't tradition – it's to solve the space problem."

THE BOMBAY BHISTI

This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.

"It was "Din! Din! Din! You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?
You put some juldee in it, Or I'll marrow you this minute, If you
don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"




THE ABOVE PART SHOULD BE IN ITALICS

Rudyard Kipling's spirited depiction of "regimental bhisti" Gunga Din
comes with a sad parody of the derogatory gaze in which colonials held
an Indian labourer. One wonders though if the Raj's disappearance has
made any difference to the ancient water carrying tribe: known as
Pakhalis in Marathi and Mashakwaalas or Bishtis in Urdu and Hindi.
50 year old bishti Sarif Ahmad at Char Null Dongri flashes a cheap
painkiller the doctor's asked him to take: "This eases the pain, but
doesn't heal anything." His knees and hipbone have all but crumbled,
he says, from carrying 30 litres of water across streets and up
buildings for over 30 years. Three of the bishtis with him ask us for
a job. They are dying to cast aside a burden which most celebrators of
tradition overlook the weight of.
Ahmad is a "khandaani bhishti", whose forefathers in Haryana served
the badshahs from time immemorial. "When changes came, like the purdah
being relaxed and women going to wells themselves, we had to migrate
for work," he remembers. 36 year old Sagir Ali from UP, however, is
only the second generation into this profession: "My father came here
and became a bhishti and so have I." Sagir Alaudddin Bhisti is another
"khandaani bhishti" from Rajasthan. While Anwar Mia and Mubarak Ali,
in their early 20s, have left low paying restaurant jobs to be
Bhishtis for the first time.
Bhishti groups operate area wise, with agreements not to encroach on
another's square kilometers. Bhendi Bazaar, Null Bazaar, Madanpura,
Pila Haus, Foras Road, Kamathipura and Pydhonie vary in their bhishti
populations as per demand. Hence the total number of Bhishtis – quoted
at anything from 70 to 150 is unascertained. The bhishtis charge four
to six rupees to deliver water to ground floor locations and eight to
ten rupees for higher floors. The monthly earning of each varies from
Rs 700 to 1,200. While roughly Rs 100 a month goes as "hafta to the
police", Rs 1200 has to be paid for a new 30 litre leather (goat or
buffalo skin) bag or 'mashak' every six months – which is how long it
lasts. "But the advantage over a job is that you get instant cash, and
that you're not a 'servant'," most claim.
One reason many want out, still, is because business has been dropping
steadily since residents installed motor pumps. "We only deliver if
someone oversleeps – and forgets to fill water, needs extra water for
house guests or if their motor stops working," Alauddin Bhisti sums
up. Also, their leather bags make them inauspicious for Hindu
localities. But the overwhelming bane remains the toll this manual
labour takes on their body: "We are like thelawaalas. No one chooses
such professions."
The Bhishti Mohalla near JJ Hospital was named such because of
residence areas being compartmentalized as per profession in old
Bombay. "But no one living in these houses is a bhishti anymore,
though they have 'bhisti' as their surname," Meherdin Bhisti who
operates with Abdul Rehman and Naviser Bhisti from Bhishti Mohalla
(all of whom sleep on the pavement) says. Rehman, 57 and too old to
work as a Bhisti anymore, makes the 'mashaks' he once bore: "I sell
only 15 to 20 bags a year." But recent buys by exporters, marketing
such pouches in Karballa in Iraq, might improve matters. "He is lucky
to be alive," remarks 50 year old Ahmad of this. "I sometimes feel
when I sleep after a day's work… I won't get up." Which brings us back
to Kipling:


"So I'll meet 'im later on, At the place where 'e is gone – Where it's
always double drill and no canteen; 'E'll be squattin' on the coals,
Givin' drink to poor damned souls, An' I'll get a swig in hell from
Gunga Din! Though I've belted you and flayed you, By the livin' Gawd
that made you, You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!"

Saturday, March 28, 2009

NATURE MALL

This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.

A Date with Nature

Rishi Majumder checks out the country's first nature mall. Located on the
outskirts of the city, off Panvel, it draws Mumbaikars in droves

At a village called Tara, near Panvel, a one acre plot of land has a
sign offering "Landscaping" next to another which reads "Balcony Gardening".
A shop on the plot displays irrigation tools and 'plant food tablets' beside
a two CD pack of 157 Indian Bird Calls, and natural neem soap. The number of
plant species on display and for sale in the nursery number 175. A month
ago, Go Green Pvt Ltd introduced what it advertises as "India's First Ever
Garden Mall".

"It's amazing to find so many plant species in one place. I'll recommend
this place at college for a botanical excursion," says Kinjal Gogri, a third
year botany student. Kinjal is one of 30 collected here to get acquainted
with all the plants in a day's time. The botanist who acquaints them also
conducts an audio visual presentation to further this knowledge. A trip to
an NGO creating marketable products from such natural resource follows.
Adding value to the Rs 150 package is breakfast, lunch and tea. Eight months
ago, Go Green Pvt Ltd introduced what it advertises as "India's first ever
'nature dating' concept." It's only natural then that the company has been
launched and run by an adman (Bharat Soni) with his Thumb Print Advertising
as sister concern. It's also natural, that the annual turnover this plot
last yielded was Rs 80,00,000.

"Resort mein baith baith ke kantaal aa gaya. Isliye socha kuch naya
dekhenge,"states Diva Ajani, who heads the Kothara Jain Mahila Mandal. Go
Green's 'nature dating' specifically woos social clubs and educational
institutions. And hence 20 ladies from Mumbai, associated by virtue of
hailing from the same village, planned their joint picnic to benefit them
and their children of environmental information. Unlike government managed
nurseries, each plant here bears a large label with the common name,
scientific name, family and type written in English and Marathi. Printed
icons indicate the amount of sun and watering the species requires, and its
flowering season. "The people maintaining and explaining the plants include
a botanist, a plant pathologist, a horticulturist and an agricultural
adviser," senior HORTICULTURIST Ramchandra Patil boasts.

Begun approximately six years ago, the company earliest clientele was
those stopping over on this Mumbai Goa highway spot en route to a holiday.
Plant varieties for sale include flowering, fruit, medicinal, aromatic,
Bonsai, cactus, creepers, aquatic plants and, well, grass. Garden concepts
range from balcony, terrace and kitchen to the more bizarre: hanging,
ayurvedic, aromatic, sacred and astral. Patil shows off "a plant which
provides multivitamins", a rudraksh tree and a vanilla plant. Other rare,
interesting and indigenous curiosities are flaunted: "The Ahmestia nobilis -
with only two samples in Mumbai. And the English browflesia: its flowers
change colour everyday, till they fall." Services go from landscaping and
farm management to garden maintenance. The price and size of each plant
vary, with no relation between the factors. While a mango tree is sold for
Rs 350, for instance, a far smaller cycus would cost Rs 15,000. And services
include both landscaping for Reliance and managing plants potted at a tiny
Vashi flat.

Patil, a farmer's son, graduated in agriculture but failed to pursue it.
"Most people studying agriculture, have entered completely unrelated
professions: like the police force or banking services," he rues. "I'm happy
to be doing something linked to my education." Recently he designed the
gardens surrounding a bungalow, such that they could grow a range of
vegetables and grains, and eat some of their own produce every day, every
year. Go Green also offers agricultural advice, referring the client to a
reliable expert where necessary.

"We too want to grow and cook our own vegetables in our Mumbai flats.
Hopefully we'll be able to," two housewives from the mahila mandal smile,
inspired. Their two kids, meanwhile, parrot what endless signs around the
plot say on global warming, pollution prevention and saving water. Patil
exalts the value of these social messages and awards received by the company
for the same. Yet the justification for his pride lies in the organisation's
preservation of nature, through its marketing. By evincing the possibility
of going green, by going for the green.

IT'S THE BHAGATS, YOU BET!

It’s the Bhagats, you bet!

Rishi Majumder and Bhupen Patel profile a family that hit the jackpot when they invented the matka

This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.

I'm a jyotish, not a gambler,” said Kalyanji Gangadhar Bhagat on the April 2, 1962, at the ‘opening call’ of the first ever matka in the compound of his building Vinod Mahal, in Worli. Unlike latter matkas, picture cards—such as king, queen and knave—were included in the pack from which cards would be picked to determine the day's winning numbers.

“The queen and king represented numbers 11 and 12 respectively, the 12 figures signifying the 12 rashis of Indian astrology,” remembers Vinod Bhagat, Kalyanji's son and Suresh Bhagat's elder brother. “The knave, if picked would be tossed aside.” Today the Bhagat family's cards, or jyotish-vidya, foretell a full circle. There's a king, a queen and a knave. But it's not the knave that's been tossed aside.

KALYANJI BHAGAT

Born a farmer in the village of Ratadia, Ganesh Wala in Kutch, Gujarat, Kalyanji's family name was Gala. “'Bhagat', a modification of ‘bhakt’, was a title given to our family by the King of Kutch for our religiousness,” says Vinod. “The King didn't give much else to the Kutchis, which resulted in mass migration to avoid drought and famine,” recalls Pravin Shah, a Kutchi financial consultant who's researched the matka system as a hobby, and met Kalyanji often in this regard. “Kalyanji, one such migrant, came to Bombay in 1941.”


From there on, after jobs like masala feriwala and kirana store manager, his journey from a room in a BBD Chawl to owning two buildings, ensued from his becoming a bookie receiving bets on the opening and closing figures of the New York and Bombay Cotton Markets.

From the mid fifties however, the cotton figures became too predictable to be bet on, prompting Kalyanji to study the American numbers game, and introduce matka. “The name matka is because the idea occurred to my father while seeing people bet on numbered chits drawn from a pot,” Vinod clarifies. “No actual matka was ever used.”

This non-existent matka travelled from Worli's Vinod Mahal, to an area near Zaveri Bazaar (where it was managed by to be rival Ratan Khatri) to various parts of India and eventually the world (bets were booked from the Middle East and the US).

Even with Khatri breaking away in 1964 to form 'Ratan Matka', a daily 'turnover' of rupees one crore (cited in 1974) left plenty for everyone.

Kalyanji's ability was one reason for his meteoric rise. He instituted a syndicate to overlook card picking, to ensure gambler's trust. Unlike Khatri, he shunned publicity to keep his operations away from public glare, yet had hotlines to the city’s who's who.

The brand 'Kalyan Worli Matka' was spread by word of mouth and through goodwill generated by countless philanthropic activities he undertook.

But another reason for his success was the game's format. “You can bet even with one rupee, so even beggars bet,” Shah lists. “You can bet on just one digit, and have better odds than at a lottery (odds vary from 1:9 to 1:15,000). And the process is so simple.” And still, the format of matka resembled that of a lottery, a fact that, coupled with a tremendous amount of bribe, prompted authorities to treat it lightly.

Suresh Bhagat
JAYANTILAL, VINOD AND SURESH BHAGAT

“The spread of matka In India has been phenomenal,” says Joint Commissioner Crime, Rakesh Maria, who's in charge of the Suresh Bhagat murder investigation. “It is has the capability of subverting an entire system. It is with this case that we have understood its magnitude. It is the underworld's economic pipeline.”

Though Maria refuses to state figures, another police officer quotes on condition of anonymity that rupees one crore is now the daily 'profit' generated by the business. “I left the family matka business 30 years ago,” claims Vinod.

“And so did Jayantilal (the eldest of the brothers).” While Jayantilal Bhagat diversified into the wholesale sugar market, Vinod started a film equipment business, supplying the latest in the field. “A popular area of diversification for all three brothers, as indeed many who transferred illegitimate funds to legitimate businesses was shops, given to a relative or friend to manage,” says Shah.

Suresh, known like his father for his acts of charity, often placed a person in need of a job in such a shop, for which he would pay the pagri (advance), on condition that he continue to receive a share of profits even after the pagri was repaid.

Vinod keeps emphasizing every once in a while that Suresh, despite being in the matka business had a “kind heart”. “He was a simple man. His only hobby, which is also mine, was listening to Hindi film songs,” continues Vinod, pointing to a closet full of Hindi film CDs. “Even if someone betrayed him, he would never harm the person… just tell him to get lost.”

Yet why did he not let the matka business go, even after it became dangerously imbued with underworld influence? “Whoever runs this business has too much power,” Vinod protests. “He didn't want it to go into the wrong hands.” Police sources believe otherwise: “No one would let go of a goose that lays golden eggs. Yet the business was slipping from Suresh's hands because he was unable to control the huge network of bookies it operated through.”

JAYA AND HITESH BHAGAT

Jaya Chheda had an arranged marriage with Suresh Bhagat in 1979. Vinod refrains from talking about her, simply saying, “I have my family to fear for. I don't want to say anything that may put them in danger.”

“Her father, who had a grocery store in Kalbadevi, was known as an extremely pious man,” cites a family friend of the Bhagats, as the reason for the Bhagats' choice of Jaya as bride. “The Kutchi community in Bombay held him in high regard.”

This friend and certain members of the family, while choosing to remain anonymous, cast a variety of aspersions on Jaya's “bad character showing early”, ranging from her being unduly ambitious and siphoning off the family's funds, to her alleged affair with Gawli aide Suhas Roge.

Jaya Bhagat
“She was eager to show off and live the good life, while Suresh had a modest lifestyle,” is the reason stated for the rift between the two. Suresh and Jaya's son Hitesh Bhagat (in his late 20s), meanwhile, is simply described as a wayward child, who takes his mother's side.

A source within the police department who witnessed Jaya's interrogation during an earlier arrest claims differently: “She cited endless instances of psychological cruelty by family members, culminating even in death threats.”

But even if psychologically oppressed and morally debauched, how did a traditional Kutchi housewife take over 70 per cent of a matka empire worth hundreds of crores? (An empire that she supposedly commands even while in police custody today, via her brothers Deepak and Kiran Chheda.) “The process was gradual,” the same officer continues.

“First she learnt the business from her husband. Then as her husband lost control over the bookies, they started referring to her. Even Roge was a person she met as a Bhagat family friend.” Her alliance with Roge, he says, could have facilitated her getting her husband trapped in the series of narcotics cases which kept him in and out of jail for three years.

Jaya Bhagat
When asked whether the murder of Vasant Shah in 1998, which the Gawli gang is accused of executing to safeguard Pappu Saavla's matka empire, bears a parallel to this case, police officers refuse comment.

Joint Commissioner Maria does too, but says, “The person who draws the card and calls the numbers (called 'chief' in matka parlance) holds immense power.

Enough to entail a mass murder like the one we have witnessed.” Put differently, Suresh Kalyan Bhagat’s ‘closing call’ came early, at around 2 pm, June 13, 2008. It would appear the matka was fixed.

the keyboard is stronger than the pen

This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.

The medium is the message"



- Marshall McLuhan



So waxed the metaphysician of media, and wrote in his Gutenberg Galaxy how the spreading of the written word meant communication among humans, earlier involving every sense, was reduced by the alphabet to "abstract visual code". This idiom has been utilized since long before McLuhan by statesmen, artists and scientists. None, however, bring forth it's essence as calligraphers do. And while the number of this ancient tribe dwindles in general, the Urdu and Arabic calligrapher's community in Mumbai, has faded from around 250, 10 years ago, to around 8 today.

Mehmood Ahmed Shaikh and Iqtedar Husain, whose offices lie close to one another on Tandel Street Dongri, are two of these eight. They came into the profession in very different ways, and work differently today. Shaikh, was prompted to become a calligrapher because his father was one. He began with a course in Anjuman Islam College, to work for a host of Urdu newspapers, learn further from renowned Ustads, teach in Maharashtra College and work for ten years in Saudi Arabia. His feathers include three Quran Sharifs and an array of poetry. A knee problem has disabled him from transcribing on the floor in the traditional way, and after a year's practice, he's gotten used to a chair and table.

Husain sits on the floor. He claims, "It takes three years for a calligrapher to just learn 'how to sit'." The only family he had in the field was a distant cousin, who taught him after he expressed his interest. Then came a variety of Urdu newspapers and magazines, before branching out on his own.

The tools of these artists comprise calligraphic nibs or a piece of bamboo, both cut to shape. Inks range from Camel to water colour paint to the German Rotring. Arabic styles consist of Sulus, Naskh (further divided into the Indian, Egyptian and Arabic Naskh), Kufi, Riq'a and Diwani. Urdu is penned only in Nastaliq. In Arabic, while Naskh is the most popular and used for scribing religious texts, Sulus is every calligrapher's favourite. "With Sulus, one has the liberty of giving 'shape to the beauty'," Shaikh says, displaying a leaf of his work. A religious phrase is written so it shapes into a religious structure. The beginning of the phrase is a minaret, the name of the prophet is emphasized in the dome, and the rest of the phrase forms it's base. Even, for plain writing, Sulus allows the calligrapher far more scope for improvisation.

The future of this art is symbolized in an old lithographic machine lying junked in Husain's room. When the Urdu papers did not possess computerized font, such machines was used daily to convert the calligrapher's work into print. Today these calligraphers, the survivors, continue to get work which cannot be done on the computer. But for such work only an experienced hand is required, and so while they manage, youngsters in the field, bereft of the livelihood once provided by the newspapers have shifted professions. Yet both calligraphers point out, that no breakthrough in any art can occur on the computer, which means that their generation's passing will impose a stagnancy on Indian calligraphic innovation, Urdu and Arabic. But patronage, akin to that provided by governments in the Middle East, and Hindu and Jain foundations here for Sanskrit calligraphy remains absent. Even the meagre Rs 5000 cash prizes once handed by the Urdu Academy has been revoked. Already, in the distinct style which marks Shaikh finishing another tower in Sulus, one sees another Babel, unfinished.

COOPERATING WITH CIRCUMSTANCES

This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.

COOPERATIVE INC.



This unassuming women's cooperative supplies 70 odd food items in it's ten canteens, garnering a turnover of well over one and a half crores, finds RIshi Majumder





"My husband was off work because of an illness. In addition my daughter had an accident. I earned money for her treatment, and more…," remembers Vaishali Chinchankar, as she carries a Tokdi of Chewda into the kitchen. "I came here when my husband passed away. Now I'm funding my son's B. Comb," beams Manisha Manohar Shinde, cutting onions and chillies at expert pace, minus a single tear. "Why do I want to be here? Well, this is the closest I've gotten to home," comes from old white-haired Sushila Vasant Chauhan, frying a Puran Poli. And that's it, really. Money's what makes the 120 odd women working at one of the ten Kutumbsakhi Co-operative branches gather. But what makes them stay for over 20 years (which each of the women quoted above have!) is the fact that this is their turf. "Each 'worker' has from one to ten shares in the co-operative," emphasises Cooperative Chairman Vandana Navalkar. These denizens of the urban lower middle class were too uneducated for an office job and too respectable to be cooks or maids. "Here they form an organisation of equals," Navalkar wraps up. Appropriate. For Kutumbsakhi means 'Family Friend'.

The Co-operative was started after a survey taken by a Sociology professor among 500 families, prompting her to recognise the need for self-employment. "But it's grown from 4 workers with a Rs 3,000 turnover supplying Roti Bhaji to 120 workers with a turnover of rupees one crore and eighty five lakhs supplying over 70 items," smiles Navalkar as she checks the Besan Ka Laddoos piled up in her Charni Road Headquarters Office at S K Patil Garden. It's branches extending from Nariman Point to Dadar, the Cooperative prides itself on being canteens, rather than mere Dabbawaalis: "For snacks as well as other meals most of our clients come to us to eat. The only publicity we have is Mouth Publicity." Umm, that's word of mouth publicity for the uninitiated. And what of the clients of this Best Women's Industrial Organisation Award winner? "Working couples, the older generation who want authentic foodstuffs no-longer made, school and college students on the look-out for good cheap food, regular office staff…" Navalkar begins to list, adding that clientele depends on the area… but spans every middle-class prototype.

The reason for this cooperative's swift yet steady growth has been the topic for an award winning college project as well as a thesis written by a Frenchwoman. "We give good Khaana and smiling service Na…" dismisses Chinchankar when questioned. "We're women so we know secret recipes to every festival," jokes Navalkar. Then getting serious she says, "It's because of the cooperative share system… with the direct dividends they get from the profits, there's never been a strike. Also look at the various dishes they've come up with!" Then abruptly, she rolls out her list of anti government grudges simultaneously with her menu-card. "The government doesn't give us space, or we could have made so much more," she grumbles doling out Sakhi Chiwda. A Rawa Laddoo comes next with a "They shut down school canteens because one in Kerala caught fire. Does that mean school kids have stopped feeling hungry?" Before offering the Wadas, she points to the paper plate and plastic spoon it's served with: "And now they want to charge a VAT for this! I never thought of a plastic spoon as 'Service'. But if the Government charges us for it, we'll have to pass it on." And the good'll continue to come with the bad, we hope...

SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE 2

This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.

"Around 15000 people surrounded the Koli basti nearby to burn it. I went with DCP Yadav and climbed atop of his Jeep. I clasped my hands together and said, "Just two things. If you want to burn Dharavi, please burn me as well. I want to die here."



77 year old Abdul Baqua's voice breaks as he recounts this incident from the 92 – 93 riots, and a stream of tears course down his face. In a few months time, he'll shift his factory from Dharavi to Ambarnath, which, sans financial aid, is being built via a huge bank loan. The government needs his land for the Dharavi Rehabilitation Programme. Baqua's Ideal Trading Company, manufactures sutures (used for medical stitches and to attach meat sausages to one another) for export to Japan, Europe and South Africa. His clinically clean factory is certified as per EU and WHO standards, despite being located in the midst of Dharavi's open gutters and unattended garbage dumps.



Baqua flaunts photographs of a team comprising doctors and officials from the Agriculture And Processed Food Products Export Development Authority inspecting his factory for these certifications in 1997: "They were impressed with the standard of hygiene. We were lucky they only visited Dharavi till where our factory is located. Touring the whole of Dharavi, might have biased them."

Business is down now, because his foreign clients don't want to place orders till the factory's location is certain. Still, four workers in a 500 square feet room reeking of phenyl sort the sutures as per diameter, washing off the slime. Large windows are screened to prevent dust or smoke entering the room. Hence the walls, though faded aren't blackened. The sutures (originally goat or sheep intestine) are then mixed with salt and stored in plastic barrels in a godown below. This room and the godown is the entire factory.



Baqua came to Dharavi from his UP village, at age 13 to earn and support his family. He mastered the sutures trade in a friend's Coimbatore factory however, before setting his own in Mumbai. An Italian exporter then took him on as partner to form Ideal Trading Company with a Dharavi factory, but left India soon after, leaving Baqua only with an international address book of suture importers. Inducting his brother, Kalim Shoaib into the business, they approached each contact till a Japanese company asked them for 2,00,000 yards of sutures, as mere sample. "It was a huge risk, but we sent it," Shoaib remembers, recounting how they then invited delegates to Mumbai, paying for their conveyance and stay in the Taj so they could inspect their factory. A nod from this company was the culmination of Baqua's long struggle, with many international orders following.



Moving to Ambernath means added transport cost for their raw material, thus pushing their prices up, and granting an advantage to already competing Chinese suture manufacturers. It also means laying off most of their 30 odd workers (some women) who won't be able to afford the daily travel to there. But Baqua speaks on the effect of rehabilitation on Dharavi at large: "Will the disruption of all these lives and livelihoods be compensated adequately?"

Baqua's unit, like every such in Dharavi resembles Japan's matchbox factories which utilize each square inch. Even homes are used or let out for work, with one table being enough to start an enterprise. A rough estimate of the productivity of these unrecognized industries was stated at over Rs 5000 crores. Much of this amount is earned from export, bringing foreign exchange into the country. By these criteria, Dharavi, attained the status of SEZ – which everyone's screaming for today – many years ago. A decline in crime rate post the Vardharajan era, has seen the area become only as unsafe as certain pockets of Juhu, or Bandra. The only reason that prevents Dharavi's recognition as an industrial estate then, is the dirt. Besides the fact that companies like Baqua's have constantly overcome this constraint, the larger problem of filth in Dharavi, could be solved by reconstruction, with proper drainage and road facility from the BMC. " Japan's factories are as crowded and congested, but they are located in clean areas," Baqua points out. He also points out that most banks in Japan claim interest on their loans only after the entrepreneur sets up his unit, unlike Indian banks which, despite being 'nationalized', bleed the poor aspiring entrepreneur without giving him a chance. Baqua's talks Tokyo, even as the government cites Shanghai. But the former, strangely, seems far closer to Dharavi's definition.

slumdog millionaire 1

This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.

At a factory near the T junction on Mahim highway, we watch Mustaqueem carefully sort pudina leaves to flavour our liquor teas, made painstakingly to order. "When I came to this city at age 13 to work, I was not paid for the first four months," he remembers. His work, at a Kamathipura garments factory, consisted of serving chai, besides cleaning the factory, washing the machines and carrying orders to places from 7 in the morning, till 12 at night. This was when, after the workers left, he would be allowed to learn how to work a machine for half an hour. He slept on the road outside the factory. His meal consisted of roti and salan, asked of some restaurant or house. After becoming a paid worker, he branched out at age 16 with two sewing machines in a relative's hutment at Dharavi.

Today Mustaqueem runs 12 manufacturing units (including sister concerns of the parent company) in Dharavi. 7 of them, owned by him, comprise 3200 square feet of space each. The unit we are on, on rented area, comprises 8000 square feet. He employs 900 people. All his garments, mostly girl's tops, skirts and capris, are exported to the US, and sold by names like MKM and Burlington. He earlier supplied goods to K Mart and Wal Mart as well, but discontinued because they were "too inconsistent with their order quotations".

How did he get here? Mustaqueem's eyes, study us even as he talks, with piercing intelligence. Having stood first in every class till class 6, his principal and relatives wept alike when he had to quit studies to earn for family. Once on work, the same intelligence prompted him to learn the trade quicker. Also radiating from his eyes, is quiet confidence. When a worker, he'd told many seniors that he'd have his factory someday, when they themselves couldn't dream of such. Some, humouring him, had said, "We'll work for you!" and actually went on to do so later. While deliberating on export too, the discouragement of close friends, didn't dissuade him. Yet this confidence is kept in check by a strong belief in God, which churning out an affable humility: "There are many more talented than me. I've succeeded because Allah has honoured me."
But that is every successful entrepreneur's story. What distinguishes Mustaqueem is what surrounds him. Workers as well as managers employed in his factories are taken on by Mustaqueem not on the basis of degrees, but on his reading of their ability. This approach is reminiscent of another man who rose from the garments trade, Dhirubai Ambani. He had hired a clerk, Indu Sheth, to spearhead his export strategy, a petroleum product salesman, Natwarlal Sanghvi, as his marketing manager, and an auto parts salesman as his knitting manager. These men went on to be counted among India's best business brains. Also reeking of this approach is the modus operandi of Sam Walton, whose company till recently was Mustaqueem's customer. 'Mustaqueeem Seth' in Dharavi is a respected name. He helps many with problems ranging from those with the municipal corporation to healthcare. He is a man known well by the police, government officials and politicians. But his decision to continue to centre his business here, stems from beyond this ring of influence. Through his own past, he understands a talent pool of Indian youth that is unable to obtain MBA, CA or CFA degrees. And that pool, hired as worker and inching towards 'supervisor', 'manager' and then 'owner', understand 'Mustaqueem Seth' through their present… and longingly, through their future.

NUMISMATIC SOCIETY - MUMBAI

This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.

"Bombay, 1770, 15 Rup.s"

- inscribed on the coin comprising the Mumbai Coin Society logo.



"Rs 15,00,000"

- the approximate antique value of that coin today.



"Money often costs too much."

- Ralph Waldo Emerson



We could transcend Emerson's judgment. Rs 15, in Bombay, 1770, would buy a mansion. Rs 15,00,000, in Mumbai, 2007, wouldn't afford a flat. Still, Sunderbhai Hall overflows with onlookers, and buyers. 50 stalls around the hall's periphery deal in coins, notes and medals marking periods of history, ancient to modern. Mumbai's best currency collections stand displayed in glass cases at the hall's centre, their proud owners ever eager to answer queries, or utter thanks to appreciative sighs. Experts, about to deliver a lecture, discuss numismatic points of distinction, pausing to deliver a sub-lecture to the impromptu crowd gathered around them. The Mumbai Coin Society, formed in 2003, and registered just some weeks ago, purportedly celebrates with this exhibition 60 years of India's independence, as also 150 years since the nation's first war of independence.

It also celebrates, perhaps unwittingly, a more personal freedom. After endless attempts to tie with other numismatic societies – which were as inactive as they were disinterested – the members that formed this society decided to go it alone. Many an annual exhibition, monthly meeting and educative lecture, the society numbered 120. This exhibition has already added 100 more (and counting) to their tribe of currency dealers, collectors and scholars. "The demand for old coins, notes and medals has shot up in the last three years," says Abul Razak Shaikh, the society's secretary who inherited the dealership of such items from his father, taking it to new heights.

Why? The collection of currency requires time (to procure and to maintain) and an in-depth knowledge (cheating is common in this trade). Why would someone in Mumbai's fast lane pause for so long? We spoke to a host of the society's committee members. Among them Ganesh Nene, whose collection of Maratha coins was sparked by some bequeathed him by his grandfather; Dinesh Agrawal, whose interest was aroused out of George 6 th coins his wife received as a wedding gift – he's now sending old currency bearing figures like 4 and 16 to a London auction; and Dinesh Hegde, who sprouted his hobby from pure curiosity, today boasting 1/12 Anna British coins (1942) which were never issued, because the government decided to melt the copper instead to fund the second world war.

"Investment," was the unanimous answer. With yearly returns extending to 100%, and price fluctuations far more stable than the sensex, currency collection enables middle and upper class buyers to build something like what Nene calls his "pension fund". Also providing them an investment subject a trifle more fascinating than balance sheets: each collector, following a separate numismatic specialization, studies the history of an era.

These reasons, coupled with greater Indian spending power and awareness are supposedly causing a boom in this "sector". So much so that committee members are actually considering petitioning the government to allow trade in such currencies (trading in heritage coins is highly restricted) under a regularized body such as the SEBI for securities exchange.

This would, along with providing investors an alternate portfolio option, preserve the country's heritage, preventing these coins from entering foreign hands. Yet, another channel prompting 'saving' (where the money stays as a reserve. Eg. gold) as opposed to 'investment' (where the money is used productively. Eg. Mutual funds, stocks and shares) might not be recommended now, when, 60 years into her independence, poised India needs every rupee. But even to restrict such effectively, the body the members plead for, is much needed.

RAIL GAADI RAIL GAADI

This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.

Shashank Mani, a management consultant, took a journey called the Azad Bharat Rail Yatra on the 50th year of Indian Independence with a train full of Indian youth bursting out of their coaches to define their country. The detour led him beyond Bharat's latitudes to write India – A Journey Through A Healing Civilization. 10 years hence, the quest continues. The Tata Jagriti Yatra 2008, will celebrate the 60th year of our Independence by taking 400 youngsters, between the ages of 18 and 25, to 13 cities and towns in 18 days. Only this yatra will focus on social entrepreneurship – by introducing Generation Next to veterans like R K Pachauri, Bunker Roy and Kiran Bedi. Mani, now Chairman, Jagriti Sewa Sansthan, gives us a one on one…





Why does the selection procedure involve only essays instead of meetings?

The candidates are allowed to submit essays in languages they're comfortable with, which are translated for us. As for meetings, some candidates are as far out as the North-East and don't have either the means or time to come to Mumbai. And we don't have the manpower to visit them. By future yatras, we hope to develop an alumni base spread out across the country to be able to meet candidates in their hometowns.



Urban middle class youth find it difficult to connect to small town, rural or below-the-poverty-line urban India. Social enterprise must come from those it affects.

Our target is those earning 40 to 120 rupees a day. They are not destitute, but not 'middle class' in the sense you and I are. They have a lot of josh and want to benefit from the nine percent GDP growth. We want to encourage them to start their enterprises instead of looking for jobs. We also want them to have a sense of purpose – a passion that only money can't bring. We want 70% of the yatris to belong to this group – though anyone's welcome to apply. But I suspect attaining such a participation percentage will take more awareness … and about five more yatras.



The revelatory nationalistic yatras of Gandhi and Guevara were stuff of legend. But they travelled in small groups. Such a large group will become insulated, with people interacting with each other instead of locals they visit…

That's why we are choosing people proportionately from different states to create an Indian microcosm on the train. We'll make sure, as much as is possible, that no two people from the same state share a compartment. This will create an undercurrent of tension – especially where language barriers exist – but we want that. So besides interactions with locals, interactions with companions will create a 'revelatory nationalistic yatra'. To add to this spirit, we will have group debates on issues at hand at various destinations with respective locals involved.

Discovering a country is accompanied by much myth shattering. Did any Indian myths shatter with the former Bharat Rail Yatra you undertook in 1997?

The 'Indian' myth shattered. Besides regional, communal and caste differences there are intrinsic differences in small town, rural and urban India. And there are further class differences therein. The 'people like us' vis-a-vis 'people like them' came to fore like never before. And yet a common gene pool, drive and viewpoint dwell beneath these differences somewhere.



Your earlier yatra was a home-grown revolution, watered personally. Why corporatize the cause?

The Tatas go back to one man who found a village to found a great industrial city (Tatanagar) - a very home grown revolution. Enterprise signifies not just individuals but groups coming together. These corporates exchanged many practical ideas with us. Some of these were not [perfectly] aligned with our vision, but most were.



You're starting your trip from Mumbai. How does the city fit in?

Mumbai consists of a variety of people with one common denomination – enterprise. How it copes with this influx of people is still a wonder. Many on the trip would be visiting Mumbai for the first time and we're planning to visit many sites, including Dharavi – to bring out the beauty and, sometimes, the beast that the city can be. Discussions will centre around migration – how it adds adventure and individuality to entrepreneurship, while being a stark reminder of the deprivation that exists in the villages and small towns that these migrants come from. Discussions will also centre on how many small towns will grow into cities in the next 20 years, and how their growth must be better planned than previously.

Social entrepreneurship can work only up to a point. Major changes come from mainstream politics, which is too murky for most youth to enter.

The answer is development politics. Youth should determine and work for a 'constituency', which should be geographical,[ not ]class or Caste basedbased. Once a sizeable proportion of work is done, they should try to translate their goodwill into votes. They might fail, but will still have achieved something.



You're starting your trip from Mumbai. How does the city fit into the discovery of India?

Mumbai consists of a variety of people with one common denomination – enterprise. How it copes with this influx of people – the human resource here varies from being a 'demographic dividend' to a 'demographic bust up' – is still a wonder. Many on the trip would be visiting Mumbai for the first time and we're planning to visit many sites, including Dharavi – to bring out the beauty and [sometimes]the beast that the city [can be]. Discussions will centre around migration – how it adds adventure and individuality to entrepreneurship, while being a stark reminder of the deprivation that exists in the villages and small towns that these migrants come from. Discussions will also centre on how many small towns will grow into cities in the next 20 years, and how their growth must be better planned than in the past.

Friday, March 27, 2009

WHAT HAPENNED WHEN HIMESH BHAI MET AN AUTOWALLAH...

This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.

THE REAL LOVE STORY – AN ACT IN FOUR SCENES



CHARACTERS:

Himesh Reshammiya: Playing self



Over 36 hit tracks in 2006, Filmfare, IIFA and Zee Cine awards, and a monthly controversy. Reshammiya continues as Bollywood's most loved-hated figure. His urban image is well summed on Orkut, with an 'I love Himesh Reshammiya' Community, an 'I hate Himesh Reshammiya' Community, an 'I hate those who hate Himesh Reshammiya' Community and, well, it goes on. In his acting debut Aap Ka Surroor – The Real Love Story too, Reshammiya plays himself.



Thampi Kurien: Playing self



Kurien is the 'Working President' of the Bombay Auto Rickshaw Union. Formed in 1983, the union has been responsible for moves ranging from effecting fare increases to fighting for the autowallah's designated areas. Official figures apart, the number of autos plying in Mumbai has been estimated at 1,00,000 – a vital votebank. Add to that President Sharad Rao's political clout.



Unknown Autowallah: Playing self



No introduction needed.



PLOT:

Many a music director sighs, "My music will be successful only if heard in an auto." Reshammiya's music is heard everywhere, but blaring auto stereos remain the common culprit. For Aap Ka Suroor… six auto rickshaws were flown into Germany for a shoot. The promos show three desi auto rickshaws bang onto swank foreign wheels. The drivers then confront adversaries approximately five feet taller. Cut to: Reshammiya doing a solemn salute.



SCENE 1

With Kurien and Reshammiya here, we hail an auto rickshaw in for the shoot.



Do you know Himesh Reshammiya?



Unknown Autowallah (UA): No?



The Bombay Auto Rickshaw Drivers Union?



UA: No?



Jhalak Dikhlaaja?



UA (grins): Haan!



But you don't know Himesh Reshammiya?



UA (stops grinning): Listen, it's time for dhanda now. Where do you want to go?



Himesh Reshammiya (HR): We're only doing a shoot?



No, we want text.



HR: A quote?



No, it's a one-pager. You and Mr Kurien.



HR: An 'in conversation with'? Okay, but listen, if people speak too much about an issue it sounds stupid. I don't want to sound stupid.



SCENE THREE

The autowallah lets us use his vehicle for the shoot, and Reshammiya speaks…



Thampi Kurien (TK): So saab, we have our union's silver jubilee anniversary coming along in 2008. Will you perform?



HR: Sure.



TK: So what made you do this tribute?



HR: It was my brother, friend and director Prashant Chaddha's baby. (pauses) I want to say here that I think the film will be a super hit, and Prashant one of the country's number one directors! He thought autowallahs have been with us right from Tere Naam and Aashiq to Jhalak and Surroor or even Just chill. Even when I changed my music to modern, Sufi rock… or whatever… they stayed loyal.



TK: But saab, why take them to Germany???



HR: The logic will be explained when you watch the film…



TK: We auto wallahs have a distinct taste in music. But when it comes to our stereos, we play what the passenger demands. And mostly, even if we switch to something else, the passenger tells us to switch back to your music.



HR: That's why what plays in an auto is no different from what DJs play in the clubs – music of a 'universal sensibility'. But it's great because autos are what the common man rides. An auto ride is the five to twenty minute 'stop gap' in between all the happiness, sadness and tension a person goes through. So the music they choose to hear then matters.



UA: Are you done?



SCENE THREE



HR: I think important issues for autowallahs would be petrol price hikes, fare increases and traffic problems. But we'll have to ask autowallahs themselves for the real issues…



TK: I'll list the most crucial. Fare increase is correct. In Thane the minimum fare is Rs 10, whereas here it's still Rs 9.



Reshammiya receives a phone call and leaves to answer it



TK: We need more auto stands, especially in Andheri. Private buses have started taking individual passengers, which is not allowed. They can only provide services on chartered basis…



UA: Listen, I wan't my money! And I want to leave! How much longer?



TK: Arre kya yaar! Ek minute. Finally, we need CNG gas stations, and access to certain areas in near Sion, which though ours is restricted by the police.



Reshammiya's back



TK: You know, autowallahs have for a long time been immortalized in movies. Rajnikanth, Shankar Nag and Mohanlal in the south, and Mithun Chakraborthy here have all played autowallahs to procure hits. Would you do the same?



HR: I'm a believer of destiny. If destined… why not?



SCENE FOUR



HR: God must have given Mumbai something to make it the 'dream city'. It's Mumbai's destiny. All I can say.



TK: All I can say too. Bhagwaan ne hi kuch diya hoga.



Reshammiya gets another call…



TK: But I know a lot of people including me, who wouldn't come all the way here to drive all day, if we had opportunities back home.



Reshammiya's back



TK: Because we don't, there's an influx of people, and a boosting auto licence demand. Like the entertainment industry – so many strugglers coming…



HR: My advice to anyone coming into this industry is believe in destiny, God and originality. Have thorough knowledge of your subject, and take your parent's advice before coming here. There's hard work, but without a divine force to inspire me and the viewpoint of thousands, I wouldn't have made it… Listen, please make a statement that everyone should come and watch this film?



TK: Yes. Everyone should! And, once again, you'll perform at our anniversary no? You said yes.



Another phone call. UA has found a passenger and left… in a huff.

THE BRASS IS SHINIER...

This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.

TOP BRASS

"Why would Mumbai be interested in brass works from Moradabad?" a world weary brass works dealer questions. Moradabad Metal House, which he works for, boasts a hundred inch tall brass vase in dull antique finish. It bears conceitedly a flowing, minute flower and leaf pattern, carved by hand in a span of 12 years, and painted in subtle red, green and blue enamel. In Akbarali & Co. gleams a hundred inch tall brass hookah, with similar geometric carvings. Riyaz Collections displays tiny brass toys for children, including a baby kitchen set, and Al Kausar Collections a variety of coffee sets fit for a variety of sheikhs. Engraved brass armours, swords and shields (for decoration), cutlery, surais, silapchis and badnas ( for use: washing a guests hands), khaas daans, paan daans, gulab paash (for sprinkling rose water), flower pots and even dustbins form the ensemble of these wholesale and retail units. Brass handicraft from most Mumbai homes (ranging from three to 100 inches in size) could eventually be traced to this string of stores on Ebrahim Rahimtulla Road, Pydhoni.

And from there, to Moradabad, UP, where each outlet owns a manufacturing unit. From these factories, in turn, shaped brass products are sent to artisans' homes, for the sawaari kaam which gives Moradabad its fame. Some of the Pydhoni outlets are over a hundred years old, during which time the artisans have faithfully been providing the city's common man with painstakingly detailed artwork he could afford, and show off.

"Today, many of Moradabad's best artisans are out of work, some of them having to pull rickshaws for a living," most proprietors sigh. The price of brass has shot up worldwide, and a shortage of the same in India necessitates import, adding import duty to cost. Chinese companies on the other hand are producing similar machine made iron or aluminium products which substitute brass ones at half the cost. "The demand today is not for longevity, but for cheap products which can be dumped easily, when tastes or trends change," a partner at Al Kausar, says, pointing to Moradabadi brass and Chinese iron hookahs next to one another. Middle class buyers who earlier bought brass, today overlook its intricate handmade quality and re-sale value (brass scrap ensures a return of upto half the purchase price), for the cheaper Chinese spin off.

Predictably, the government is the prime accused, for removing subsidies, ceasing tax cuts, promoting lobbying and signing a GATT which only led more competitors to this small scale industry's pie. But the Association of Small Scale Exporters recently formed would do better in collectively catching trends to suit their wares via interior designers in India and abroad, and getting their artisans to work on materials other than brass. Akbarali & Co., seemingly the most prosperous of the lot has started doing this to good effect. Else the artisan turned rickshaw puller from Moradabad might one day end up dead under a road rager's wheel, or hungry outside a BMC Commissioner's bungalow. Then, Mumbai will have to be interested.

JAZZ... BANDRA JAZZ

This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.

All That Jazz...

Artie Shaw's rhythm wriggles past the shut entrance door of Jude Valladares' Pali Naka apartment, beckoning passersby to ring the bell. Inside, sunlight gushes through large windows on either side illuminating the simple sitting room's only distinct characters: a sideboard altar, with a large picture of Mary and Jesus, and a mini desk with a turntable – playing Shaw, playing his clarinet. A low settee and centre table are covered with jazz records from Valladares' 500 odd collection, books on jazz, jazz magazines, jazz photographs, and record covers – one autographed by the great alto saxophonist Charlie Mariano. Valladares, a thin bespectacled man with a sharp moustache, has opened the door perfunctorily, before turning back to his turntable, eyes half closed, head subtly swaying. Rhythm is essential to jazz, which otherwise belies structure, and Valladares, referred to by jazz aficionados in the city as a 'jazz encyclopedia', doesn't want to lose his.

"The pre jazz era comprised work songs, rural blues, gospel songs, spirituals, classic woman blues, urban blues..." he begins. Valladares then explains ragtime and early jazz, the Chicago '20s, '30s swing, bebop, Woody Herman, Dizzy Gillespie's Afro Cuban, West Coast avante garde, East Coast free style, cool jazz, European jazz, new wave and fusion to wind up with jazz rock and funk of the '70s and '80s. He breaks only to play records and CDs demonstrating the style nuances he speaks of.

Valladares discovered jazz in 1963 in a Lonavla movie theatre: "Red Nichols' Three Blind Mice And Backroom Blues in the film 5 Pennies." Today, he calls it his "first wife". His reasons for preferring this genre are the same as that of most jazz loyals: "You can't listen to a pop song over and over again like you can do with bebop. And classical music doesn't allow for as much experimentation."

The Music Goes Round And Round by McCoy plays, followed by Ben Webster's Danny Boy, George Benson and The Big Boss Band rendering Skylark, T Monk's Epistrophy… Valladares insists on a different kind of jazz for each time of the day "like the ragas". He recounts tales of legendary greatness like guitarist Django Reinhardt's comeback despite two paralyzed fingers, the near blind genius Art Tatum, Stan Kenton co-ordinating 44 musicians, Maynard Ferguson lending his name to the MF Horn albums and Glenn Miller composing the Moonlight Serenade across a coffee table in 15 minutes. Valladares hasn't traveled much, but his listening to and studying over ten decades of a cult transports the faded sofa he reclines on to Kansas City's Sunset Café or a New Orleans jazz fest at will. The music born as the only expression of a suppressed community, to later be amalgamated and adapted by most countries has found yet another home.

In an age when everyone resorts to internet downloads or Google searches to assimilate such a repertoire, Valladares' knowledge and music stands out by being accumulated arduously, one book, image, magazine and record at a time. Yet, he never mentions using this understanding as a lecturer or businessman would. While changing a record yet again, he says: "Just as food and drink feed my body, I need this music to feed my soul." Valladares' road to redemption, like any, is an extremely personal choice, except for one necessary commonality – its length.

RECYCLE THIS...

This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.

TRASH MEANS CASH

"Matter is neither created, nor destroyed. It is merely transformed."

- discovered by scientist Antoine Laurent Lavoisier, 1785.



Located near Mahim Station, 13th Compound houses over 750 recycling establishments running a multi crore industry. The plot is further divided into smaller compounds, which recycle cotton, iron, steel, aluminum, wood, cardboard and plastic and, well, everything. The plastic recycling industry here was declared India's largest by a survey conducted by the NSDF (National Slum Development Federation).

Sanola, Jaleel and Banwari compounds are among the oldest. The rain fills the dirt tracks winding by the dilapidated sheds here with sludge. Till ten years ago, this sludge reached the knees, forcing godown managers to wear extra large gum boots. But today drain and road work by the BMC enables the workers to avoid deep ends if they tread carefully. Many still accuse the BMC of having used only Rs 3,00,000 out of Rs 12,00,000 donated for development, denying the area it's entitlement of concrete road. E ach godown, allocated for either sorting, grinding or heating, emits a different noise. The clinking of metallic scrap, whirring of plastic grinding machines and crackling of melting furnaces conjoin to illustrate the entire re-cycling process from behind closed doors.
In Jignath Plastic Recycling Godown, Sanola Compound, a row of workers sit on their haunches and deftly sort boxes, tins, bottles and plastic bags, without gloves. The items are divided into categories – 'LD', 'HP' or 'PP' – as per the heating temperature they require for recycling. Most workers hail from villages in Maharashtra, Bihar, UP and Andhra Pradesh. In Jaleel Compound a truckload of industrial machine scrap is downloaded for Agarwal's godown (one of the richest), after which the workers pause for chai. They share their histories, each akin to the history of any migrant labourer. Jamil left his village in Bihar four years ago because the farmland didn't yield enough. Kishenlal's land in UP was usurped, and he's now saving to pay off loan taken in establishing a small town family dispensary store. They've recycled their country lives for this hellhole (most scrap holds harmful chemical waste), till they can recycle them again, with a new job.
But the most significant recycling has been of the area itself. '13 th Compound' emerged because factories nearby used the marsh as dumping ground. The waste filled the wetland, and attracted scavengers, sprouting an industry. Today the godown owners, holding photo passes and paying rental to the BMC, prepare to shift shop and make space for residential apartments. Usman Seth, whose godown is one of the oldest, brings out a brochure for a 'Poorna Vikas Yojna', with a photograph of beautiful buildings and a lively football ground. "We will all play football!" he snorts, when asked what the workers and godown owners will do for a livelihood after the compound is demolished. New land chosen for the yards lie in Navi Mumbai. But each godown going to a different location there will disperse what is a mammoth symbiosis. And the workers, unable to travel so far, will try recycling themselves again. As a grinding comes on suddenly, erupting plastic pieces, a famous Kabir Doha quoted by Kishenlal resounds in it's drone, contradicting Lavoisier's law : "Chalti Chakki Dekh Kar, Diyaa Kabira Roye. Dui Paathan Ke Beech Mein Sabut Bacha Na Koye."

BHENDI BAZAAR GHARANA

This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.

Gharanas, using the guru-shishya system to maintain musical ideology since time immemorial, acquired a new significance in the nineteenth century. The withering of royal patronage forced musicians to migrate to urban centres, and the names of the gharanas (Agra Gharana, Gwalior Gharana, Patiala Gharana, Indore Gharana etc) marked the identity of not just their music, but also their hometown. But while most gharanas are named after where their musicians migrated from, the Bhendi Bazaar Gharana, Mumbai's only native classical music gharana, stands out as being named after where they migrated to.

The din of South Bombay (then Bombay City) was interrupted with music in 1870, when three brothers – Chajju Khan, Nazir Khan and Khadim Hussain Khan – left Bijnaur in Moradabad District, UP, to live with their brother, a merchant. Having trained under their father Dilawar Khan, they continued to learn: Dhrupad Damar Gayaki from Inayat Hussain Khan of Sahaswan Gharana, till by 1890, their music reached many a ear.

While some called their style the Moradabad Gharana, the brothers being dubbed 'Bhendi Bazaar Waale' by music loving citizens, led to a re-christening. Some say the brothers didn't stay in Bhendi Bazaar at all, but in a residential area known as 'behind the bazaar', a phrase corrupted by colloquialism to eventually give the Gharana's current name.

This name won it's fame by virtue of the generation after the founders' (disciples of the same). One important name from this generation is Aman Ali Khan (Chajju Khan's son) whose popularity in the 1940s led to the gharana's gayaki (singing style) often being called Aman Ali Khan Gayaki. Another, is Anjanibai Malpekar (who taught Kishori Amolkar) whose performances won the gharana nationwide recognition, even at a time when female singers were frowned upon by society.

Stalwarts from the third generation (most of them no more today) include Shiv Kumar Shukla, Pandurang Amberkar, Master Navrang, Ramesh Nadkarni and TD Janorikar. We've spoken to the current generation, which came after this.

While some critics claim the bandishes (compositions) of the gharana bear a resemblance to the Gwalior Gharana, the originality of its singing technique stands unrefuted, especially it's improvisation with Meerkhand Gayaki, involving an intricate weaving of laya (rhythmic tonal pattern) and taana (sequences in fast tempo). "Our rendition of the laya resembles a wave," explains exponent Shaila Piplapure, as opposed to a staccato. Another distinctive feature is the presentation of khayal (the rendition of a poem without accompaniment, followed by improvisations on the phrases). Sung in an open voice with the Akar, this demands immense breath control. "There's a lot of stress on pronunciation," says Shubha Joshi, another renowned artist from the gharana. Joshi adds that the improvisation allowed, more than most other gharanas, grants the students a versatility required to adapt to semi classical or even hindi film music. While many of the gharana's exponents have sung playback for the movies, the soundest testaments to this observation are Lata Mangeshkar and Manna Dey, who've trained under Aman Ali Khan. Two more distinguishing features, are the inclusion of Carnatic ragas in the repertoire and, as per renowned vocalist Meenaxi Mukherji "the quality of composition lent to Hindu devotional music".



The question of continuity, foxing many a gharana today, sounds particularly ominous here. Why? It's stalwarts have often refrained from public performances, thus leaving the gharana largly unpublicised. Some have had the misfortune of an untimely death (Aman Ali Khan for one), leaving behind fewer disciples than the other gharanas. There is an organised effort by these disciples. Suhasini Kolatkar, for instance, has besides singing, taught, organized annual conferences and documented the gharana's history. Piplapure and Joshi have taught too, and are willing to do so again. "Patience" however, is what every guru of today finds lacking in his or her shishya of generation next. Tradition demands a disciple stay at his mentor's house and give 10 to 12 years to be able to master this art enough to evolve it. But while the women in the profession often have to re-prioritize their career plans to look after spouse and child, the men have to do the same to be able to earn for such. "Giving too many singing lessons ruins the teacher's voice," says Joshi, who has chosen to remain a spinster to be able to dedicate herself to music completely. "Yet I've seen many a talented male singer do just that to be able to earn his bread."

The same 'patience' lacks in today's young listener, who has little time to cultivate a taste in music he cannot understand within the minute. While CDs of this music do today travel as far as France, this makes one wonder where the sales of this gharana (as some others) will lie tomorrow. 'Amar' (meaning immortal), ironically, was the pen name Aman Ali Khan used while composing his bandishes. But compositions, even those of genius, cannot live alone.

BUDHIA SURMA

This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.

Dear Sir,

I intend to place my order for Budhia Marka Surma. I am your customer for the last 60 years. Hope to hear from you by return of post.

Madan,

Ferozepur City.



A large eye, hand painted on a signboard, attracts attention even over Null Bazaar's frantic din. The brand, signed minutely on the corner reads "Budhia". These boards, hung for over a century on most surma shops in Null Bazaar, Pydhonie, Mandvi, Chakla, Bhendi Bazaar, Dongri, Umarkhandi, Nagpara and Madanpura are too renowned to require elucidation. On tracing their origin one reaches the aged but well maintained Datu Manji Padamshi Surmawala Company building at Palagali, Samuel Street. From this tiny two storeyed building, the company manufactures and sells Surma, Kajal and eye drops to the world's megacities (especially in USA, Canada, Saudi Arabia, Nigeria, Malaysia and Sri Lanka) and India's villages (in almost every Indian state). At a time when most traditional businesses go bust, Budhia Surma (the company's brand name) has a customer base rivaling that of many multinationals.

The ground floor houses the FDA (Food and Drugs Authority) approved manufacturing unit. Here the Surma is made by crushing Ladore stone to a powder smoother than talcum, and blending it with herbs. Certain varieties contain crushed pearls as ingredient. The Kajal is made from pure ghee, and the eye drop from high grade rose petals and herbal ingredients. Devoid of chemical, the products are made as per prescription from the Unani stream of medicine, hailing from the teachings of Hippocrates in Ancient Greece. The surma comes in black and white, and is divided into general and medicinal. While the general Surma is used to keep the eyes clean and healthy, the medicinal remedies a host of eye problems, including even early stage cataract. Further subdivisions are allotted as per the user's age.

A wooden spiral staircase, connects the ground floor factory, the second floor godown and a wooden office cum retail space on the first floor. Framed here, are two black and white portraits. One is of Ratanbai, who founded the company two hundred years ago with her Unani expertise. She was called "Budhia Mai" then, which led to the product's brand name. Next to her is that of her husband, Datu Manji Padamshi, who ran the company with her, and lent his name to the company.

Many cite Budhia Surma, as outlining a traditional world, soon to disappear. But it's sales grow by leaps everyday, extending every year into newer regions. The manager Santosh Sakate agrees that Surma, used by men and women alike, is more popular among the older generation. "But they recommend it to their children and grandchildren," he adds. "Who start using it."

But the products bridge a more significant gap. Sakate is difficult to interview because for approximately three weeks in a month, out of Mumbai, marketing Budhia Surma in the hinterland. The delivery of these products to unknown villages is done via post (considered more reliable than courier for such areas), and paid for by VPP (Value Payable Post). A postman once wrote to ask one for himself. On using it, he decided to buy it in bulk and sell it with every letter delivery. He's dead now, but his daughter runs the business, and other postmen have followed suit. Religious units (the Dera Sacha Sauda for one) buy Budhia products to distribute in charity, and grain sellers and rural banks offer them free to customers. The letter quoted from above, is one among hundreds received each week and would make for ideal Tata Sky customer ads, but Budhia doesn't advertise on TV or Radio. It generates this demand through striking signboards, advertisments in vernacular newspapers and earliest known marketing technique: being close to the customer. It is unlikely that the world it outlines will disappear, because that world forms the bottom of a pyramid, extending from the poor immigrant in New York, to the farmer near Ferozepur. Budhia's office, close to our metropolis' commercial centre (yet far?), makes us aware of this world, in a gentler way than Bollywood mascara... or Naxalism... would.

HOLDING FORT

This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.

Despite recent victories by heritage conservationists (toilet demolitions, heritage structure restorations, a UNESCO Asia Pacific Heritage Award Of Distinction) their principal problem, the 'encroacher' on and around heritage structures, remains and increases in number. The 'encroacher' belongs to a section categorized as 'urban poor'. One often wonders what the city's heritage means to such who, being less educated than most, might not draw a connection between their lives and subjects such as Gothic Architecture or British History.



Prabhakar Zanke was born in 1950, to a family which worked and lived in a coal company on the banks of a creek, in what would today fall under Sion. "This was a marshland," he remembers. "The coal was dried on the creek shore. On the opposite side was the Dharavi Koliwada." Next to the coal company was a small, old fort. Zanke's earliest childhood memories are of playing hide and seek in and around the fort, climbing it's walls after he learnt how to walk, and diving into the creek from it after he learnt how to swim: "We would stand on top, with the water waves hitting it's base, and threaten to jump into the river if scolded for failing an exam". Each monsoon left the fort's black stone walls blacker, covering it with dark moss. Travelers lost in the marsh would recount, "We saw a Kala Killa." And thus it was dubbed. "One day my school took us to Prince Of Wales Museum," Zanke continues. "I saw a picture there and told the teacher proudly: Look! There's Kala Killa! My family Killa! The teacher replied: No. That's Rehwa Fort."

The Rehwa Fort, this monsoon, is overgrown with weeds from the last few months and trees, from the last many years. Below a stone plaque which reads: "Built By Order of the Honorable Horn Esq. President and Governor of Bombay in 1737," and signed "Engineer", hangs a clothesline with a Lungi, a pair of shorts and a Gamcha. On it's rampart stands a flag bearing the emblem of the Bahjan Samaj Party (a victor in the last elections). Children still climb it to play hide and seek. But the creek they could have dived into has been filled and converted into the Kala Killa Bus Depot. The area, including a main road with the city's finest leather shops is called Kala Killa too, but the Killa baptizing these lies deep within a slum. The colony surrounding the fort was built in the early 1970s, when Zanke (then a worker in the same coal company) and his fellow residents resisted displacement: "Our grandfathers settled here. This was where our livelihood was." The government relented, and the colony then built was named Rehwa Fort Colony.

Zanke makes light of his back problem, clambering up the rampart, to impart a guided tour inside. Researchers, journalists and authors, from as far as Europe and Australia, have benefited from such tours, free of cost. "This is where the King sat," he points to a giant stone seat, now growing grass. "And these smaller seats, for ministers. And those, bench like, for soldiers." He then urges us to jump with him into a dark chamber in the fort's midst. "Thoda daring karo," he pleads unwilling to let us go without a complete look-around. Rumours abound of a tunnel from this chamber, connecting to the Sion Fort, but Zanke hasn't fond any such tunnel, despite endless searches.

We then walk around the circumference, tinier than even a single column apartment block. Shops – launderers and grocers – line a portion of this, with racks and closets put up against ancient stone. Next to the furniture Zanke indicates windows, opening into the chamber he wanted us to jump into. But these intrusions aside, Zanke and other colony members have steadfastly protected the fort from encroachment, to the extent of suggesting other land to migrants, so they don't use the fort's premises.

He last played guide to officials from the Archaeological Department. Kulkarni, a senior official impressed with Zanke's zeal, informed him of restoration plans: "The fort walls will be reinforced, the weeds cleared and the road leading to it widened. A 30 feet radius around the fort will be cleared to make room for a pathway around it." The colony residents will be rehabilitated in the Ashtavinayak Ratnadeep Dattaguru apartments to be built close by for 209 tenants. Zanke, now an advisor to the rehabilitation committee and appointed by the officials an "interim caretaker" of the Killa, has more to be happy for: "My children, one in class 12 and the other in 3 rd year B Comb, might get jobs looking after Rehwa Fort! Like my grandfather, father and me, they won't have to leave!"

HOLDING FORT

This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.

Despite recent victories by heritage conservationists (toilet demolitions, heritage structure restorations, a UNESCO Asia Pacific Heritage Award Of Distinction) their principal problem, the 'encroacher' on and around heritage structures, remains and increases in number. The 'encroacher' belongs to a section categorized as 'urban poor'. One often wonders what the city's heritage means to such who, being less educated than most, might not draw a connection between their lives and subjects such as Gothic Architecture or British History.



Prabhakar Zanke was born in 1950, to a family which worked and lived in a coal company on the banks of a creek, in what would today fall under Sion. "This was a marshland," he remembers. "The coal was dried on the creek shore. On the opposite side was the Dharavi Koliwada." Next to the coal company was a small, old fort. Zanke's earliest childhood memories are of playing hide and seek in and around the fort, climbing it's walls after he learnt how to walk, and diving into the creek from it after he learnt how to swim: "We would stand on top, with the water waves hitting it's base, and threaten to jump into the river if scolded for failing an exam". Each monsoon left the fort's black stone walls blacker, covering it with dark moss. Travelers lost in the marsh would recount, "We saw a Kala Killa." And thus it was dubbed. "One day my school took us to Prince Of Wales Museum," Zanke continues. "I saw a picture there and told the teacher proudly: Look! There's Kala Killa! My family Killa! The teacher replied: No. That's Rehwa Fort."

The Rehwa Fort, this monsoon, is overgrown with weeds from the last few months and trees, from the last many years. Below a stone plaque which reads: "Built By Order of the Honorable Horn Esq. President and Governor of Bombay in 1737," and signed "Engineer", hangs a clothesline with a Lungi, a pair of shorts and a Gamcha. On it's rampart stands a flag bearing the emblem of the Bahjan Samaj Party (a victor in the last elections). Children still climb it to play hide and seek. But the creek they could have dived into has been filled and converted into the Kala Killa Bus Depot. The area, including a main road with the city's finest leather shops is called Kala Killa too, but the Killa baptizing these lies deep within a slum. The colony surrounding the fort was built in the early 1970s, when Zanke (then a worker in the same coal company) and his fellow residents resisted displacement: "Our grandfathers settled here. This was where our livelihood was." The government relented, and the colony then built was named Rehwa Fort Colony.

Zanke makes light of his back problem, clambering up the rampart, to impart a guided tour inside. Researchers, journalists and authors, from as far as Europe and Australia, have benefited from such tours, free of cost. "This is where the King sat," he points to a giant stone seat, now growing grass. "And these smaller seats, for ministers. And those, bench like, for soldiers." He then urges us to jump with him into a dark chamber in the fort's midst. "Thoda daring karo," he pleads unwilling to let us go without a complete look-around. Rumours abound of a tunnel from this chamber, connecting to the Sion Fort, but Zanke hasn't fond any such tunnel, despite endless searches.

We then walk around the circumference, tinier than even a single column apartment block. Shops – launderers and grocers – line a portion of this, with racks and closets put up against ancient stone. Next to the furniture Zanke indicates windows, opening into the chamber he wanted us to jump into. But these intrusions aside, Zanke and other colony members have steadfastly protected the fort from encroachment, to the extent of suggesting other land to migrants, so they don't use the fort's premises.

He last played guide to officials from the Archaeological Department. Kulkarni, a senior official impressed with Zanke's zeal, informed him of restoration plans: "The fort walls will be reinforced, the weeds cleared and the road leading to it widened. A 30 feet radius around the fort will be cleared to make room for a pathway around it." The colony residents will be rehabilitated in the Ashtavinayak Ratnadeep Dattaguru apartments to be built close by for 209 tenants. Zanke, now an advisor to the rehabilitation committee and appointed by the officials an "interim caretaker" of the Killa, has more to be happy for: "My children, one in class 12 and the other in 3 rd year B Comb, might get jobs looking after Rehwa Fort! Like my grandfather, father and me, they won't have to leave!"

THE GUYS THAT MADE GOD LAST YEAR

This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.

"First, a tall iron pole. Then iron rods are welded to shape a skeleton, keeping the centre of gravity intact. Grass is stuffed and tied with rope and bamboo. Plaster, rope and Kathya (string derived from coconut shell) is used to give further shape. Then patchwork using POP (Plaster Of Paris), rolled out almost like chapattis. This is 50%. A second POP coating balances body contours. Knowledge of human anatomy is required for this. A third thin coating of POP is scraped and leveled to begin the 'finishing' process, up to the raised curve of each eyebrow. Then oil paint, primer and colour… finer shading… and a final finish for the final look."



- The making of the Ganesh Gully Ganpati idol – the city's tallest – described by its makers.



Gana: Group, category, class, community, association, corporation.

Pati: Lord

Ganapati: Lord of 'the order'.



- Definitions cited from various dictionaries.



In 1893, Lokmanya Tilak took the annual Ganapati festival from private family celebrations to public gatherings, to bridge the gap between Brahmins and non-Brahmins and build a grassroots unity. The festival served, according to him, "as a rallying point for Indian protest against British rule". By the 1970s and early 80's, the festival was celebrated nowhere as in the Dadar, Lalbaug and Parel areas. A primary reason: the vast population present, comprising mill workers. The trend of giant idols caught on, almost simultaneously, with the Mill Worker's Movement, both serving as rallying points for workers of every caste, region and even religion. Not so far back in 1996, the God of good beginnings blessed another order, formed in 1992, to be registered thus: Brihanmumbai Ganesh Murtikaar Sangh.

"Murtikaars (idol makers) were being exploited by businessmen, not given facilities by the government, and yet held to ransom by customers," Gajanan Tondwalkar, current president, recounts. Born out of miniscule meetings, the organization expanded as news of results achieved, especially vis-a-vis the BMC, spread. Results like getting electricity connections on a priority basis, which otherwise a murtikaar would get only by the time the festival was over, courtesy red tapism.

"Today, a major concern is of the trade being flooded by businessmen who concentrate on quantity rather than quality, will be addressed by petitioning the government for a training facility," says Rajan Jhad, a third generation murtikaar and treasurer of the Sangh. This facility will ensure a certain quality of craftsmanship in the next generation's trade. The Sangh also intends to plead for a role in the selection process for the Ganpati Prizes doled out by the BMC. "This is to ensure that the judges appointed are qualified to gauge such a specific art, and to avoid partiality," Tondalkar explains. Finally, smart moves include inviting sponsorship from companies producing the oils, paints and POP the murtikaars use in return for advertisement, keeping donations and subscriptions in a Murtikaar's Emergency Fund as an insurance against accidents or business mishaps, and vying for handicrafts initiatives launched by the centre or state government so as to provide seasonal Murtikaars with year long employment in the profession.

"The most vital issue confronting us is the proposed POP ban," says Shashikant Bagwe, the eldest of three brothers who have been making the Ganesh Gully Ganpati for some time now. POP, enables a murtikaar to make 30 idols in a day, whereas natural clay would take 3 days for a single idol. This is in addition to the fact that the latter is far more expensive and breakable. And finally, lies land: "If we don't get BMC permission and land for the mandaps (shed for making the idols) in time, we can't deliver in time for the festival," Tondalkar states simply, adding that while June was when they should have ideally gotten their mandaps up by this year, they weren't able to do so till July end.

But while what they have been and are fighting for is significant, the most fascinating aspect of the order is its composition. Most of the Murtikaars hail from the Konkan region, where many mill workers came from too. "I was a mill worker, and worked as a Murtikaar only during the festival in my village," says Anna Shetge, a senior member of the Sangh. "After the mill worker's strike in 1982, we were left suddenly with nothing. And I turned my hobby into my profession." Despite the strike's fallout, Shetge speaks in support of its leader Datta Samant, holding on to a communist ideal as he does to his god. The Sangh also has among its members a Muslim, and a Christian. Such integration is best enumerated by Tondalkar, in describing the Ganesh Gully idol's most essential feature (he too, has been it's crafter): "Not one part of the idol is made separately. It is all built at one time, in one place. But the centre of gravity should stay intact."

^%$@^& GARDEN...

This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.

Gaandu Bageecha

…Ananta Kaalcha Andhera

Aani Soneri Kinaara



O A*** - F*****'s Park!

…An eternity of darkness

Lined by a golden shore.



- From Gaandu Bageecha, by Namdeo Dhasal, translated by Dilip Chitre.



The Gaandu Bageecha inspiring Dhasal's lines is Durgadevi Udyan, located on Duncan Road, Do Talky. A two minute walk away lies Kamathipura Gully No 1, the nearest of the red light gullies. It's called ' Hijra Gully' for the specific sexual service it offers. Till 15 years ago, the park was a quick pleasure spot for those renting hermaphrodites, eunuchs or transvestites from the gully, hence the garden's crude nickname. The lane's proximity also led to community Hijra activities, including the emasculation ritual, which makes a man Nirvan or a 'true' Hijra, and cataract operations for Hijras denied hospital admission. The park was then renovated, and secured by home guards. But despite replanted greenery, children's jungle gyms and slides, and a woman's-only area, no 'decent' middle or upper class citizen visits it today. It is populated only by occasional political or activist gatherings, and frequent junky and street gambler meet-ups. The latter ensure that the stigma imposed by its erstwhile occupants endures.

Hijra Gully, like any red light area and its inhabitants, changes from surreal shades of blue, green and red at night to grey poor-locality-drabness during daylight. The Hijras live in a decrepit but vast four storey building, with a gigantic blue tarpaulin veiling slow repair work in one wing. Each Hijra belongs to a Gharana and a Guru, photographs of whom are framed and given pride of place in their rooms. The make-up and stylized glances of these portraits resemble a '60s Bollywood heroine's. 'Zeenat Aapa' is one such Guru, who, bedecked in orange chiffon and ornate gold for a function, might pass off for a heroine if captured on film reel even. Hailing from the Poonawaala Gharana, she came to Kamathipura from Hyderabad 17 years ago. Treated with respect by most Hijras, she has allied with many social work organisations (Humsafar Trust, DAI Welfare Society) and political parties but is too disillusioned to join any. She talks in between answering phone calls regarding a man in love with her, who's telling everyone from the local police inspector to the local don that they're married. "I only remember him creating a ruckus, and us throwing him out," she replies patiently. "That doesn't make me his wife."

"We've received support from political parties like the Congress and Shiv Sena," Zeenat begins, her gaze intent, intelligent and judging. "But old issues continue to haunt." The root issue being a continuing social boycott, which means that no one will give Hijras jobs, or do business with them, leaving two recourses: prostitution and begging. "And prostitution too is now waning," she continues. With Kamathipura being a publicised red light area, once regular clients are now scared to be seen here. An older problem compounds this one: policemen harassing prostitutes standing on the road, if only to claim higher Hafta. "I've retired," Zeenat finishes, her lips hinting at a smile. "But I worry for the others."

Dhasal, a Dalit activist, indicates broader meaning to 'untouchable' when speaking of Kamathipura as his "Do Number Ki Duniya" (second class world) because of the way society regards it. This urban untouchability is categorized by poverty and prostitution. The Hijra's untouchability, categorized also by sexuality, can be traced to the beginnings of British rule. During earlier periods of Hindu, Buddhist and Muslim rule, the Hijras were treated with respect (as even scriptures document), given positions of official power and included in mainstream life. The proportion of Hijras in prostitution was more or less the same as that of women, or even men. The British labeled them 'sodomisers', banishing them from society, as was done with transgenders in the West. Indians parroting such 'modern western thought' changed attitudes accordingly. Still, a Hijra being called 'Chakka' isn't different from an Indian being called 'blackie', or 'wog', while being kicked out of train compartments, clubs and jobs. We fell united by our untouchability then, as we stand divided by it today.

BOM - MUM - BOM - MUM...

This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.

"Bollywood flash, big-business blitz and the crushingly poor."



That's how the Lonely Planet website introduces Mumbai. The largest independently owned travel guidebook publisher in the world features our city in its Go List section as one of 30 most exciting destinations for the year ahead, and one of the top 5 places to "lose yourself" in.

Then under sub-sections, it attempts to capture objectively the breadth of the Bombay experience. We've chosen the same sub-sections, to attempt to capture, very subjectively, its depth. Because, lonely planeteers hoping to lose yourselves in this city, you must never trust a guide who lures you in the spirit of the 1956 Hindi film classic: "Ye Hai Bambai Meri Jaan." Follow instead, one who offers himself and his city thus: "Ye Hai Bambai: Meri Jaan."



See:



Pila Haus, Kamathipura

The name derives by bastardization, from 'play house'. Once renowned as the city's entertainment hub, this area has grown infamous today for nightlife of a different variety altogether. Which is why we're not touting the nightlife. We're touting the play houses, which have now been converted into cheap cinema halls showcasing 80's Bollywood cinema for tickets as cheap as Rs 12. What with multiplexes being available the world over, and the dollar not doing too well, it might be worth a checkout? Not far from here is Naaz Theatre and building, the canteen of which once served as a stock market for Hindi film distributors. It still services those dealing in Bhojpuri, or B grade films, or English films dubbed in Hindi.



Angadias, next to Roxy Cinema, near Charni Road Station

These traditional couriers of yore can be found in many spots around the city. But the location mentioned host the largest number of them in one building. They carry casually in their pockets diamonds worth millions to Surat and back, forming the backbone of the country's diamond polishing industry. Not that this is a tourist destination. The guards at the building entrance are sure to halt you, wherein you must say you have business with the Angadias. But then what inspired the Wall Street Journal to an article, which in turn inspired Michael Douglas to a film, might inspire you to a gatecrash.



Dharavi, from Mahim, Bandra, Sion or Dadar.

To discover this NGO magnet, you must ask. Ask at Mahim Station for Dharavi. Ask at Dharavi for Sakinabai Chawl – wherein lies a colony of goldsmiths; for Kumbharwada – where migrant potters have settled and worked since long; for textile factories, for leather manufacturers, for auto parts… uncover in what is designated Asia's largest slum, Asia's most magnificent enterprises. Why should factories interest you? Because they overlap with homes, with workspace being rented out per table.



Chinese Temple, Mazagaon

What better way to learn about a city than from its minorities. The city's only Chinese temple, declared a major landmark in the area, actually comprises only two rooms at best. Yet if you visit it in the evenings, the lighting will be simple but spectacular, reminiscent of the spirits of Chinese sailors who started it. If you're lucky enough to catch the Chinese New Year, with its fireworks, the lighting will be just spectacular.



Akhadas, N M Joshi Marg.

Equidistant from Lower Parel and Curry Road station, this mill worker bastion still flourishes with six or seven of the one thousand akhadas that once dotted the city. Watching office goers and factory workers step out of their metropolitan outfits to wrestle traditionally in the mud can be a very interesting experience, by virtue of being unlikely. Near the Girni Kaamgaar Akhada in the same area, a 93 year old gentleman called Netaji Palkar lives and teaches fighting with ancient weapons (including the battle axe) for only Rs 10 a month. Why? Find out.



Eat:



Noor Mohammadi and Shalimar, Mohammed Ali Road.



Old restaurants serving the city's most authentic Moghlai fare. Noor Mohammadi, frequented regularly by film star Sanjay Dutt, has a chicken dish prepared as per his recipe – called 'Sanju Baba'. If you sit in the non-family section you'll hear the following exchange repeatedly: "Ek Sanju Baba Dena." "Ek Sanju Baba Jaldi." "Ek Sanju Baba Tayar!" Shalimar has special rooms, where one can sit cross legged on mattresses and lean against bolsters in an enclosure to enhance the Mughal experience.



Shop:



Mohammed Ali Road



Once a hotspot for tourist shoppers, a great flyover now carries them above it's wares. Whether it's Moradabadi brass ware or new age furniture, here's where you're likely to find some of the best prices. A tip for those intrigued in a phenomenon called Chor Bazaar: go on Fridays when the market is closed. That's when the dealers from all over Mumbai and India come in to sell their wares to those who will sell them to you.



Lamington Road



And why would anyone want to shop for electronics or computer ware in Mumbai? Because this area provides you components for the same, at prices which are likely to match those at the Hong Kong flea market.



Nightlife:



Mujra, Bachubhai Wadi, Faaras Road



Ask here for a "Mehnati Mujrawaali". This would mean she's trained for long in both Kathak and classical singing. Mujra is an amalgamation of these classical forms, with added variation over the ages. It is often frowned upon and likened to prostitution, but enjoying it in the right spirit will provide you a unique experience from these exponents settled here for over hundred years.



Narangi Bar, … anywhere!



The Deshi Daru, if good, will knock you out for the night. If mixed with battery, it'll knock you out for life. Reliable names don't remain reliable and change frequently as ownership does. So do try to catch a regular consumer of such liquor, and ask him to recommend a place he currently inhabits. If possible, take him with you and ask him to raise the toast.