Best Travelogue Nomination in the Lonely Planet Travel Blog Awards 2009

Thank you for nominating Windy Skies in the Best Travelogue category in the first ever Lonely Planet Travel Blog Awards 2009.

Lonely Planet released the top five nominees in each of the 14 categories from the nominations received, and I’m thrilled to find this blog listed in the top five nominees in the Best Travelogue category.

Public voting opens today, and will count towards 50% in the judging, the other 50% will be accounted for by a Lonely Planet judging panel.

Windy Skies is two months shy of five years and it’s been a privilege to travel with you on many a long and varied journey, and the discussions that followed.

If you’re a regular reader or if you’ve stumbled upon this blog and have enjoyed the travelogues, and wish to give Windy Skies a thumbs up in the Best Travelogue category, please do visit the Lonely Planet Voting form to cast your vote for this blog. Every one of your votes for this blog will count. Thank you.

All categories feature wonderful travel blogs and promise many a happy traveling hour.

A Shrine On The Streetside, Faith On The Inside

It is a warm feeling and it does not come from the early morning sunshine alone.

In a narrow Bombay lane an old lady makes her way across the road from her hut at the break of dawn. Clutching a matchbox, some oil for a lamp, water in a steel utensil to wash the stone slab with, and a damp piece of cloth, she walks uncertainly across the narrow road to the footpath opposite. There, affixed to the compound wall separating the premises within from the bustle of the lane outside is a wall tile with a picture of Sai Baba looking benignly at the world passing by, a garland of marigolds adorning him.

The few times that I’ve seen her she’s been either squatting in front of the small shrine she’s built for Sai Baba on the footpath or bent at the waist wiping the image of Sai Baba with a piece of damp cloth. Other than her I’ve never seen anyone place offerings at the shrine though passersby will pause for a moment, slip out of their footwear and fold their hands in a quick prayer before going their way.


Not too long ago the shrine that you see in the picture was of a more ‘permanent’ structure until the Municipality came calling. Not that it was much of a hurdle to get around on their way, for most people using the footpath did just that, and still do when the old lady prays at the shrine, but rules being rules they took the structure away while leaving the saint’s presence on the wall alone. It did not deter her. She returned to the shrine, now stripped down to a platform (a slab of stone) resting on two carved stone rests that can be moved aside if need be.



After washing the platform with water she had carried in a steel utensil she reaches under the platform to retrieve the steel lamp, then fills it with oil from the plastic bottle and lights it before saying her prayers to the saint. Then she pushes the lamp under the platform where shielded from breeze it burns away through the morning, shining in the faith of an elderly lady.

I see her only occasionally, and cannot remember ever seeing her face, covered as it is on the side by the sari she wraps around her head. Many an elderly woman will cover the head with the pallu of the sari, more in deference to the deity while saying their prayers.

In crossing the street to the shrine on the footpath, while she’s aware of any traffic coming her way, she’ll rarely look anywhere else other than where she’s headed. If the garland has shriveled away in the heat she will replace it with a fresh one, taking her time in tying the ends to the nails in the wall.

I cannot hazard a guess as to why she chose to have a shrine to Sai Baba on a footpath in a narrow street rather than at her home. For all I know she might have one back home. Is it so passersby can seek blessings while on their way past? Or is it that walking to a temple is an act of faith in itself because walking involves an effort, a discipline that mirrors a resolve necessary to any act of faith?

I wouldn’t know.

Looking back I wonder what it is about her bending at the shrine that mellows the morning sunshine so. Does it result from seeing an act of deeply personal faith performed so publicly as to invest the surroundings with reverence reserved for divinity, bringing sanity to the road and invoking in the believers a common call to faith while they go their separate ways?

I wouldn’t know for sure.

Second Chance

A Second Chance in Bombay. 2009.

Lonely Planet Travel Blog Awards 2009

Lonely Planet is closing nominations for its first ever Travel Blog Awards tomorrow, February 18, midday Melbourne time.

For quite sometime now travel blogs have come to inhabit the Social Media space in a niche of their own, bringing stories and images from around the world, and opening up trails less known, and connecting with their readers.

Here’s an opportunity to nominate your favourite travel blogs in the first ever Lonely Planet Travel Blog Awards 2009.

Choose a category that you think best fits the travel blog(s) you wish to nominate. Enter the full url of the blog in the form, including the http://....

To nominate a travel blog for the awards, visit the nomination form here.

Note: Any thumbs-up that comes this blog's way is welcome.

UPDATE

Nominations are now closed. Thank you to all who voted. Public voting for the finalists in each category is expected to start on Feb 25, and continue till March 20, 2009. The dates might be subject to change.

Saffron Memories

There must be a reason why sadhus prefer to squat if they don’t have to be on their feet. It may be that they’re rarely in a hurry to get anywhere and it does not make sense to stand waiting for a train. The other reason could be that few or no eyebrows are raised on seeing them squat in public places, something that must have to do with their dress, the saffron robes that set them apart from everyone else.

Whatever the reason may be I was surprised to see a group of seven sadhus squatting on the railway platform one morning. When I ran up the short flight of stairs and stopped short on seeing them I noticed that one of the sadhus was holding a photo album in his hand. He wore a jhola the size that would comfortably hold the photo album. In between they exchanged small talk.


The sadhu with the photo album must’ve said something, for the rest of the group soon drew closer and formed a tight circle around him. It only meant they hadn’t traveled together for long else no photo album will stay tucked away inside the jhola for too long on an Indian journey.

As he flipped the leaves, pictures, two to each side of the leaf, came into view. There were pictures of other sadhus (some apparently from the Kumbh Mela), of Hindu deities, of sadhus posing for pictures outside temples, and surprisingly two rupee and five rupee notes tucked away into an empty plastic picture slot or two.

He paused at each picture and said something I could not hear from where I stood. He must have spoken from memory for the pictures appeared to have been taken at different places at different times, probably at destinations he had been to. Seeing me show interest in the pictures he looked up at me and smiled before turning to the album.


As he spoke, his voice occasionally drowned by the announcer announcing train arrivals and departures, the rest listened quietly, looking at each picture as the leaves turned.

The only time they smiled was when they saw a make-believe five hundred rupee note with Goddess Lakshmi gracing one side inserted in a picture slot. Goddess Lakshmi is worshipped as the Goddess of Wealth, and no devout Hindu will shy away from worshipping her, more so on Lakshmi Puja during Diwali.

Then there were pictures of Hindu Gods, deities in temples. Not once did any of them shift their eyes from the album in the time he showed them the pictures, listening in silence. Of the pictures of sadhus he showed them some must have featured him posing with those he made friends with. Given that the photos appeared to be in no recognizable sequence meant whoever took the pictures possibly returned to give him a copy, perhaps a traveler.

I could only imagine what the album must mean to him. Memories of pilgrimages, of fellow sadhus befriended, of temples visited, and rivers worshipped must necessarily define the identity of the pilgrim feet, otherwise what else is tangible.

Once he was done with showing them the pictures he prepared to tuck the album away into his jhola. All around them passengers on their way to the office stepped around the sadhus to get to the train, hurried as much by the need to get through the day as by the compulsion of the need.

An itinerant has his footsteps for a family, and miles for a clock. And he banks memories to sustain him on journeys like others bank money. He accrues interest on his memories when he shares them with others, and he spends the accrued interest on his belief, strengthening his faith in his faith.

About then the horn sounded and I sprinted in the direction of the incoming train, slowing by a bit to ease the pain of a fall from a train months ago.

Indian Copy

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I thought it strange that the bookseller would prefer to sit by a drinking-water tap on the railway platform rather than be on his feet selling books now that the Nagercoil Express had come to a halt at the railway station. It was a few minutes past four in the afternoon when it pulled into Pune on its way to Tirupati and beyond, to Nagercoil in Tamilnadu.

The train leaves Mumbai at ten past twelve in the noon. With close to four hours already behind us in the journey and nineteen more to go before it touches Tirupati in Andhra Pradesh at 11.00 a.m. the next morning I stepped to the door to look for a railway bookstall for a book that might keep me company on the long journey ahead.

It was then that I saw Bhole Singh Chauhan sitting listlessly on a platform by a drinking water tap where passengers were quenching their thirst.

Under the khaki ‘working-shirt’ labeled Wheeler after the Wheeler bookshops that dot railway stations around India, Bhole Singh Chauhan wore a full-sleeved shirt. Pune is pleasant in January and it is not until March that the weather turns decidedly warmer.

In the din of vendors calling attention to their wares that ranged from fried savouries and fruits to accessories like combs and safety pins I walked to where Bhole Singh Chauhan sat watching the goings-on around him. The stack by his side held some books and a range of magazines. On the top of the pile lay The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga, the novel that won the author the 2008 Man Booker Prize. Born into a Kannadiga Brahmin family from coastal Karnataka and writing about India’s underbelly, Aravind Adiga’s book drew mixed emotions in India for its treatment of the divide between the rich and the poor while charting the travails of Balram Halwai.

Pointing to the pirated copy of The White Tiger that nevertheless had legible print, he said, “This book has been selling well now.”

I pick up the copy and turn it. The price on the back of the book stares back at me. Everything about the pirated copy looks the same as the original with the publishers imprint et al except for the quality of the paper used, and the design that is ‘shaky’ in places.

“Do you sell it for Rs. 395?” I ask him, pointing to Rs. 395 printed on the back.

“No,” he says. “It goes for Rs. 100 or at most Rs. 125. This is an Indian Copy so it is cheap.” Indian Copy is a euphemism for a pirated copy.

Bhole Singh Chauhan and the others who sell books on the platform “deposit Rs. 1000 each day with the seth (boss) to have books issued against the security deposit.” By ‘seth’ I assume he’s referring to the owner of the Wheeler bookstore outlet at the railway station. At the end of the day the seth refunds the security deposit to the vendors after accounting for the sales and adjusting the commission on books sold during the day.

He tells me that they get a commission of 8% on the sales. I refuse to believe him. His colleague who had stopped by to listen to our conversation steps up to back the figure. “He’s right. We get only 8% on the sales.”

“If you were to sell original books and not ‘Indian Copies’ you would be making more money even at 8%,” I remark.

“That’s true. But who will buy books for that price (original) here (railway station and passing trains)? More so those traveling in this,” Bhole Singh Chauhan replies while pointing to the Second Class compartment I had just stepped out of. “Nobody would buy them at those prices. With Indian Copies we at least manage to sell some.”

I counter him with, “I’m sure there’ll be those who will buy the original copies.”

“Yes, the shauqeen (passionate about books) will not buy Indian Copies,” he replies. “They will prefer to pay Rs. 395 for the other copy (original).”

A commission of 8% on pirated books sporting original prices meant the platform booksellers will have agreed a base price for the books with the seth for, there’s no way the seth would know how much the platform booksellers actually sell the books for. A pirated copy of The White Tiger could go for as much as Rs. 200 with one customer and for Rs. 150 with another.

“Our seth tells us not to sell it below Rs. 100,” he said.

Rs. 100 is probably the base price the seth fixed for The White Tiger, calculating 8% sales commission on the base price. The vendor would get to keep anything above the base price if he had the skills to sell it for more.

“Do you manage to sell this book for Rs. 175 and over?” I ask him.

“Rarely,” he replies. “Most people who buy these books know that these are Indian Copies, so they bargain hard. Usually we manage to sell them between Rs. 100 to Rs. 125.”

I return my attention to the stack. Robin Sharma’s The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari lies beneath The White Tiger.

Pointing to Robin Sharma’s book he says, “This one sells the most.” It is apparent that he has difficulty pronouncing the title.

I ask him if reading habits of railway passengers have changed now as compared to those a few years ago.


“Yes, they have. Now people have mobile phones. They keep doing things with their mobile phones. Books are meant for timepass on train journeys, so if they can timepass with mobile phones why would they buy these,” he replies, pointing to the stack by his side. “Before, there were no mobile phones, and people bought books.”

Behind me the 6351 / Nagercoil Express stands in silence. The train covers the 1,152 kilometres to Tirupati in 23 hours, and I’m looking forward to the time on the train. The route crosses several states, passing Daund, Solapur, Gulbarga, Yadgir, Raichur, Guntakal, Gooty, Cuddapah, and Renigunta Jn. among others before pulling into Tirupati for a quick stop at 11.00 a.m. tomorrow. Then it continues on to Nagercoil, a further 815 kilometres away, passing Tiruchchirapali, Madurai, and Tirunelveli on the way. We would be getting off at Tirupati.



The changing topography outside the window on a journey by the Indian Railways invariably holds many an interesting sight for an eager traveler, and it was no different on the Nagercoil Express. Looking around I see passengers relishing savouries while others are stretching their legs on the platform, alert to the sounding of the horn announcing the departure of the Nagercoil Express on its onward journey across India. Every once in a while I cast a quick glance behind me at the train for the slightest hint of movement, for in the din on the platform it is easy to miss the horn. Then I turn to the bookseller.

Bhole Singh Chauhan is from Etawah in Uttar Pradesh. I tell him that his surname is similar to ‘Chavan’, natives of Maharashtra. He corrects me.

“No. We are Chauhans. The Chauhan of Prithvi Raj Chauhan,” he said, invoking the name of the legendary Hindu Rajput King who repulsed the early Islamic invasions of India by Muhammad Shahab ud-Din Ghori on several occasions in the 1100s before being defeated and taken to Afganistan where he was blinded. Then Muhammad Ghori went about converting India to Islam by the sword, marking the beginning of a brutal chapter of Muslim conquest of Northern India.


Rajputs take great pride in their exploits on the battlefield over the centuries and it is not uncommon even today to sense their fierce pride in their community and their surnames, and it is a rare Rajput who will not mention he is one to anyone who might confuse the surname for another community.

It is nine years now that Bhole Singh Chauhan has been selling books on the railway platform. He tells me that he manages to sell 2-3 books each day. “Magazines sell more, so my stock of magazines gets sold, but not books,” he says. He left unsaid that selling books on railway platform is a hard life, with measly returns and nine years is a long time in the business.

He rarely smiled in the time we spoke. When he drew an association with the famous Rajput king, Prithvi Raj Chauhan, to distinguish between the Chavans of Maharashtra to the West of India, and the Chauhans, a clan of Rajputs originating in Northern India, I sensed a wistful tone to his remark made casually, “Rajputs used be warriors once.”

Related Posts

1. Granthayan, A Mobile Book Store

Laburnum Road

After emerging from Mani Bhavan I paused for a moment and looked down the quiet road again. This time around I tried imagining Mahatma Gandhi leaning over the balcony in the year 1917 when it was time for the Carder to pass that way each day. It was the year Mahatma Gandhi first came to live in Mani Bhavan on Laburnum Road in Gamdevi, among the older neighbourhoods in Bombay.

Gandhiji was looking for Carders to card cotton into slivers for use in spinning cotton yarn. Writing in his The Story of my Experiments with Truth he said, “In Bombay, again, the same old problem of obtaining a supply of hand-made sliver presented itself. A carder twanging his bow used to pass daily by Shri. Revashankar’s residence (Mani Bhavan). I sent for him and learnt that he carded cotton for stuffing mattresses. He agreed to card cotton for slivers, but demanded a stiff price for it, which, however, I paid.”

This was the road the carder took each day in 1917 I tell myself, my gaze lingering in the silence of the shade that trees on either side of the quiet street lent this corner of an old city, a silence lent weight by the presence of a man the world would come to know as the Mahatma or the ‘Great Soul’.

Colonial-time bungalows with old-world sounding names on their gates stood in quiet symphony with the weight of pre-independence history. I passed each bungalow, pausing to look up, searching for life I could connect to a bygone era. There was no life I could detect in the stately windows, some of which showed signs of disrepair.


A few houses past Mani Bhavan rises Shireen Villa to my right, its gate rusting in its hinges. I slow down to admire the columns flanking the door. If I were to linger on I wonder if an old lady would materialize at the door to enquire of my presence at the gate. Moments pass but no door opens. None would, at least not at Shireen Villa. At times silence is a continuum for imagination to will a reality that no longer exists, and it is in the hoping and wishing that imagination fashions a moment into reality.



I step to the side of the road to let a car of tourists pass. The Mani Bhavan sees many a European tourist walk through its gates, and Asians as well, Japanese in particular. Many of the villas on Laburnum Road owe their architecture to the firm of Taraporewala and Bharucha.

Suddenly I hear excited shouts from across the road where Gool Villa stands, its sliding windows jarring the façade. I cannot remember seeing the aluminum framed windows from an earlier visit; maybe they had escaped my attention the last time.



I see their colourful kites before I see them, four young boys delighting in their kites as they attempt to ride some wind. There’s none. So they run, trailing their kites behind them, and looking over their shoulders to see the kites rise up by a little only to fall to the ground as the tiny legs tire as much from the running as from dodging the parked cars.

Pappu’s kite is elegant in the only way that a kite costing two rupees, and made of light paper can be. It has a short, pink tail and is bordered by narrow white strips on two sides. Pappu seems the silent sort, hair oiled and combed neatly. He has a shy smile, preferring instead to let Dhiren do all the talking. Dressed in a red t-shirt and pink footwear Pappu’s choice of clothes complement his choice of kite.



Of the four only Dhiren, who stays in one of the buildings in the street, was still in his school uniform. His alert face, apart from his name and quick responses marked him out as a Gujarati, a guess I was prepared to stick with. He said he studies just round the corner. Manish, the youngest of the four was Jayesh’s brother, Dhiren told me excitedly, pointing to Manish first, and then to Jayesh who wore a light pink shirt. I noticed that Manish and Jayesh wore similar looking half pants, and that both wore no footwear.

Dhiren told me that they had bought the kites from a local kite seller in Gamdevi and that Pappu’s kite cost him two rupees. Then opening his hands wide he said, “The kite seller has this big kite for fifty rupees.” Then opening his hands wider Dhiren continued, “And this big for hundred rupees.” He looked to Pappu and Jayesh to confirm the size. They did, nodding their heads. “He even has one for two hundred rupees,” Dhiren continued, his voice rising a notch and hands stretching even wider until they could stretch no more.

There was still a little over ten days to go for Makar Sankranti, an auspicious Hindu festival usually celebrated in the middle of January, marking the beginning of the harvest season for Indian farmers and the transition of the Sun into Capricorn. On Makar Sankranti thousands of kites ascend the sky, particularly in Gujarat.


But for this quartet of enthusiastic kids the festival had already begun. Their exuberance was almost out of character with the quiet street. For a moment I wondered if the skies over Laburnum Road had seen kites on the auspicious day in the decades past, or if the Carder whose name I do not know brought string to give to children so that their kites may rise high.

As I step back on the road I wonder how Gool Villa got its name. I like the mystery my not knowing brings to my experience on the road.


Outside the gates of some of the villas cars are parked to the side of the street. Surely there’ll have been fewer cars in those days I thought, and that the Carder must have called attention to his presence by twanging his bow as Gandhiji wrote in his autobiography, or maybe even called out his services as he passed on the road I now walk along. His voice must have sounded through the mansions, reminding families as much of the Carder as of the time of the day it was. His absence, even for a day, would have been noticed for, at some time or the other each family on Laburnum Road will have needed his services to inject new life into their mattresses, lending a face to the voice that sounded in the street each day. Come to think of it, every fixture is but a constant, a bearing that life aligns to in charting its course for the day.

I can only guess as to the families that lived in these homes then, with nothing to go on but names on gates, names that now morph into faces that my imagination draws from other faces, even if wholly unrelated, but sharing the same surname, and where details escape me I draw my visual frames of reference from communities many of the names seemingly belong to – the Parsis, the Gujaratis.


There’s little or no crowd about. In the late afternoon light I see trees come alive in the shadows they throw on the walls of the villas. It is in the shadows that I sense the life I seek on my walk down Laburnum Road. In the shadows the branches lack features. There’s a certain quiet to the featureless, a certain silence. It is a kind of silence that comes from stillness, the lack of any movement where you might expect some. It is not the silence of the street as much as it is the silence of an empty house. In watching the shadows on the walls it is as if I am watching to see if the wall responds to the caress of the trees.

Like the Carder who once walked down Laburnum Road, his passing a fixture in the daily lives of families that lived on the street. Now, come late afternoon, the shadows the trees cast on the villas are temporary fixtures that at once promise a certainty in their transience.


Note: Over a week ago PBS wrote in to inform me of the launch on January 5 of their six-part Story of India series by Michael Wood, projecting their India effort as “seeking in the present for clues to her past, and in the past for clues to her future.” The show runs on Mondays. For local timings head over to the PBS Engage blog.

Fishing for Some Morning Luck

One early morning recently as I hurried to board a suburban local train I stumbled upon an unlikely scene.

For a place that’s usually abuzz with tea stall owners making brisk business from rickshaw drivers warming to their early morning shifts with a glass of steaming tea, occasionally joined by office goers heading into the railway station for a ride to their destinations around Bombay, the sight of a man squatting to the side of the road, two dogs silently watching him chop fish on a makeshift board was an uncommon sight.


I cannot remember seeing a food stall whipping up fish curry among those serving tea out of makeshift tin shops that crowd the approach to the railway station. The dogs were oblivious to office goers hurrying past them so intent were they on the possibilities the morning held.

It was apparent the fish were not for sale but that did not stop a man from enquiring if they were. In all the time the dogs watched silently. The man paid them scant attention. It is very likely he will have tossed a piece of fish each to reward their patience once he was done with his job.


If you’ve lived in Bombay for some time and are an early riser and have to take a train to work then you’ll have seen fish vendors get off the luggage compartment with baskets of fish that they’ve furiously haggled for at docks where fishing trawlers land their catch in time for the early morning markets. Others source their baskets from fish markets around town before making their way to suburban railway stations for a ride down the Central and Western lines for suburbs to vend their wares in small fish markets there, usually squatting by the side of a road with the basket of fish at their feet.

It is rare that a rickshaw, a three-wheeler transport, will ferry them over to their designated spot in the fish market for, the strong smell of fish left behind in trails of melting ice seeping from the cane basket can render stout hearts queasy at the thought of putting up with it on their journey to their homes or elsewhere. In the morning rush hour every passenger matters to the rickshaw driver and it is unlikely he'll risk the day by ferrying fish in the backseat. So the fisherwomen walk to the fish market, challenged by crows and silent dogs along the way.



Waiting for a train one morning I watched two fisherwomen get off the luggage compartment with a basket of fish each balanced on their heads. As passengers heading out of the station crowded the covered stairway that leads up to the over-bridge they met with another stream of passengers making their way down to the railway platform, a common sight in rush-hour passenger traffic. In the ensuing logjam the two women paused for the stream to move up the steps. They had barely taken three steps up the stairs when a crow swooped in on the basket and made off with a fish through an opening in the covered staircase without breaking ‘stride’. For a while afterwards I was startled at the ingenuity and the speed of the enterprising crow that had made off with the fish in one fell swoop. This could not have been a one off for it must have known before of the opening in the covered staircase that would enable it to fly on without breaking ‘stride’ so to say.

Since then I’ve kept an eye out for enterprising crows that mill about railway platforms but without much luck. I believe it takes as much enterprise to make off with a fish in the uncertain dynamics of suburban railway stations as with retaining the prize fish from competing crows that haven’t been able to pull of a stunner themselves. A few months ago I witnessed just this.

Waiting in the compartment for the train to start on its journey I saw a crow with a fish in its beak land in a tree by the railway tracks. Soon enough three crows followed it to the tree. While two perched on branches on either side of the crow with the morning catch the third one waited on the ground, looking up, and ready to make off with the fish should it drop to the ground in the inevitable struggle for the booty between the three above. The morning Sun lit up the branch. Elsewhere the speakers reverberated with announcements of trains pulling into the station.

However the enterprising crow held the fish firm against the branch while pecking furiously at it. In between fending off opportunistic jabs by the two crows it quickly swallowed a few pieces of fish. Beneath, the third crow remained attentive to the drama unfolding in the branch above, alert for some morning luck to come its way. After fending off more charges by the two crows intent on sharing the spoils even as it swallowed more of the fish, the enterprising crow quickly lifted its beak and with quick bobs of its head regurgitated portions of fish it had gulped down. As pieces of fish covered with saliva fell to the ground, followed by the two crows that had jabbed for a piece of the meal without success, a virtual scramble ensued on the ground between the three.

Sensing an opportunity for some peace the crow in the tree proceeded to finish its breakfast while its pursuers battled it out below.


Note: Last week PBS wrote in to inform me of the launch on January 5 of their six-part Story of India series by Michael Wood, projecting their India effort as “seeking in the present for clues to her past, and in the past for clues to her future.” The show runs on Mondays. For local timings head over to the PBS Engage blog.

Granthayan, A Mobile Book Store

Stepping out of a bookstore recently I came upon a bright glow in the street as we made our way out of the shopping complex. On a closer look it turned out to be Granthayan, a mobile book store on wheels that launched in Bombay this August. Parked to the side of the road, three fans running, it was a winter welcome I couldn’t resist.

Unlike last year there is little chill this time around. Last year the chill lasted for over a month. Bombay usually sees little or no winter so it was a surprise last year to experience a drop in the mercury. Even then it rarely drops enough to force you back home early or think twice before setting off to the market for groceries. It is only in the early mornings and evenings that there’s a nip in the air.

Usually Bombay sees its winter last a little over a week when it gets cold enough to huddle under the blankets a wee bit longer in the mornings. So it was a surprise to find temperatures cooling considerably last year and it was a pleasure to step out and shiver a little when a stiff breeze blew your way.

I had hoped that this year too the winter would last like it did last year but there is little sign it will last beyond a week and even then the temperature hasn’t dropped by all that much. Actually it is pleasant in the evenings.

Monsoons and winters are two seasons made for reading if you’re stuck at home or wish to stay back the evening.

I haven’t lived in Bombay long enough to know if reading habits have changed over the last two decades. I believe they’ll have. I do see people read in the trains, mostly the local newspapers, and occasionally books. Unless you manage to get a seat in the train in the morning rush hour it is well neigh impossible to read anything at all but office goers have adopted novel methods to scan newspaper inches. Reading a book in the crowded local trains is no less difficult even though they’re handy to carry and read.


Entering the mobile book store I had the space to myself except for an elderly gentleman scanning the shelves for Marathi language books. Granthayan runs out of a modified TATA mini-truck. On the street outside sodium-vapour lamps lit up the roads.



At a computer terminal in a corner by the entrance Avinash Rane sits on a small stool, barcode scanner in hand. Behind him traffic zooms past, disappearing into the Christmas night. Occasionally a horn sounds, slicing the steady hum of fans whirring in the parked book store. There're hundreds of titles in the shelves awaiting discovery, titles new and old, some familiar, some not. Avinash rarely steps away from the computer terminal. Every once in a while his assistant, a silent youth in a blue t-shirt with Granthayan emblazoned in bold orange letters hands him books that customers selected for purchase. He quickly scans the books and prints out receipts before collecting payment. There's hardly a word uttered in all the time. It is as if they're answering to a purpose beyond selling books. It may well be so.

In Sanskrit, among the oldest and the most formidable of ancient Indian languages, Grantha is variously a book, a treatise, and a composition. Granthayan can be loosely understood to be a book movement of sorts, or may be a book journey.


Avinash tells me that they have ten such mobile book stores operational in Maharashtra State. “One is in Kudal at the moment, another is in Raigad. There is one in Vidharba as well. They drive to where they feel they’ve takers for the books.”

Kudal is in the Konkan to the West of Maharashtra, along the coast. Granthayan apparently aims to take the reading habit to far flung areas in the State of Maharashtra where book stores are not easily accessible, like villages and small towns for instance. For a moment I picture this initiative on wheels trundle along quiet country roads, drawing curious attention along the way as it stops from place to place. And dusty villages where village centres are typically a smattering of shops selling basic provisions while village folk gather under trees or on platforms around a Banyan or a Neem tree must present an interesting challenge in spreading the reading habit, more so if reading has been largely restricted to school textbooks.

Even as I think of rural scenes I smile to myself, warming to the idea. A bookstore on wheels is just what the doctor ordered.


Looking around I’m surprised at the number and variety of book titles stacked in neat rows on book shelves that line the three walls of the truck. A book rack in the middle partitions the space into two sections. The shelves are a mix of popular and business titles. The titles are most likely selected keeping in mind the localities they drive to, for I cannot imagine these titles finding many takers in say, Kudal.

“The Marathi books are costlier than the English ones,” the elderly browser I first saw on entering the back of the truck tells me, shaking his head at the thought.

“Maybe it is difficult for Marathi language book publishers to keep the costs down. There isn’t as much sales volume to Marathi books as there is for English books,” I offer as an explanation, unsure if that indeed is the reason. However in reality Marathi books are cheaper than the English titles. It is likely he was referring to certain Marathi titles.

“Of the remaining seven Granthayan mobile book stores, four are in Mumbai, of which one is doing rounds at Tilaknagar in Chembur. Outside of Mumbai there is one operational in Airoli, and one in Palgar,” Avinash remarks as I hand him a Gerald Durell title I’ve chosen to take home, Rosy Is My Relative. The blurb reads thus: What does a young man bequeathed Pounds Sterling 500 and an elephant with a taste for liquor do? Adrian Rookwhistle thought he had the answer - he'd give her to a circus. But it wasn't so easy. As Avinash makes a receipt for my purchase I notice a family of three passing by the truck pause by the open door on seeing book shelves reflected in bright tubelight.

There’s a ‘What on Earth is a book store doing in a truck on the side of a road this late at night’ look on their faces. A mobile book store is not a common sight on city roads. Curiosity gets the better of them and they take the short flight of retractable stairs up before venturing to the back of the truck, scanning book titles as they move along the shelves.

I ask Avinash if the venture is drawing enthusiastic response from the public.

“Yes, yes. It is,” he replies. “I’ve had many people asking me if I can bring the vehicle to where they stay. I told them that if their Housing Society permits me to bring the vehicle into their complex I will readily drive it over.”


Over five hundred books were sold the day I chanced upon the 'Books on Wheels' truck. I’m not sure if Avinash Rane sold the five hundred off his stock of books in the truck or if it was aggregated across all ten trucks. Whatever the case may be I thought five hundred is an encouraging number for a mobile book store aiming to bring books to your door.


Note: Granthayan operates a toll free number (1800-209-8074) that you can use to order books to be delivered free to your home anywhere in Maharashtra with payment to be made in cash on delivery. Only orders above Rs. 250/- are accepted for home delivery, the delivery taking between 1-10 days.

Series On Books People Read While Commuting

1. Books Travellers Read in Mumbai Locals – Part I
2. Books Travellers Read in Mumbai Locals – Part II
3. Books Travellers Read in Mumbai Locals – Part III

Black, Yellow, and Shades of White

Passing me the change he owed me, the taxi driver smiled as he said, “Janglala aag laglyavar sukhya barobar oley pan jaltey.” Hearing him use the Marathi proverb I broke into a smile as I prepared to open the door to step out of his taxi. Translated from the Marathi it reads, “Once the jungle catches fire, even the wet burns away with the dry.”

I opened the rear door, thanked him and got out before pushing the door shut. It was the morning of the 26th of November, a little over three weeks ago. Behind me cars honked on their way past vehicles parked to the side of the road, narrowing it further to a point where only one vehicle could pass at a time. The impatient among the drivers honked to warn oncoming vehicles of their right to way.

Set back from the narrow lane the corner tea stall operating out of a makeshift shop was up and running while women in nightgowns swept the floor clean in front of their doorways. At a turn in the road behind me taxi drivers stood talking by their taxis even as they kept an eye out for potential passengers.

Early mornings are languid affairs in the many bylanes that section off city’s neighbourhoods. Long before residents descend from their apartments a working underclass comprising vegetable vendors, milkmen, sweepers, newspaper vendors, and taxi drivers among others rouse the city to life even as black and yellow taxis, their engines warming to life from the slumber of the night before, rumble the morning stillness as people ready for office. A quick cup of tea prepares taxi drivers for the long day ahead. The sight of a taxi driver in khakis leaning against the bonnet of his taxi awaiting passengers is a trademark Bombay morning scene.

Behind me an elderly man in a worn banian (cotton vest) wiped the windshield clean before bending over the bonnet of the sturdy Premier Padmini, the preferred choice of Bombay taxi drivers. Dipping the cloth rag in a bucket of water he reached over the roof and gave it quick swipes, back and forth. Then he emptied the bucket to the side of the lane.

While the taxi got a scrub the taxi driver settled in for an early morning read on the pavement, his back to a tree.

A product of PAL (Premier Automobiles Limited) formerly owned by the Walchand Hirachand Group that used to assemble Fiat’s Fiat 1100 series of cars beginning 1950s, the Premier Padmini, also known as Padmini Premier, debuted in India in the year 1962 as the Fiat 1100-D, and barring some modifications in the years that followed it came to be known as the Padmini Premier, in time becoming as much an icon of the city of Bombay as the Taj. The last of the Padmini Premiers rolled out in 1998 and like with many things in the city time moved firmly to overtake this black and yellow identity of the city.

The reassuring sound of the taxi door settling back on its hinges is an event by itself, signaling as it does the start of a working day. Unlike most days spent in the silence of the backseat today was different. Though there was no foreboding of the event that was to kick the city in its teeth later that night, none in the air and none in the gentle demeanour of the Maharashtrian cab driver, there must have been much on his mind as he left me chewing on the Marathi proverb he flung my way like a boxer might throw a punch at the stroke of the bell.

As I crossed the road I reflected on his feelings for many of his fellow cabbies who were slated to lose their taxis to the rule the city had passed to ‘phase out’ taxis older than 25 years. Only a little over a week remained for the rule to come into force. But little did we know that morning that in a little over a week from now the city of Bombay would begin to lose more than just a few thousands of Premier Padminis.

From the time I had stepped into his taxi, a Premier Padmini 1992 Model, the Maharashtrian taxi driver, originally from Kolhapur, quickly spelt out his stand on the rule. “If the taxi is functioning well and also now that almost all of them have converted to CNG, why should they be banned from the roads?” A rolled-up copy of Maharashtra Times lay wedged between the rearview mirror and the roof.

Drawing an analogy with the human body, he said, “If one is not keeping well then only the affected part is treated, isn’t it?” I nodded. Then he told me of how “only the papers go for passing” while the taxis merrily criss cross the city instead of showing up at the Road Transport Office. “Often the taxis are not even checked for their (driving) ‘condition’ before issuing their ‘passing’, only the papers reach the RTO, not the taxis.” He had one eye on the road as he spoke of how some cabbies wouldn’t be bothered to present their taxis for the yearly ‘passing’ at the RTO if they knew it is easier to pass the papers along by making available some ‘consideration’ to the officials. He reserved his ire and curses for the ‘three star’ officers who wouldn’t be bothered so long as they ‘earned’ their keep from the taxi drivers.

“If the door doesn’t close properly, or if the headlights are poor, the body is rusted, or the engine smokes then don’t pass the vehicle na. Let the driver get it fixed before allowing it back on the road,” he continued. “Even I would love to have a Skoda instead of driving this one. But where is the money. To go for a new vehicle now will cost a lot of money and most drivers can’t afford to feed their family well.”

I sat listening quietly as we passed traffic on our way, slowing down to let early morning shoppers at the vegetable market cross the road. He spoke in Marathi. As he shifted gears to take a turn into one of the lanes he said, “Why should age be a factor, and not performance? So now they (government) think nothing of dumping all vehicles older than 25 years even if they’re running on CNG and functioning smoothly. They’re throwing everything away, the good and the bad.”

Once the jungle catches fire, even the wet burns away with the dry.

Later that night the terrorists struck Bombay in a coordinated assault aimed at killing as many innocents as they could get hold of.

Then the news anchors announced that the terrorists were Muslim, and that they came from Pakistan.

I stayed home the next day, Thursday. Much of Mumbai did. I doubt if it was because the city was afraid of the terrorists. If I know the city well it had to be because no one wanted to get stuck in the middle of nowhere should the terrorist strikes throw the public transport haywire, leaving people stranded with no way to get home.

On Friday I left for the office early in the morning passing an elderly Muslim woman selling sundry items on the railway foot-bridge. Spread on a blue plastic sheet were colourful combs, safety pins, and envelopes. The last of the terrorists were still engaged in a battle with the security forces that morning at the Taj. The presence of hundreds of hostages had made the entire operation arduous. The religious dimension the terrorists brought to the attack turned the mood in the city palpably.

I hailed a passing taxi sporting an old registration number plate. This is an old taxi I thought, probably older than twenty five years and its days on the city roads must be numbered. It is funny how the seemingly inconsequential occupies the mind when there’re pressing matters forcing the conscious to take note of and reflect on. Thoughts tend to localize when demands made of them are global in nature. In the moment I took to slide into the backseat of the taxi the morning Sun kicked up a ruckus in Usman’s hennaed beard, turning it into an angry fluff of deep orange and setting off his wrinkles.

Usman, the elderly Muslim taxi driver, came to Bombay from Gujarat in 1957 when he was “still young”, working odd jobs before taking to driving a taxi. “It’s been years now that I have been driving this taxi,” he was to tell me later that morning.

Usman backed up his taxi before turning onto the highway. There were only a few people on the streets and it was not difficult to imagine why. Since the night of 26/11 television channels were falling over each other to beam live ‘exclusive’ footage of the unfolding attacks and even as I got into Usman’s old taxi that Friday morning television was beaming live the counter-terrorism effort underway at the Taj. It was in it final stages.

“Bahut bura ho raha hai, bahut bura hua,” I said to him. (What is happening is bad, and what happened was bad). It was more an intonation within earshot as in exhaling a knot of emotion than directed at anyone in particular, driven more by the need to share a feeling with another than to start a conversation around the comment.

“Yeh koi insaniyat hai,” he shot back at me (Is this humanity?) before continuing, “Nirdoshon ne kya bhigada tha kisika?” (What had the innocent victims harmed anything of anyone). A palpable disgust took hold of Usman as he flailed his arms in the little space the taxi afforded him, venting his anger at the terrorists who shared his religion, his voice shaking, and eyes wide open. With old age the voice can quiver when rage takes hold of it. A quivering voice even if an angry one can project little menace, compensating instead with flailing arms projecting the anger in the arc the hand describes. Usman looked to be nearing seventy.

Usman was probably aware of the intense scrutiny the Muslim community is undergoing, reinforced as much by similar fanaticism countries across the world have faced from the community as by the slew of terrorist attacks emanating from elements within their brotherhood in India, for he declared forcefully, “We (Muslims) ourselves say that they (the Islamist terrorists who attacked Mumbai) must be shot,” mimicking the pulling of the trigger as he spat the words with vehemence before continuing, “They should be hunted down.” A tubelight holder affixed to the roof of his taxi sported colours of the Indian flag. As the taxi hit a pothole the Koranic notation that hung from the rear view mirror jumped and swayed before steadying.

I ask him if the elders in his community have any say in what is preached in Mosques and taught in Madrassas. He lowered his voice, turning to look at me even as he kept his attention on the road, and said, “Talim bahar se milta hai. Bahar se,” (They receive their education – indoctrination here – outside, as in from beyond Indian borders), before repeating, “Bahar se. Bahar jaatey hai, talim wahan milta hai.” (They – the students – travel abroad, and they get their education – indoctrination in this context – there).

“They (those terrorizing in the name of Islam) bring us (Muslims) a bad name,” Usman said. I kept silent in the time he spoke. In the confines of an old taxi the warm air came to acquire a purple welt from the lashing an outraged Muslim man meted out on the morning the death toll in the waterfront attack inflicted by terrorists from Pakistan climbed steadily towards 200.

Watching Usman negotiate the crowd from the backseat and the quiet dignity he brought to the ethos of the street I could well imagine the ‘going away’ of a certain stolidity his generation brought to the city, bringing their ‘shades of grey’ to populate the black and white.

The average Bombay cabbie, especially the one who has lived in the city for a long time, is not easily hassled. He will not talk much, listening quietly while you speak, occasionally nodding, and other times silent, rarely acknowledging what you might have to say. And when he speaks it will be to nod in agreement with your assertion whatever it maybe, while keeping an eye out for jaywalkers on the busy road. Chances are he will own an old taxi and know every lane that goes anywhere in Bombay. Elderly cabbies are more likely to own the older of the Padmini Premiers. The ubiquitous yellow and black taxis and their elderly drivers are an underlying narrative of the lanes that intersect and connect city lives. In phasing out Padmini Premiers older than twenty five years a certain dignity the elder among the generation of Bombay cabbies brought to the city street could soon be a thing of the past.

I listened to Usman in silence. Another time we might have discussed the impending deadline issued to city cabs on the wrong side of 25 years. Another time I might have asked Usman if his taxi would be affected by the ruling as most likely it was. But these were extraordinary times. Another time Usman along with fellow taxi drivers might have organized himself for relief from the ruling. In all probability it must have been on the cards. But the terrorist strike will have changed all that. There was little else that occupied the mind, including Usman’s as I soon found out.

“They (the terrorists) don’t think of their parents? Their relatives, and all those left behind?” Usman said, his voice rising, exasperated at the thought of how the parents must feel to lose their children thus, at least some parents if not most.

Then he spoke of the brotherhood his community shared with other communities (notably the Hindus) in the city over the years, priding in their ability to afford ‘protection’ to the relatively ‘less prone to using violence, meeker, and god-fearing’ Hindus.

“In the neighbourhood we (Muslims) used to tell them (Hindus) to tell us if anyone gave them trouble and we would deal with it,” Usman said, his voice expanding even as he lamented, “and look what it has come to now (suspicion against his whole community). Every one of us is now lumped with the terrorists!”

Everyone! Yes, everyone!

Once the jungle catches fire, even the wet burns away with the dry.

Riverside in Panjim

Spanning time as much with their longevity as they do the road between the Secretariat and Miramar with their lush canopy, the Rain trees that line the Dayanand Bandodkar Marg make traveling along the riverfront one of the highlights on entering the city of Panaji on the West Coast of India. Panaji is the capital of Goa. I have walked the promenade along the Mandovi often, taking in river ferries as they make lazy crossings between Panjim jetty and Betim that lies across the river in the direction of Mapusa.

It is not uncommon to find large barges ferrying iron ore from open cast mines to loading points downstream of the river where it meets the Arabian Sea. Sometimes I have paused to watch the evening Sun glint off the river. From the road snatches of water rippling gently are visible through the balustrade that fences off the promenade from the river, and every once in a while tourists visiting Panjim walk along the promenade and take in views of the Mandovi. The locals mostly hurry past. Many Government offices are located along the stretch to the other side of the road.


Occasionally a lonely soul or two can be found perched on the riverfront parapet gazing into the distance. I have found expanses of water inviting such gazing, as if in the stillness that flatness of any kind induces there is to be found an evenness to steady the turbulence within. Not all who come here do so to gaze at the Mandovi lapping the promenade. Couples whiling away time can be seen sitting on cement benches lining the promenade, their attention divided between their companionship and the placid waters. Lamps punctuate the line of benches. As the Sun goes down they soothe the stretch with a familial glow bringing comfort to wandering souls far away from home.


Early this month I passed the Military Headquarters HQ 2 Signal Training Centre on D. B. Marg, casting a quick glance at the arched porch centered in the facade before crossing the road to the promenade. I had time on my hands as I made my way along the river. In the far distance spans of the bridge over the Mandovi connecting Panaji to Mapusa were visible. The Portuguese had based their military headquarters in this building before they were driven out by the Indian Army, ending their centuries’ old occupation of Goa. The Portuguese Generals must have enjoyed a quiet evening view of the Mandovi in happier times.

Casting my eye into the distance I noticed a lone figure wielding a net attached to the end of a long bamboo pole peer intently into the waters. In the backdrop lay a large floating casino, almost obscuring a stretch of the river. Casinos have been brought in to cater to affluent western tourists, beating back local protests fighting the spread of casino culture in the tiny state.

He waded into the waters, the large pole balanced against the back of his neck, the net attached to one end of the pole. A few of his friends sat on the parapet talking even as they kept an eye on him. On the face of it they appeared to be regulars at this time of the day, most probably workers at the end of their working day come looking for some banter and a catch to take home for dinner.

The fisherman lowered the net in the river and in a sweeping movement traced an arc in the waters. Lifting the net out of the water he checked it for catch. There was none.

He waded further out until his knees were well under the water. There he lowered the net again and in a sweeping movement he traced an arc from left to right, only pausing on facing resistance to the sweep. Apparently the net had snagged on some debris in the water that he couldn’t quite see. He took a few steps further out to avoid the obstruction before lowering the net again. This time the sweep yielded a catch. Cheers went up on the parapet where his friends sat following his progress. By now his effort had attracted a few passers-by as well.

The catch was by no means large but the bulge in the net as he lifted it out of the water indicated a catch worthy of a dinner for two, sufficient enough to satisfy a few minutes of exertion on an evening stroll with friends. He had landed Prawns (Sungto in Konkani, the local language).

The Sun licked the length of the promenade golden, casting shadows that loped along as people walked its length. Across the road to my right lay the Institute Menezes Braganca. Adjoining it was the Police Headquarters, formerly known as the Quartel da Policia do Estado da India, established during the rule of Dom Manoel de Portugal e Castro in the late 1920s during the erstwhile Portuguese regime.

Now that he had his catch I waited for the fisherman to make his way back to the promenade. I expected him to empty his catch before heading out again. Instead I saw him hesitate and look closely at the spot where his sweep had encountered resistance in the water. A few moments later he beckoned one of his friends sitting on the parapet to where he stood and passed him the long pole, the fishing net weighed down by the catch at one end.

Then he stepped back into the water and felt the spot with his hands until he located the obstruction. Standing there, my elbows on the parapet, I had a feeling he knew what the obstruction was. Soon enough I saw a tyre emerge from the waters as he rolled it upright. There was no knowing how long it had lain in the waters before he had found it that evening. Fishermen are known to leave tyres in the shallow of rivers.

He ran his hand along the inside of the tyre, searching no doubt for crabs that seek shelter in such opportunities. Sure enough he found one crab. Excited cheers went up on the parapet as he extricated the reluctant crab from its home before heading back to where his friends sat.


One of them expertly emptied the young prawns on a piece of cardboard box, picking off stragglers left behind in the net. The prawns shone silver in the evening light, catching the Sun as they wriggled desperately, surprised by the unfamiliarity of their situation.

In contrast the crab seemed resigned to its fate, barely moving as one of the men held it firm under his thumb as I took its picture.

Behind me the river showed no trace of the little drama it had just witnessed. Like with other instances before this moment too passed into history no sooner it had taken place, swallowed by the stillness of the waters.

I walk down the promenade in the direction of the Panaji Ferry point that connects ferry passengers to Betim on the other side of the river. A Cross abuts the promenade near the Ferry point. Resting in the shade of sloping sheets it reminds passing people of passengers who died in an accident on the river when the ferry they were traveling in capsized some years ago. The Cross was built in their memory by locals living nearby.


A man stops by to ask a bicycle-borne ice cream vendor for directions about town as I make my way past them to where local buses headed for the Kadamba bus-stand halt for passengers. The days are short and the shadows lengthen quickly. I can see the Mandovi hotel from the promenade. The traffic on the road is light. I turn to see if any buses are headed my way.


Soon enough a mini-bus comes to a halt by the promenade and even as I release the shutter I make a run for the white and blue bus, the conductor waiting at the door. Barely have I made it up the landing and the bus lurches forward and we are on our way.