Aha Zindagi

Stepping out of a Mumbai restaurant one afternoon we hit the road, dodging vehicles before stepping onto the footpath where clear walking stretches beckoned, and getting off where they broke off to let an inside lane connect to another and so on.

I like walking on sidewalks lined by trees, a rare opportunity in Mumbai, often watching leaf patterns that light sneaking through sparse canopies makes on the uneven floor and the road. In watching leaf patterns ‘sweep’ the floor and the road in a lightly stepping breeze my spirit often matches its intent if not its rhythm. And it is not the only reason I avert my eyes to the footpath, sometimes I do it to dodge a homeless man asleep on the sidewalk like the one I passed the other day, muttering ‘Kya Zindagi !’ (What a Life!) under my breath even as I cast a backward glance at him without pausing on my way.

Another place, another time his image might have lingered on in my mind. The three of us walked on, I trailed behind. Approaching a bend in the path an advertisement fixed to a branch of a tree by the sidewalk caught my eye. A few steps and the letters in Hindi stood out clear ‘Aha Zindagi’ (Aha Life), loosely translated ‘Aha Zindagi’ is what I might say to a bloke who stays only ten minutes from where he works, and gets to step out to lunch at home, and whose only experience of Bombay rush-hour trains is from the Amol Palekar starrer Bataon Bataon Mein that he saw with his parents as a kid after promising them he would stay quiet the entire duration of the film – in short ‘Wow, what a life’.

I might have walked on after reading the advertisement if not for a movement in the corner of my eye. Turning my face away from the ‘Aha Zindagi’ in the tree I notice a cat reclining on the ledge of the compound wall to my left, licking itself lazily as if to whet its appetite for the meal of rice and dal that awaited His Majesty on the ledge behind its hind-quarters.

Watching His Majesty stretch out in between all the pampering he was administering himself I flip the camera open and mutter under my breath, ‘Truly ‘Aha Zindagi’”.

To read the board in the tree, click the image to open it enlarged.

A Prestige Issue

Each time I raise my head in a Bombay lane to see where I’m going it surprises me to see surroundings I didn’t know existed, more so when I have been that way before. I would have thought that a walk through a lane is good enough to notice everything there is to see along the lane - buildings, names of buildings, shops, names of shops, compound walls, gates, name plates, and any prominent landmarks like temples, and petrol pumps among other things.

Over time I’ve learnt that it is not so simple, at least not in Bombay (renamed Mumbai). One way to look at it is there is something new to see each time you pass that way unless of course you pass that way so frequently that you eventually see everything there is to see and get around to remembering it all.

Thinking of it I believe that unless I were to raise my head at the same spot along the lane each time I take it chances are I’ll notice something new even if it is only for a moment that I raise my head before returning my attention to the footpath. A slight delay in doing so and I run the risk of stepping on a sleeping form on the footpath, bumping into a tree that rises along the edge of the sidewalk, twisting my ankle where the floor has gone missing, stumbling against hawkers’ wares, stepping on dog-droppings or even worse human-droppings. Then there is this continuous stream of folks coming from the opposite direction that I need to dodge to avoid stumbling over.

So, much as I watch with a smile television footage of bumbling personalities of ‘note’ tripping over weak knees wobbly from age but reluctant to let go of levers of power, making a spectacle of themselves while the nation suffers the indignity of parading weak-kneed netas who literally need to be held up on their way to the dais where a speech exhorting the nation to march ahead with its head held high awaits, I would much rather avoid making a spectacle of myself on the footpath even if I’m a nobody. There is nothing graceful in a fall, even if it were an accident.

I’ve noticed people who’ve lost their footing while walking, tumbling to the pavement and on regaining their footing rushing on without meeting sympathetic eyes, driven along as much by embarrassment as by the indignity of it all. A fall is ungainly, an antithesis of all that is dignified, besides looking foolish. A certain fallibility is associated with a fall, any fall else how does one explain ‘he’s fallen in my eyes’, ‘it’s beneath my dignity’, ‘his self-esteem fell’, ‘a fallen woman’, ‘he fell from grace’?

So, when I took an infrequent path one day not far from the Matunga Road station, keeping my head down to avoid the indignity of falling over any of the many reasons ‘inhabiting’ Mumbai footpaths, I raised my head ever so momentarily only to be pleasantly surprised to see this building I had missed noticing earlier.

I smiled before dropping my head and turning my attention to the footpath for, there was little time or for that matter, space, to actually pause on the footpath and look around. To do so would mean suffering the indignity of being stared at by a stranger for blocking their way, or worse still being rudely shouldered aside.

In other words it would mean 'a loss of face', and with it prestige.

As to why it took me another trip that way several days later to notice the other building not far from the first one, well, I would have to start all over again to explain it!

Dignity is after all a prestige issue. So long!

October Heat

Off Matunga Road station on the Western Line, certain Mumbai pockets live on in relatively quiet lanes. Occasionally on rounding a bend in a lane buildings and houses with a distinctly early 1900s look grace the sidewalk, typically tracing their origins to the 1930s, 1940s, and the 1950s. It is not uncommon to find the year it went up prominently displayed over the entrance. I look out for them when passing by.

Returning by one such lane, I leisurely traced my feet on a sidewalk. It was to escape the heat of the midday Sun that I took to the sidewalk, walking under the shade of trees lining the path. Just as I moved aside to avoid stepping on a middle-aged man taking a nap on a plastic straw mat laid out on the footpath my eyes caught a headline in a page of a newspaper he had placed under his elbow that was jutting out of the mat and onto the pavement.

I didn’t stop to read it lest I stir him awake. I muttered ‘How Apt!’ before continuing on my way.

Later in the evening the skies rumbled before raining! Somebody up there must have read it and thought it appropriate to welcome November.

Welcome, November!

To read the headline, click the image to open it enlarged.

Kala Ghoda Diwali Utsav

The Kala Ghoda Association hosted a crafts festival in collaboration with HSBC as a part of its Diwali Utsav celebrations through the weekend, ending Sunday the day before. Though there was little of Diwali in the celebrations there was enough variety to keep the audience in its seats in the open air auditorium between the Bombay Natural History Society’s Hornbill House and the Jahangir Art Gallery. The street came alive with a string of stalls, including those catering to food enthusiasts, and the stage where light, sound, and music stepped it up for the artists. We reached just as the Bharatnatyam exponents took to the stage to entertain the weekend crowd.

Later, Raell Padamsee's band of school-going children revved it up with a spirited performance.

Gary Richardson introducing Brinda Miller to the audience. Brinda Miller is a painter and is actively involved in making the Diwali Utsav happen.

Then Gary Richardson took to the stage with Nisha Harale in two interactive plays. Gary was fluent through the performance and pleasantly energetic but I couldn't help feeling that they picked up themes that didn't sit well with the Utsav, but then scripting plays that do not rely on a bit of hot spice to raise a laugh is never an easy proposition. Another place, another occasion, the same plays might have been perfect!

Alyque Padamsee holds forth from the table, attempting to make the obvious memorable until it was neither.

Max and Harry let the guitar flow to a soothing rendition of Don McLean's 1971 classic 'American Pie' before following up with equally memorable tunes.

The music changed pace again, quickening to the rendering of the Ganesh Vandana as the lights dimmed.

There was little doubt that the evening had something for everyone.

A Tight Frame

It was outside the Jahangir Art Gallery that we saw the poster advertising form and re-form, a photography exhibition at the Piramal Gallery in the NCPA complex adjoining Marine Drive, not far from the Air India building.

I paused, rewound ten years, and wondered if it was the same Joginder Singh, the slightly built Sikh lad holding forth on nature and environment while transparencies played out on the wall behind him to an eclectic audience gathered in the gallery at D’Souza Towers in the heart of Panjim for the opening of his first photography exhibition.

When I reminded him yesterday of the Jute frames he had used for his nature photographs back then, Joginder Singh laughed out loud and said, “That’s all I could afford then.” However I suspect it might have had more to do with his inclination towards nature conservation if his theme then was anything to go by, nature patterns close-up. I distinctly remember him telling the audience gathered in the basement gallery that day of an incident in a train where his fellow passengers were chucking their plastic tea cups from the window, littering the tracks in the countryside and the argument it triggered thereafter.

The talk had taken a passionate turn then while his photo slides projected instant stories on the wall behind him. In between he had made mention of Panchkula. I hadn’t heard of Panchkula until then. A news item in the Indian Express soon after reported the trapping of a leopard in Panchkula. I can still summon to my mind the picture of the leopard trapped in a cage. For reasons I cannot quite fathom I came to associate Joginder with Panchkula, Panchkula with the leopard, and the leopard with Chandigarh - a chain of associations that even if not true to their pairings served to file away the memory of that event to the back of my mind. Goa did not afford many opportunities for viewing photography efforts. Moreover it is surprising how passing time stitches fragments of remembered moments into no logical sequence even as it reminds one of the contiguity threading the seemingly random fragments together into a disparate whole.

“Ten years is a long time,’’ Joginder Singh says as we take a round of the gallery. I nod and say, “Yes, it sure is a long time.’’ He hasn’t changed much physically except for his beard. Now he wears it long. I tell him that he talks more freely now. He smiles.

I turn my attention to his exhibits. Each image cuts a distinct identity. I would suppose it is a natural outcome of zeroing in to a form’s architectural essence where lines emerge before running on to a larger interplay of intersecting contexts. Joginder has captured the essence cleanly.

Joginder Singh is a 70’s child. He trained as an Architect before practicing as one in Delhi at the Laurie Baker Building Centre in the mid-nineties before moving to Goa to work with Dean D’ Cruz for a year. “I loved doing the Laurie Baker kind of Architecture. Baker has been an inspiration, an ideal and everything. So when I moved to Goa to work with Dean who was doing similar work but for a different clientele, it involved a different expression but used similar (Laurie Baker's) ideology."

Looking at his photographs uniquely display light as the recurring theme, at times highlighting forms, other times pushing them to the background, I reflect on his use of the term ideology with context to the Laurie Baker style of Architecture and wonder how deeply might such an approach influence his photography as in narrowing his focus to a distinct thread while ‘blanking’ out the tapestry it is a part of. Would it for instance enforce a continuity of thought as an underlying thread stringing together visually disparate elements of what are essentially distinct structures but which when stripped off their larger contexts appear to belong together.

Pictures of Jantar Mantar (Delhi and Jaipur), the Padmanabhapuram Palace and a Ladakh monastery will sit together not merely as distinct eras but equally strongly as distinct emotions, each evoking in its form a completeness that cannot be mistaken for one another. However if you were to zoom into each of the three and settle on an emerging curve or a line form in the structure, the elements now stripped of their eventual contexts lose their larger identities as a Jantar Mantar, a Buddhist monastery or a Padmanabhapuram Palace and stand on their own in unison as if derived from a common architecture.

Elements combine to give a monument its identity and vice versa. To make a structural element stand on its own even when stripped of its overall context is a challenge to a photographer, even more so when exhibited in a series. There is a danger of sameness negating the very mood it seeks to create. However Joginder Singh has ‘harnessed’ light well to break the monotony and it is his use of light in delineating contrasts in his photographs, essentially minimalist in nature, that brings life to the series, casting original forms in a new light, a re-form as Jogi likes to call them.

A lady tourist who’s been going through the exhibits in silence steps up to Joginder and congratulates him on his work, her eyes lighting up. The colours appeal for sure but rendering forms stripped to their bare essentials can make for riveting viewing if cast in an eclectic play of light, where shadows play out in consonance with solid elements.

Talking of forms Joginder says, “Basically it is a process of elimination. Boiling it down to essentials where as a photographer and an architect you’re communicating the form, and you’re seeing that communication happen when things are falling into the frame.” He pauses before continuing. “It is not an analytical or logical manner, not based on any rationale but it’s just that things have fallen in place, visual synchrony I would say.” And sweeping his hand to take in the breath of his exhibits in the hall, he says of them, “Lot of these images are symmetrical.”

Joginder’s graduation from Nature photography to Architectural photography happened with his switch from being a full time architect to ‘wanting to pursue photography as a medium.’ He said, “I was thoroughly enthused with photography even while I was studying Architecture and practicing it. So I realized I could not do justice to photography if I continued as an Architect. I had to choose one.”

After returning to Delhi from Goa in 1998 he left for Himachal Pradesh for two years to help design 24 primary schools across three districts for the District primary Education Program. It was there that he began photographing architecture as a part of the project to help document the architectural heritage of those villages. “It was important to ensure that our designs did not stick out like sore thumbs. We did resource mapping of materials and resources in the village and designed accordingly.”

Joginder’s team once sourced a landslide near the site for rocks to use in construction. “In lower areas we did a bamboo and ferro-cement combination,” he recalls. “For two years I worked intensively on that project. My involvement in the third year reduced but I continued to contribute remotely to the project for a year after returning to Delhi.”

Then he shuttled between Delhi and Trivandrum in Kerala ‘to study Laurie Baker’s work in original’. He attributes his interest in Laurie Baker’s work to a trip he undertook to Kerala with the students of the Goa College of Architecture where he was teaching photography as an elective subject while working with Dean D’Cruz, a Goan Architect. “Until then whatever I knew of Baker’s work was from reading books. So with a little money, a camera and some film rolls I made for Trivandrum and started shooting Baker’s work.”

The Kerala connection bore fruit with the release of the book Glimpses of Architecture in Kerala – Temples and Palaces by Rupa & Co. in 2006. Flipping through its pages I’m struck by his use of light to highlight the temple and palace architecture of Kerala, a heritage so distinct from that of other Indian states as to be striking. Standing there I can only imagine the experience the project must've afforded him, footloose in the beauteous coastal landscape. Ramu Katakam wrote the book while Joginder Singh executed the photography to illustrate the book, a visual treat. It is priced at Rs. 995.

Talking of light and form he says, “Working on commissioned projects where I have to shoot the project in its totality I have to wait for the light, because form has been designed. Form is basically what? It’s an enclosure yaar, right? If you have an entrance to it, you’ve got light into the form or it’s all around the form. It’s eating out something from space and interacting with light. So, light is there and you need to capture that, y’know.”

Then turning to face the wall behind him he points out to one of his exhibits, “If you look at that second picture on the wall from that corner, that was shot on a day when we went to Jantar Mantar and it was extremely cloudy. There was no Sun. If you’re attuned to light then you know that when you’re shooting a picture, somewhere, subconsciously, (though you) might not define it unless you talk about it, you’re trying to capture a certain essence and then you’ve to wait for that certain light to bring that essence out, so whether it's that tight a frame, or that wide or a panorama . . . . .” then he trails off. Some things cannot always be expressed, they've to be understood. I nod.

It’s nearing seven in the evening. Two gallery attendants in white walk in, preparing to close it for the day. As Joginder prepares to put things in 'closing' order he tells me of a play he is scheduled to attend at one of the theatres in the complex later that evening. Just then he gets a call on his cell from a friend. “One wicket down,” he tells the friend at the other end, his voice rising excitedly to the pitch of his hand weaving the air. I smile to myself and wait for him to finish gathering his things on the table by the gallery entrance and reflect on how some idioms need no explaining. Then I open the door and we walk down the steps and into the cool evening air. His cell rings again, and as he speaks with someone else we turn the corner. I wave out to him and he waves back even as speaks into the receiver before the night swallows him on his way to the theatre.


Joginder Singh’s Photography Exhibition form and re-form is on at the Piramal Gallery, NCPA, Nariman Point, Mumbai until the 28th of October, 2007.

A Colaba Evening at Piccadilly

I have no idea what is running through Faisal’s mind as he stands leaning against the staircase in the shaft of evening Sun shooting across Piccadilly’s floor in Colaba. It is that kind of an evening I suppose, reflective.

We pick our way across the room dodging chairs as we head to a corner table that looks out on a quiet lane abutting the busy road crowded by roadside vendors selling trinkets and other paraphernalia among baskets of fruits. Old buildings rise from the relative quiet of the street that breaks off and passes by the window where we’re squeezed into two chairs after heaping the third with my rucksack. Two couples sit at their tables carrying on muted conversations. I take to the quiet and scan the menu for something to eat. Outside, a parakeet emerges out of nowhere and lands on the roof of a parked car. I lean out the window to get a better look, and maybe a picture. It is not everyday that I see a parakeet in Bombay. But then in the quiet streets of Old Bombay some descendants live on, offering glimpses of a city that time wore out as footpaths echoed to the urgent beat of arriving migrant feet.

I scan through Iranian and Lebanese menu items before settling for fresh lime soda and garlic bread. Jabrir smiles at us as he takes the order before disappearing out of sight. We’ve picked a corner to stretch out the evening Sun. The nook barely holds a table and two chairs while shielding us from the rest of the restaurant. A steady sheet of pieces of plaster tumble down outside while a worker holding a rope fences off a portion of the road for commuters while another worker balancing on a plank chips away at the plaster on the wall. Old buildings undergo regular maintenance to keep them standing. It hasn’t helped that monsoons stretch over four months, soaking the megapolis to its very bone.

In a building across the lane an elderly lady looks out from her first floor balcony watching a lady exiting the building by the main gate. The gray of the building sets off her wrinkled face, distinct from ethnic Indian faces. Colaba is among the more prominent homes to Parsis of Bombay. When I look up again I find her gone.

Piccadilly sits in Colaba Causeway opposite Electric House, not far from the Taj Hotel on the other side. On our way to the Piccadilly we’d passed a Victoria (Horse Carriage) in the Causeway, parked by the side of the road awaiting customers desirous of a ride on South Bombay streets lined by old buildings. It is only when you look above eye level, at the buildings sporting decidedly British architectural influence and names of its mostly Parsi past that it becomes possible to imagine and derive a sense of the gentle charm they must have lent the city, helping it find its feet as Bombay in the decades following their settlement. The Causeway came into being in 1838 after the British East India Company built it to connect the southernmost islands of Colaba and Old Woman’s island to the main Island of Bombay, now renamed Mumbai. The Causeway runs further on to Regal Circle where we saw workers on their feet, putting finishing touches to the statue of Lal Bahadur Shastri, the former Prime Minister of India, in time for its unveiling.

A building near Regal Circle

Firoze now runs Piccadilly. After migrating from Iran his father, Faredoon Kermanian, teamed up with a business partner to start Piccadilly opposite Electric House over fifty years ago. When Firoze married the business partner’s daughter, Piccadilly became a family affair.

“Piccadilly started off as a typical Irani restaurant serving standard Irani fare, Brun Maska pav, Kheema etc.,” Firoze told me. “Later we converted it to an English restaurant serving English breakfast.” Apparently in the 1970s and the 80s Goa drew moneyed foreign tourists in large numbers. A significant number of these tourists stayed behind the Piccadilly, at the Five Star Taj, looking out on the Gateway of India along Apollo Bunder, its frontage spread regally along the waters of the Arabian sea.

“They stopped over at the Taj hotel on their way to Goa,” Firoze said. “It was then we began serving up English breakfast to suit their tastes. They would walk down from the Taj to Piccadilly for breakfast.” So, the Piccadilly began opening early to serve English breakfast.

“By 8:30 in the morning we’d open for the day,” Firoze recalls. Piccadilly offered tourists a package deal on the breakfast. “Two Omlettes and tea among other items made up the English breakfast. They found spicy food too strong for their tastes, instead preferring salads and cream type of foods,” Firoze explains the change in the Piccadilly menu from the original Irani to English. However Piccadilly was to soon change character, once again.

Fired up by stories of rich tourists with dollars to spend, the late 1980s and all of the 90s saw traders from all over India descend on Goa, bringing with them business ethics and practices unique to their culture and communities but often in variance with local sensibilities and culture, opening up simmering fault lines. But it was only a matter of time before they drew in ready converts from within the local community often in pursuit of lure of the easy lucre and combined with unchecked violation of coastal regulations governing coastal constructions, tourism broke free of its aesthetic constraints formerly governed by ‘sense of place’, reducing Goa’s coasts to a sandy equivalent of a decaying mine, diminishing its charm as an idyllic coastline free of commercialisation. The introduction of direct Charter flights to Goa served further to erode Bombay as a stop over for tourists enroute to Goa though the flights were and still are too few to actually account for the large numbers who began to stay away. The no holds barred commercialization saw Goa fall out of favour with a section of foreign tourists, and the number of Goa-bound foreign tourists walking down to Piccadilly for breakfast fell quickly in the 1990s.

Luckily for Firoze it coincided with the steady influx of Iranians visiting India in the 1990s. In some ways I cannot help wondering if Firoze came a full circle with this development for, Firoze’s ancestors came from Iran, but I detect no hint of the sentiment I was looking for and I was left with little doubt about the lack of it after he said, “My father and mother visited Iran, I never did.” The persecution of the minority Parsi community with the advent of Islam in Iran was horrifying enough for Parsis to undertake perilous sea voyages to escape certain annihilation at the hands of Islamic followers, eventually finding their way to India, and safety. In time they found their way to Bombay never to return to Iran and like they say the rest is history.

“During the reign of the Shah of Iran it (Iran) was good. It was modern, outgoing, discos and all,” Firoze explained. “Once the mullahs took over in 1979, tightening their grip on everyday life, Iranians began to seek freedom elsewhere, and India was an option they exercised, visiting Bombay.” So, Iranian food made its way to the Piccadilly menu, and in time with tourists visiting India from the Middle East, Lebanese food was added as well.

Piccadilly saw an eclectic bunch of visitors. Firoze recalls instances of Iranian footballers stepping into his restaurant for food. “Some of them were looking for jobs and came to India for one. Bobby, a waiter who used to work with us, helped find an Iranian Coach an opening over the Internet. The Coach used to step into Piccadilly for Iranian food and had gotten to know us well.” Hearing Firoze talk of Iranian footballers two names sprint to the surface in my mind, that of Iranian footballers Jamshed Nassiri and Majid Bakshar who went on to play for East Bengal in the 1980s. Mohammedan Sporting responded by including in their ranks two other Iranians, Khabazi and Sanjari. I distinctly remember Jamshed Nassiri featuring regularly in Indian newspaper coverage of the domestic football scene.

“They usually came here with their families and made their way upstairs as they disliked sitting in crowds,” Firoze continues. I try and imagine the scene as he speaks. Looking back now and reflecting on it I believe that if one stays anywhere long enough it becomes home but somewhere in their hearts every migrant or exile seeks his origins if only to experience the culture and language that defined his ethnicity. In time that changes too but a sense of responsibility to their past encourages one to take pride in what made them what they are, for in preserving their culture and mores they’re in effect preserving the memory of their ancestors and their way of life. What can be a greater tribute?

The shaft of sunlight has mellowed somewhat. Faisal walks over to serve a visitor who’s just stepped in before returning to his place at the foot of the stairway to the upper floor. He has an absent look on his face as he stands quietly with his hand in his pocket.

A Street Corner

To the west of India on the gateway to the Thar desert there lies a blue city at the foot of the fort of Mehrangarh. There in the old mohallas if you strain hard you can hear history echoing the reign of the Rajput rulers amid the brilliant colours of Rajasthan.

In those old mohallas blue houses straddle some street corners. On my way across the Old city each day I latched onto as many mohallas as I could, walking the narrow lanes from morning to evening in the blazing Sun until I could walk no more.

One blue house in particular sat on the threshold of an ancient market, and each time that I walked past it I glanced at the door wondering if it was open. Sometimes it was, but not once did I see anyone at the door. So I never got to know who lived there. Somehow, in not being able to ‘put’ a face to the house I was left with a sense of the incomplete trailing in my wake each time that I made past the house.

One day as I rounded a bend in the mohalla a cart hitched to a lone Ox stood in the lane by the house, looking past the bend in the galli. From then on I rarely see an Ox without seeing a blue house on a street corner.

In time I’ll post my Rajasthan Diaries on days when colors beckon and footsteps sound past closed doors, even if no horse once rode past it to the sound of a war cry.

The Lord and the Butterfly

The clouds threatened overhead as we stepped gingerly over overgrown vegetation crowding the narrow mud path. I worried of snakes lurking in the bush proliferating the earth in that remote corner of history not far from the raging seas. Village folk, whom we had left behind on our way to the ruins, had warned us of their presence in the undergrowth. I said a silent prayer for the both of us and stepped carefully, camera in hand and alert to any movement in the bush now only centimeters from my feet. Just as suddenly as we had hit upon the undergrowth we now came upon a clearing by an old well and Lo!

Nailed to the tree his gentle presence beckoned. Behind the frame an ancient window lay open, surrounded by vegetation rising up the forlorn walls.

Later returning the way we had come I stopped by a plant by the side of the path to photograph a butterfly who had only just floated to where I was, and in the time it took me to pause my step and let the shutter land I noticed in the corner of my eye a movement only a few feet away from where I stood bent at my waist. Turning my face I caught sight of a long snake emerging from the bush before slithering across the narrow path, into the bush on the opposite side, barely four steps from where I had paused to watch the butterfly who had settled on the stem just then. Seconds ticked by before the reptile disappeared into the bush and I exhaled slowly to calm my nerves. As I stepped forward I was reminded, strangely if I may say so, of a poem by an unknown author I had read many years ago.

The man whispered, “God, speak to me”
And a meadowlark sang.

But, the man did not hear
So the man yelled “God, speak to me!”
And, the thunder rolled across the sky.

But, the man did not listen.

The man looked around and said,
“God, let me see you”
And a star shined brightly.
But the man did not notice.

And the man shouted,
“God, show me a miracle!”
And a life was born.
But, the man did not know.

So, the man cried out in despair,
“Touch me God and let me know you are here!”

Whereupon, God reached down and touched the man.

But, the man brushed the Butterfly away and walked on.

I’m glad I paused by the Butterfly who had floated to where I was . . . . just in time, only just.

This was the one.

Gambling Away The Sal

I haven't traversed the river Sal as much as the Zuari and the Mandovi. It has much to do with geography as with anything else. Chinchinim, Assolna, Velim, Betul never ‘fell’ on the routes I frequented, except on occasions when wandering feet took me beyond Margoa in Salcete to Quepem or Cancona, passing Navelim, Chinchinim, Assolna, Velim, and Betul along the way by the Sal, on occasion squeezing past fishing nets drying out on the road in the Sun.

Consequently the Sal largely remained on the periphery of my consciousness, content in the belief that like forgotten memories from long ago it will dwell undisturbed in the recesses of time that has moved on, leaving untouched a piece of geography out of deference to the wishes of its inhabitants who, down the ages, sustained the land in as much as they drew sustenance from it, giving it character while deriving their own identity from it, that is until now.

The Government of Goa is pushing the State in the direction of Las Vegas, the Casino ‘Capital’ of the world. The fact that some local politicians from the coastal belt, known more for their muscle than intellect, are plumping for Casinos to be floated on the seas off Goa and on inland rivers has queered the pitch further, bringing the Government of Goa in direct conflict with the local fishing community who oppose the Casinos on the river, fearful as much of the culture seeping offshore and laying waste the youth as of the environmental damage that river dredging to accommodate Casino vessels will inflict on their livelihood. There is growing opposition from the local populace to the dredging of the river Sal to accommodate a Casino vessel floated by Hotel Leela to cater to well-heeled tourists and attract more of the same.

It was last October, on the eve of Diwali, that we rode down the winding roads, past Assolna and Velim along the Sal, stopping by the fishing Jetty at Cutbona to take in the early morning calm off the river and making small talk with fishing hands from Orissa employed on small Goan fishing vessels anchored in the waters. Maria Bai lay in the safety of the jetty, resting easily among the vessels crowding the waterfront, listening to voices floating in from the decks where youth bent over fresh catch of fish while local villagers gathered by the vessels to buy the catch straight off the decks. A warm sunshine had settled in while trees stirred in the gentle breeze.

At times of such serenity it is difficult to imagine the transitory nature of outward calm, belying the feeling of continuity that nature in its primeval state evokes even while disturbing currents might simmer within inches of the surface, threatening to upset the balance of the very same continuity. It is this state of well-being like the one we experienced on the banks of the Sal that day that I most fear, for it is when one begins to favour a state of permanence that its fragility begins to unravel.

If you believe that tourism should merely limit itself to facilitating transportation and basic accommodation of visitors without either changing or altering the identity of the local populace or mortgaging their livelihood to commercial interests of a few then you might want to write in to the below to express your concern and/or protest the decision of the Government of Goa to gamble away the Sal to Casino players with large stakes in the Five Star Hotels dotting Goa’s coastline.

Chief Minister of Goa - Mr. Digambar Kamat
Minister for Fisheries (Govt. of Goa) - Mr. Joaquim Alemao
Minister for Tourism (Govt. of Goa) - Mr. Francisco Pacheco
Minister for Water Resources (Govt. of Goa) - Mr. Filipe Rodrigues

Note: The link to the Council of Ministers page is available under the menu Government accessible at http://www.goavidhansabha.gov.in/. You can access the E-mail Ids of the above by following the respective links on the Council of Ministers page.

In addition to the above, the following Stakeholders matter as much

Captain of Ports: cpt-port.goa@nic.in
Chief Secretary (Govt. of Goa): cs-goa@nic.in
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Stopping by Hassan's on Onam

In my previous post there is no photograph of Krishnadas, the Keralite coconut vendor, for I never got around to taking his picture. In this post there is one of Hassan, a coconut vendor from Kerala whom I met in Mumbai on Onam earlier in the week while on an errand. Hassan is a Muslim. I was drawn to the pookkalam, flower decoration, that he had put together on the footpath by his cart piled high with tender coconuts from Gujarat, wishing passersby ‘Happy Onam’. On August 27th Onam ushered in Chingam, the first month of the Malayalam calendar (Kollavarsham). Onam is also known as Kerala’s harvest festival.

“Tomorrow I’ll get the new load from Mysore,” he said when I asked him ‘How come you don’t get coconuts from Mysore while others do?’ Like Hassan, most coconut vendors that I meet in Mumbai hail from Kerala, and largely source coconuts from Mysore in Karnataka. Hassan buys tender coconuts from Gujarat and Mysore every alternate day, an unusual arrangement I thought.

I couldn’t quite catch his name the first time he pronounced it. Even a common Muslim name like Hassan sounds different when pronounced by a Malayalee (a Malayalam speaking native of Kerala). He smiled at me and said, “Call me Babu, everyone calls me that.” I knew another Keralite years ago who was nicknamed ‘Babu’. He used to amuse himself by peeling stickers from his new underwear and sticking them to the front door of the rented dwelling he shared with his elder brother and Bijoy. I used to visit Bijoy after school to go cycling. Out of earshot Bijoy and I took to calling him ‘Pintex’ after the brand he wore and whose sticker stared at me each time I knocked on the door to rouse Bijoy from his afternoon nap!

The festival of Onam owes its origins to the legend of the Asura (demon) king Mahabali who ruled Kerala benevolently, and was much loved by his subjects. He was a staunch devotee of Lord Vishnu. However, the Lord was concerned for Mahabali for, King Mahabali was full of ego, believing nothing to be beyond him. To rid his devotee of ego and humble him, Lord Vishnu took the guise of a dwarf Brahmin, Vamana, and approached King Mahabali. Deluded by his abilities and blinded by ego, King Mahabali, oblivious of Vamana’s real self offers Vamana anything he would care to ask for, believing he could grant any wish asked of him. Vamana asks the King for three paces of land, to which King Mahabali agrees.

Vamana measures out his first pace and it spans the skies, his second pace spans the netherworld, covering all. Astounded and realizing that Vamana’s third pace would cover Earth, possibly destroying it and with it his kingdom and his people, King Mahabali offers Vamana his head for the third and final step to save his people. Before banishing the King to the netherworld with his third pace Lord Vishnu grants Mahabali a boon. The King asks to return from exile once a year. It is this homecoming of its beloved king each year that the state of Kerala marks as the beginning of the Malayalam calendar, coinciding with August-September in the Gregorian Solar calendar.

A variation of the legend of the Asura (demon) King Mahabali records the desperation of the Devas (demigods) upon losing control of the world to Mahabali, leading them to seeking Lord Vishnu’s help in defeating the demon King. The part narrating Vamana’s wish for three paces and the consequences it held for Mahabali is common to both.

Onam sees Keralites welcome the king with elaborate flower decorations and festivities that spans several days.

Hassan has placed coconuts around the flower decoration to alert passersby and prevent them from stepping on it. The Hindu festival of Onam derives from a common heritage, predating Islam by hundreds of centuries. Keralites around the world celebrate Onam irrespective of whether they’re Hindu, Muslim, or Christian. Pre-conversion religious heritage binds the population in a rare camaraderie that transcends modern day differences in welcoming the Malayalam New Year on Onam.

I ask Hassan if he misses being home for Onam. “Yes, I do, but what to do,” he replies, flashing a quick smile. Hassan is from Trichur (Thrissur) in Kerala. While I check my camera and fiddle with its settings, a steady stream of vehicles motor along the road adjoining the footpath before bunching up bumper to bumper for the light to turn green. A customer walks up to a makeshift table by his stack of green coconuts to use the PCO. For one rupee you can make a local call. He pays Hassan the rupee and walks off after making a phone call. Hassan turns to face me while I take pictures.

Hassan’s father came to Mumbai (formerly Bombay) from Kerala eighteen years ago to make a living selling tender coconuts. “I used to visit Bombay during my school vacations to be with my father,” Hassan says, pausing in front of the stack to pick a tender coconut for a customer who has walked off the road to Hassan’s. A wooden bin fashioned from planks nailed together serves to hold empty coconuts, discarded kernels and sliced coconut shells.

Hassan places the tender coconut on a narrow wooden plank held up by two short wooden poles nailed to one side of the improvised bin and expertly chops at the coconut to expose the white underside near the top of the coconut. A quick chop across the exposed top half opens the tender coconut, coconut water is visible within. Hassan picks up a orange coloured plastic straw and plants it in the opening before passing it to the customer.

“No, no,” exclaims the customer, exasperated somewhat. “Don’t cut it open. I need to carry it home, just chop at the top half and expose the white underside; I’ll open it back home.” So, Hassan passes me the tender coconut instead and while I drag on the straw, taking in the flavour of fresh coconut water, Hassan picks up another tender coconut from the pile on his cart and placing it on the narrow wooden plank proceeds to repeat the process as sliced shell parts drop into the wooden bin. Experienced coconut vendors use their bare knees for support while slicing coconuts with expert chops; a few others use their open palms. Hassan plays it safe. The choppers are razor sharp.

Hassan left Kerala for Bombay for good after his father died nine years ago to carry on the tender coconut vending business that his father left behind in Bombay. As he speaks the traffic on the street where the footpath ends drowns his voice.

Talking of his native place I’m reminded of my own trip to Kerala with Naguesh years ago. I had carried my camera along, and one photo in particular captured for me the essence of that trip. It was a picture I took by the backwaters off Cherthala near Ernakulum while Naguesh, Manoj, and Rose waited in the distance, a light breeze carrying snatches of their conversation to where I lay on the ground in wait for a candid moment in the open patch facing me. Not far from where I waited, a woman sat patiently by her black cow while it drank water from a metal bucket.

Three coconut trees on the periphery of the open patch rose as if in a Guard of Honour to a village woman walking on a narrow mud path along the backwaters fencing off the open stretch of land. Blue skies stretched across overhead while I lay on my stomach on the ground, struggling to maneuver the camera quickly enough to capture the trio at an angle while the woman walked past. Looking back now I feel that were I to try hard I might actually be able to recollect the smell of earth of that day. Maybe it had to do with the serenity, maybe it was the blue skies, or maybe those three coconut trees had something to do with it. I’ve no way of knowing for sure. Since then I conjure up Kerala in that one picture (above) I took that day.

“Kerala is beautiful,” I tell Hassan, to which he smiles and says, “Khubsoorat hai par kya karey.” (“It’s beautiful, but what to do”.) I suspect that his expression, particularly his wry smile, betrays a latent longing for a home long way down South. He finds Kerala expensive, the one reason that might explain why he made Mumbai his home, at least for now.

“Back home, everything is costly,” he explains. “If one is ill, they need to be carried long distances, and private clinics there charge anywhere up to 400 rupees. Yahan pe sau rupai mein kaam ho jaata hai," (Here, (read Mumbai) it gets done within 100 rupees). Hassan reels of more figures, pausing to attend to customers stopping by his cart while on their way elsewhere, and refreshed by tender coconut I imagine their feet acquiring sufficient spring to negotiate Mumbai streets. More empty coconuts pile up in the wooden bin as the setting Sun breaks through the clouds, casting faint light along the footpath from between former British structures across the street.

I finish drinking the tender coconut and drop the empty shell into the makeshift bin. It has stopped drizzling. I pay Hassan for the tender coconuts and with a small wave of the hand I turn to leave. He waves back, lending his smile to the flavour of the moment before the noise of the traffic lays claim to my thoughts once again.