Goan Laterite, Red and Rough

Past Bethora, the woods barely part, allowing the rider passing glimpses of sloping roofs of formerly bright hued Mangalore tiles weathered over time by elements to an earthy shade of shadows that filter the morning sun to randomly shifting patterns on Goa’s back roads.

Set back from the road that narrows and curves past bends before straightening, only to curve again, trees rise high along the incline of gentle hills while across the road they drop away along the slopes, shading stone and mortar homes fronted by courtyards centered around brightly painted tulsi enclosures.

If you’re lucky you might spot a Tree Pie in the branches, the twitching tail giving its presence away while Magpie Robins disappearing into the underbrush serve to pause the rider out of concern for their well being. Fear not, the Magpie Robins for all their seemingly clumsy hop, skip and jump routine are supremely athletic. I grew up watching them.

I like riding through the quiet of Goa’s rural landscape, particularly through Nirankal where the silence can lull senses so completely that only the shocking red of a recently quarried earth will awaken them to a screeching halt. Most times newer constructions are hidden away among vegetation so if a rider is returning after a prolonged absence he is unlikely ever to notice it unless you happen upon a laterite quarry.



Laterite mined amidst the greenery is among the most visible of visiting cards that rural economic activity in Goa leaves behind, not as much for the gaping earth as for the searing red of the violation inflicted, the colour resulting from the presence of iron oxides.

Ajay and I pulled up at a newly quarried laterite mine the moment we rounded the bend past a clump of bamboo along the Nirankal-Dabal stretch. While there was little in the landscape to suggest anything out of the ordinary, the disquiet presented by the freshly excavated red earth proved to be hypnotic.



A makeshift house constructed from mined laterite stones and covered with dried coconut fronds stood at one end, home to a Kannada migrant labour family tasked with keeping watch over the laterite mine in the open area to the front.

Migrant labour from neighbouring Karnataka find employment in Goa, filling in for local Goans unwilling to take up hard manual labour. While Kannada-speaking labourers are often, though not always, shunned, ridiculed and likely to be looked down upon by Goans, they’re largely indispensable in filling in for hard labour requirements in this tiny coastal state.



I stepped over laterite rubble from the mine and made for their dwelling. At first I was taken aback by the walls raised with laterite blocks loosely placed one over the other. There was no mortar binding the stones. None at all. Nor did I see a door!

In the doorway the father sat in a swing fashioned from a rope while the lady of the house stood by the doorway in the shade of the thatched roof extending outward. In the middle of seemingly nowhere theirs was a picture of calm.

In the far distance the Western Ghats mountain ranges were outlined in the dreamy blue of a hopeful sky.



Across the road from the quarry a truck stood in the shade of a tree. Tyre marks criss-crossed the laterite mine behind me. While the driver’s side of the door invoked St. Caitan, the bonnet invoked St. Anthony in white paint over rusty red of the laterite it transported from the mine. To a corner of the windshield, under a picture of a suffering Jesus, were the words – Jesus I Love You. No one important was left out. I did not walk around to the back of the truck. If I had, I'd probably see an invocation to a fourth one from the holy pantheon.

The rear view mirror was missing from the holder. Truckers transporting mining extracts on Goan roads find no use for such niceties as a rear view mirror. Moreover, they've little to fear themselves, having entrusted their destiny into divine hands, literally speaking. It's the others on those roads who quiver at the sound of an approaching dumper.

Owning a truck in Goa is a viable business alternative, much in demand for transporting construction material, as also ore from Iron ore and Manganese mines.

The blue plastic drawn over a thatched roof fashioned from coconut fronds was held down by randomly placed fronds and laterite stones. A power tiller fixed with laterite-cutting blades stood to one side of the entrance conspicuous by the absence of a door.

Until recently it was common to see wiry men blackened by the sun toil away manually in the laterite stone quarries, sweat running off in little rivulets as they chiseled away at solid rock, fashioning out large, heavy laterite ‘bricks’ for use in construction of houses elsewhere.


Older constructions in Goa made extensive use of laterite, visible as much in the construction of temples as in churches, including laying steps to raise the plinth. Outlined in white paint, laterite steps, weathered to a shade of black from being exposed to the elements, ascend to the Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception Church in Panjim, accentuating the church square in the heart of the city, and relieving passersby of the heat of the mid-day sun.



Road-side crosses raised on pedestals are as likely to have been fashioned from laterite stones as the raised plinths of homes in their vicinity.

In each case, more so in the years before machines came to be employed in cutting stones, much hard work, and skill went into manually stripping the laterite quarry into even sized stones for the market. I remember the men employed in cutting stones from rock formations to be wiry and black from being out in the sun. They rarely spoke, and when they did they were often cryptic in their replies.

One time in the monsoons, benefiting from a rare day of sunshine, a wizened old man I met while riding by a laterite quarry in Keri had his head wrapped in towel to protect it from the sun as well as serve as a cushion for carrying the laterite stones to stack some distance away. The old man told me it was a tough ask working the quarry manually in the rains. The stones are usually heavier on account of water seeping through. The costs likewise go up. Flashing a tired smile he returned to chipping the laterite deposits into laterite bricks, his head bent to the task.



The quarry was located a little over a kilometer away from the jagged outcrops of laterite hills that rise immediately upon cresting the incline that breaks cover and levels out into a temporary plateau of sorts before slipping towards Savoiverem, past Booth Khamba, a knee high shrine to the resident spirit whose blessings passing travelers seek on their way past, usually offering coins or incense sticks as much in deference as in obeisance.

Typical of laterite deposits, the jagged outcrops along the surface of the massive mounds from atop which the radio towers on Taleigao Plateau are visible in the far distance, pose stiff challenges if you’re walking on them, more so at sundown. I’ve startled many a Lapwing there and been startled in return by their screaming murder and flapping away agitatedly before circling overhead crying harshly. The night skies fairly dazzle from atop the hills in the vicinity. Hare droppings are common among the jagged outcrops of laterite.


The narrow road that runs past the laterite hills passes by a Banyan tree under whose shade I used to pause for a breather on my cycling sojourns many, many years ago. Now if I happen to pass that way in the noon I pause so the goatherd and his herd of goats have the right of way. Buffaloes grazing in the vicinity will raise their heads at the sharp commands he directs at his unruly flock.


In the years since not much has changed out there except for prices of laterite stones. They’ve become dearer. I remember prices of Goan laterite stones to be a little over a rupee each many years ago, steadily increasing to three, then five before the cost of each laterite stone came to be ten apiece, and even fifteen depending upon your location. Transportation of laterite added to the costs, with locations further away from the quarries parting more for each stone.



Laterite Chira (as laterite stone is known) is designated by the Govt. of Goa as a Minor Mineral alongwith laterite rubble, laterite boulders, Sand, Basalt, and river pebbles. The Major Minerals are Iron Ore, Manganese, and Bauxite. The laterite quarry we happened upon along the Nirankal – Dabal stretch is located near Iron Ore mines operated by Timblo and Sesa Goa.

Most private laterite quarries measure between 2,000 – 7,000 Sq. mts., while smaller leases are typically in the range of 400 – 600 Sq. mts. The larger laterite mines, above 20,000 Sq. mts., are relatively fewer in number.

Laterite deposits in Goa are largely to be found in Sattari, Canacona, and Sanguem, and to an extent in Quepem, with most of private laterite quarries located in these four talukas. The other talukas too have their share of laterite deposits but not as much. Private laterite mining leases granted by the Govt. of Goa will likely be located in villages going by the names of Fatorpa, Darbandora, Pissurlem, Loliem, Virdi, Melauli, Codli, and Agonda among others, names that enchant and evoke curiosity. In my cycling days I would wander down roads for the names of villages they passed through.

Growing up we used to cart laterite blocks stacked up at construction sites and make goalposts of them. Goalkeepers were careful not to lunge blind-eyed at the football, for the stones could hurt if there was so much as a missstep. And missteps were many when we would play catch. I picked up injuries regularly from falls on laterite outcrops when out playing, too many to count.

Boundaries on cricket fields were marked with laterite stones and so were wickets at the bowler’s end. Much to our unease, the leather ball would come apart at the seams from crashing into laterite compounds sooner than later.

Back then each leather cricket ball cost a princely sum of twenty two rupees, a sum we would raise by pitching together. And we played on until the guts spilled out in an unseemly mass of dry entrails, wobbling the trajectory greatly. In time we took to raiding cashew fields to finance our cricket gear, a kilo of raw cashew nuts fetching us ten rupees at the neighbourhood shop!

Laterite was not merely a stone, it was a constant in our lives in more ways than one.

Even Illusions Can Elude

I met Tulsabai when we stopped for tea at a roadside hotel in Ballapur, a seemingly non descript hamlet reached from Aurangabad off Sillod along the Jalgaon bypass road. We had left Aurangabad early that morning. I had sprinted past the bus in the baking heat upon seeing her transform from a dot cresting the swell in the road to an eye catching dash of colour approaching a barren tree, contrasting as sharply with the tree glinting beaten silver in the sun as the tree with an unusually blue sky.

There was scarcely a soul on the road except for the elderly woman in sari walking down the stretch balancing an empty pot on her head. Only a compelling reason could press legs out in the scorching heat. Her steps were slow and measured. She would turn her head every once in a while to watch for the occasional heavy vehicle coming up from behind her.

She told me she was headed to a roadside hotel "owned by a Marwari" some distance down the road to wash dishes at the hotel before filling up the pot with water the owner spared her before trudging back home.

Behind her, the barren tree reached up to the skies, and while its branches, reminding of upturned hands beseeching the heavens for mercy, sought succour in the pleasing blue they however wished for clouds to come floating by.

In the backdrop of the sky whose alluring blue reminded me of faraway oceans staring back from covers of glossy travel magazines strategically placed in air-conditioned book shops, I found the stark contrast of spare, leafless branches with Tulsabai’s clothes worn from use, poignant.

At least I had an illusion to fall back on. She had none.

Mumbai’s Week Of Swine Flu A Year On

A little over a year ago, living rooms across Mumbai and outlying suburbs resonated to news anchors announcing breathlessly that the dreaded H1N1 (better known as Swine flu) finally had Mumbai in its grip. In the days leading up to that week in August, the deserted streets of Mexico City, described as the Ground Zero of H1N1 virus, seemed too far away to worry about, at least for the moment at any rate.

Even so there was palpable anxiety. It was inevitable that the US, for reasons not merely restricted to geography, was next. Then it was only a matter of time before India became the new home to H1N1. The panic was to exceed that seen for its predecessors – SARS and Bird flu, both having originated outside India, like H1N1.

For reasons I couldn’t quite understand, it was Pune, and not Mumbai, that first bore the brunt of Swine flu as it seemingly swept across the city. If news anchors were to be believed the end was nigh near and we might be advised to square up to our omissions, tally up our balance sheets, say our goodbyes, and wait out our turn, except the turn never came, to most that is.

But that did not stop panic stricken residents, helped in no small measure by news channels amplifying the unknown with the certainty of an astrologer, from laying to siege to pharmacies for N95 face masks, and as sure as sound follows lightening, black marketers ensured the N95 face masks were selling for several times their worth, and in no time would be out of stock. At least that’s what two chemists told me when I went looking for pharmacies to buy N95 face masks, price notwithstanding. Soon talk of duplicates flooding the market appeared. And news channels smelling a scandal, and rightly so, followed the frauds, and hoarders.

Accusations flew thick and fast. There was little scope for denials, for the risk of being proven wrong was great. Newspapers carried information of Swine flu testing centres while contact details of hospitals readied with wards in preparation to deal with H1N1 infections sought to pacify a nervous populace.

With N95 nigh well unavailable, notwithstanding expert opinion doubting its effectiveness in protecting the wearer against Swine flu, city residents were desperate to buy anything green that resembled a ‘face mask’, in turn ensuring that surgical masks or flimsy imitations of the same would soon become available on Dadar’s railway over-bridge.

If improvisation is the mantra for surviving Indian streets, manufacturers will find ready marketers for their products on Dadar foot-bridge where resilience meets the need to offer hope. Only a few months before H1N1 happened, I saw a vendor on the railway over-bridge selling a pair of Salwar Kameez for ten rupees. Shaking my head, I had walked past in a daze. But shortage of supply and desperation of the public in face of mounting incidences of H1N1 meant the paper masks went for the same price as a Salwar Kameez.



“Dus ka ek, dus ka ek,” called out a youth holding out surgical masks as I joined commuters disembarking from local trains and making their way out of the railway station. (“Each for ten rupees, each for ten”).

“Savdhani Bartho, Pachtao Mat, Lo Dus ka Ek, Dus ka Ek,” he exhorted passing commuters, appealing to their fears as they walked past, pushing them into deciding on buying from him. Handkerchiefs covered faces of a few while most wore no protection. (“Take precautions, regret not later, take one for ten, one for ten.”)

Sure enough, many responded. Gathering around him they paid for the surgical masks before going their way.



A few feet away another vendor held out more masks, selling each for Rs. 20/-. I could not tell the difference between the two. It did not matter. Commuters would assume the costlier one to be the better of the two.


A few feet further on I came upon a third vendor holding face masks for sale and conversing with a fellow vendor selling wrist watches from makeshift platforms. On busy mornings, and through the day, the railway foot-bridge at Dadar reverberates to calls of vendors selling items ranging from perfumes, shirts, umbrellas, shoes, and accessories of every kind imaginable to food items like paneer, fruits, and vegetables.

Voices of vendors rose a notch, each successive voice sounding louder than the one before, like a vessel clattering down a flight of steps, echoing louder as it gathers momentum down the incline before rising steeply in pitch as it comes to an abrupt and often thundering halt.

At the turn in the bridge that led down the flight of steps ending at the phool galli (flower lane), I passed the fourth vendor holding out more of the same masks, offering each for Rs. 10/-.



“Badi Bimari se Bachho, Jiska Elaaj Nahin, Dus Rupaiyya, Dus Rupaiyya,” he announced, reminding commuters of the need to safeguard from a ‘big disease that has no cure’.

Commuters streamed past him, most hurrying to make time at their places of work while still others, too weighed down with more pressing concerns than Swine flu, barely registered the surgical masks on sale with the vendor, his exhortations lost in the background noise of the everyday.



Walking into my office later that morning, past a large poster calling attention to the DOs and DONTs relating to the spread of germs, the reality of H1N1 (Swine flu) finally hit home. There was no escaping it anymore, at least not the daily reminders at any rate.

If precautions listed in posters put up at office entrances were not enough, more were to be found the moment I got on trains heading home.

Back home, switch on the television and there was even more of it. Early mornings were no different. The newspapers the newspaper boy flung against the door whispered, ‘Swine flu.’



A week is a long time in Bombay, longer still on Mumbai local trains. ‘News flu’ having elevated Swine flu to one of eminent danger, speculating on the likely surge given the crowded local trains that ferry commuters to work and back, travelers had taken to using handkerchiefs to cover their faces.

With N95 face masks proving to be elusive, handkerchiefs came in handy. Moreover, the Mumbai commuter will not be bothered with carrying a mask around once out the train. Most would find it too much of a hassle.

I wore my handkerchief in similar fashion.

The week soon passed. And having largely found themselves none the worse for the caution they exercised with what were in effect cloth placebos, the handkerchiefs came off within a week of their going up, even as the death toll from H1N1 infections rose steadily in Pune, and to an extent in Mumbai. And life went on, though not quite.



The days of uncertainty triggered by a seemingly rampaging Swine flu were leading into India’s ‘festival season’ beginning with Nag Panchami, Raksha Bandhan, and Krishna Janmashtami in Shravan masa (month). Bhadrapad masa follows Shravan masa, when Mumbai celebrates Ganesh Chaturthi with a fervour that is unmatched across India. Navratri, Dussehra and Diwali soon follow in Ashwin masa, bringing to an end the three months that characterize much of festivities across India. Swine flu fears fronted the festivities, the elephant in the room that no one dared dismiss.


It was not so much Raksha Bandhan that put the Maharashtra Govt. on tenter hooks as the Krishna Janmashtami (Gokulashtami) celebrations when ‘Govindas’ by the truckloads, cheering from the back of the trucks, reveling in the light drizzle even as they sport their team affiliations on their backs, usually the name of their Mitra Mandal and local sponsors, roar into neighbourhoods across Mumbai and outlying suburbs to participate in dahi handi (literally meaning a pot of curd).



They make their way to Mitra Mandals hosting dahi handi to compete as much for the prizes awaiting teams successfully forming human pyramids in breaking dahi handis, often tied at dizzying heights, as for the spectacle this much loved festival marking the birth of Lord Krishna in Mathura and celebrating his childhood exploits in pursuit of dahi handi for the dahi though it was butter he was actually after.


Some rickshaw drivers from the north of India will often display stickers of the young Krishna, also known as Bal Gopal, on their windshields. I never stopped to ask them how they manage to see through the windshields. If I did I could well expect them to smile and point to Lord Krishna and say, “He’ll take care of us. He always has.”

The advent of politicians and advertisers seeking to cash in on the ready made platform that large congregations of youth presented them with has ensured this ancient festival, easily dating back several thousand years, did not escape commercialization at the main venues, in turn raising prize money as competing political parties sought to be known for organizing the ‘biggest’ dahi handi in town.

Stakes went up. And more youth groups (locally organized as Mitra Mandals) threw their hats in the rings. Many would return home with serious injuries from falls as human pyramids in pursuit of the dahi handi came crashing down.

Word soon went out that the ‘big’ dahi handi celebrations patronized by political parties and local toughs and known for drawing participants and spectators in their thousands through the day stood cancelled on account of fears stemming from Swine flu spreading among such large gatherings.

That left small neighbourhoods to celebrate Krishna Janmashtami by organizing dahi handi in their neighbourhoods. Each Mitra Mandal stepped up and carried on with the tradition of dahi handi in their respective neighbourhoods. Even so I was surprised upon stepping out in the late afternoon to find most dahi handis, strung from ropes spanning roads and decorated with garlands, already broken and crowds dispersed for the day.



At Chandanwadi, a black board erected roadside by Maharashtra Navnirman Sena, a relatively new local political party known for its visceral hatred of non marathi-speaking people, announced its neighbourhood involvement with its Navnirman Mitra Mandal. The board was empty of any announcement relating to dahi handi. A mobile stall selling catapults stood under the display board. An adjacent stage set up for the occasion was empty, the function welcoming participating ‘Govindas’ and prize distribution having concluded early in the day.



The broken pot still hung from where it was strung over the road, and auto rickshaws plied the roads as people went about their daily lives.


An elderly man reclining in a chair on a raised platform along Almeida Road in Chandanwadi told me that folks finished up with dahi handi quickly, and early “because of that new disease in town”.

His elbows resting on armrests pantomimed as much an acceptance of the new reality as an helplessness dealing with it. He spoke in Marathi. Two little girls from the neighbourhood played in the open space while the man kept his eye on them, watching the roar of trucks carrying cheering ‘Govindas’ past us.

A local youth sat with his back to the wall by a display board of the local Mitra Mandal aptly named Bal Gopal Mitra Mandal, established in the year 1975 and registered with the Govt. of Maharashtra. It is likely that the elderly man was once associated with the Bal Gopal Mitra Mandal in his youth, its survival the only certainty in a fast changing city.


Rarely turning to me as he spoke, he wondered where these new diseases come from. “In my time we never had this disease (H1N1), and the one before that (referring to Bird flu).” Then he turned his palms upward, facing skywards, as if prostrating to the will of the almighty before venting his fears in a calm tone.

“I sometimes wonder what else is in store for me before my time is over and how will these young children cope with all of it!”

Jab Se Hui Hai Shaadi

Returning from Tughlaqabad along the Mehrauli – Badarpur road, Toshi and I moved to the pace of Delhi traffic and soon found ourselves behind a Vikram as most 3-Wheeler passenger auto rickshaws ferrying passengers about town are known as in some regions north of India.

On the back, the Vikram sported in Hindi a common refrain around marriage that men will sometimes good humouredly tease their wives with, raising laughs in gatherings and eliciting matching verse from other men and before you can say ‘Hello’ a full fledged mehfil is likely underway as each married gent tries to outdo the other. If they’re lucky the womenfolk will join in notwithstanding the potshots that men aim at them with their verses, mostly good-naturedly. Sometimes not.



While he advertised “Eco Friendly Service” prominently on the back, the two pierced hearts lent urgency to the lines between them, a sentiment that likely elicited smiles, even if weary at the thought, in those following behind him.

Jab Se Hui Hai Shaadi
Aasu Baha Raha Hun,
Aafat Galey Padi Hai
Vikram Chala Raha Hun


(In English)

Since the Time I Got Married
I’ve been Shedding Tears,
A Millstone hangs by my Neck
And I ride a Vikram Now.

The last two lines actually intend: “A Millstone (read ‘wife’ as in ‘she’s a trouble because she’s demanding’), reducing me to driving a Vikram (read ‘to satisfy her demands’ as in ‘living a good life’)”, in essence lamenting the state she’s brought him to. Driving a Vikram for a living is a hard life.

Museebat in Hindi translates to 'Trouble'. If you were to find yourself in traditional neighbourhoods where the lingo is not tempered by urban political correctness, retaining shades of rural ethos, don’t bat an eyelid if the elderly gentleman you’ve known for long welcomes you warmly into his home while calling out to his wife of many years: “Museebat, dekho kaun aaya hai.” (Museebat, see who’s here.)


Note: The lines on the back of the Vikram are drawn from the opening lyrics of the song Jab Se Hui Hai Shaadi from the 1990 Sanjay Dutt – Madhuri Dixit starrer ‘Thanedaar’, except for the last line Vikram Chala Raha Hun which the rickshaw driver modified to reflect his vocation.

The original song shows a harassed and ‘tattered’ Sanjay Dutt lamenting having to do all the chores since the time he got married while his wife, Madhuri Dixit, merrily pampers herself, living the good life at his expense!




Such is life (with a museebat wife)!


Note: Vikram is the brand name of the 3-Wheeler product range manufactured by Scooters India Ltd. based out of Lucknow and formerly known for their 2-Wheelers - Vijai Super and Lambretta. Vikram 750D, Vikram 600G, Vikram 450D, Vikram 410G, and Vikram EV are among their key models in the 3-Wheeler range.

Not Just Another Day

He got off the train at Khed and headed for the exit where bougainvillea in mid-leap awaited him on his way out.

Soon we left them behind as we converged into the mountains in the far distance.

But before we made for the horizon we would first cross rivers. Many rivers.

Sunday Ho Ya Monday, Roz Khao Ande

A little over a fortnight ago I found myself on a footpath, sheltering under trees from rains kicking in the monsoons. Motorcyclists caught unawares by the showers hastened likewise to the trees, water dripping off their faces. The drizzle strengthened before thinning out. It takes a few drizzles before umbrellas begin to make an appearance each rainy season.

Parked alongside was a rickshaw carrier, with “Eat More Eggs For Better Health” displayed prominently at the back. Lest those unfamiliar with English miss the message, the vernacular version in Devanagiri script ensured the non-english speaking Marathi manoos would not let up on the hens either. The Marathi version read:


Andi Kha, Balwan Vohya

Not that folks on the street needed any convincing about the merits of eating eggs. You only need to see the business that streetside vendors whipping up egg omlettes do to come away convinced of the Indian love affair with eggs, at least along the West Coast.


Nor did I have to step away from the sidewalk for proof, not when it lay only a few feet from where I was sheltered under the trees alongside the rickshaw carrier ferrying eggs around town. A large stack of empty egg trays, neatly bundled together, lay on the multi-coloured sidewalk, probably waiting to be picked up and deposited in the rickshaw carrier parked alongside.

Bundled tightly together were over 120 empty egg trays, each tray designed to hold 42 eggs in six rows of seven eggs each.

Typically, vendors not reached by these rickshaw carriers will ferry eggs in egg trays stacked vertically and lashed to the back of bicycles, pedaling gingerly through traffic swirling about them, a sight familiar to urban India.

Turning to look at the rickshaw carrier and the empty egg trays I did a quick calculation. Over 5,000 eggs were probably sold that morning. And to think there were more such rickshaw carriers around!

God bless the hens!

Waiting for the drizzle to die out I was reminded of a popular jingle those of us growing up in the 1990s would hum along each time the NECC Advert extolling the virtues of eggs as healthy nutrition appeared on the telly. It mattered little if you did not eat eggs, you hummed along anyway. It also mattered little if you did not agree to burdening the hapless hens so, you hummed along anyway. It was that hummable.

Sunday Ho Ya Monday, Roz Khao Ande





Set loosely to the tune of Macarena, the 30 second commercial (video above) swept through possibilities eggs presented before ending with Sunday Ho Ya Monday, Roz Khao Ande. [Sunday or Monday, Eat Eggs Everyday]. If the NECC was surprised at the response the jingle got they did not let on, at least not until much later, for the only Web that Indians knew back then was the one Spiderman wove to catch the bad guys. In today’s Web 2.0 world, the advertisement will most likely have spawned forums debating whether eating eggs is okay for vegetarians.

NECC stands for National Egg Co-ordination Committee. Initiated by the Late Dr. B.V. Rao, Chairman of NECC, they came up with the campaign to push the nation into eating eggs ‘everyday’, the Sunday Ho Ya Monday probably meaning to say that ‘At School or Not, Eat An Egg Everyday’, ‘At Work or Not, Eat An Egg Everyday’, implying eggs are so good for your health that you must eat them every single day.

For children with little or no appetite for eggs, the commercial was a godsend to concerned mothers, helping them effectively dissolve their resistance to eggs each time they laid the whites and yolk on the table before school

The Brahmins down South were probably unmoved by the Ad jingle, as also the Jains, among other largely vegetarian communities. But I could bet on them remembering the jingle with relish, a sign-post of an era when Indian Advertising redeemed itself, sounding the board with a series of memorable jingles.

So, for a time in the 1990s Indian hens were given a hard time by the National Egg Coordination Committee (NECC). For once the hens would’ve rather preferred to find their way to the boiling pot, sating an ever growing population salivating their every living moment for “chicken”, than sweat under bright lights in crowded breathing spaces laying eggs until they had little energy to clack clack, let alone stand.

Kept awake by bright lights in poultry farms, blurring night and day, the hens were called to active duty by the tune on telly that swept the nation into considering eating eggs day in and day out.

Set to the Macarena modified to fit desi requirements, and produced by White Light for the agency, Enterprise, the jingle broke new grounds, and along with Doodh Doodh Doodh Doodh it achieved cult status in the Indian Advertising community and beyond.

In a piece for the Financial Times, Anand Halve recalls the making of NECC's Roz Khao Ande commercial, and the key role the Late Dr. B.V.Rao played in initiating the campaign, besides recollecting his own contribution to its success, the line that got stuck in memory, and in the consciousness of a generation brought up on an array of memorable tunes. Sunday Ho Ya Monday, Roz Khao Ande. Read Halve's reminisces here, Page 1, Page 2.

To this day Sunday Ho Ya Monday, Roz Khao Ande is remembered alongside the other equally hummable jingle that sought to push the nation into drinking Doodh (Milk).

Doodh Doodh Doodh Doodh, Piyo Glassful Doodh.





Turn on the volume and float away, to a time when Indian Ad agencies could claim to set off pulses to their melodies.

Sometimes it takes an unexpected shower to trigger events.


Related Links:

1. National Egg Co-ordination Committee (NECC)

Divine Treasury

Residential high-rises along highways through Bombay and its outlying suburbs are connected by approach roads that run parallel to the highways. Usually known as service roads, they are often home to garages busy servicing vehicles of all shapes and sizes, and ages.

There’s much business to be had along highways. It is common to find these garages attached to vehicle spare parts retailers, in many instances owned by them.



Once an authorized distributor for Shell, the ‘For Shell’ on the back now erased, this rickshaw carrier appropriately named Divine Treasury is making rounds of neighbourhood vehicle spare parts outlets and garages situated off a major highway, retailing portions of the Divine Treasury to buyers.

Didn’t someone once label oil as the Black Gold?

The divine hand played the world a favourable roll of dice several eons ago, so that we could power the wheel.

But mankind long stopped treating oil as Divine Treasury, to be used judiciously lest the treasury deplete and render the wheels useless.

Until then this rickshaw carrier will carry on with its rounds of neighbourhoods, dispensing Divine Treasury to outlets while filling their own, a treasury divined by oil.

Books Travellers Read in Mumbai Locals – Part III

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Continuing with my series, this is PART III of my ongoing attempt to note the books my fellow travellers read in Mumbai local trains on their way to work and back.

Most book readers on Mumbai local trains will at some point give up on reading and pull their noses out of their books when the jostling gets too heavy each time the train halts at a station to ‘welcome’ more travellers, and instead prefer to close the book and reach for the overhead hand-hold to keep from being swept away in the oncoming rush. Each hand-hold might’ve been meant for one but that has never stopped more hands from clinging to it. If there's no wriggle space left in the hand-rest I reach for the bar above.

If you’ve tried to imagine what it must mean to a drowning man to be presented with a straw you need look no further than the hand-hold in Mumbai rush-hour local trains.

So you can imagine my surprise one day several years ago when I turned my head to find a short man hemmed in by five fellow travelers, including yours truly, yet oblivious to them all in the space he made for himself so he could carry on with reading Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged.

Pushed from all sides equally helped him retain his balance.

I congratulated him on his effort, to which he smiled and said, “It's so good.” I nodded and smiled away. “Yes,” I said before adding, “Good enough to help survive the rush but not as good as The Fountainhead though.”

“I’ll be reading The Fountainhead next,” he said.

I was just out of high school when I first read The Fountainhead. The lot of us who chaffed under the rigour of conformity that’s the hallmark of schooling in India quickly developed a role model in Howard Roark and rallied around the possibilities his sense of independence, and commitment to charting his own stuttering way through the entrenched conformity of his profession, presented us with.

After The Fountainhead it was only natural that Atlas Shrugged passed hands. While I liked The Fountainhead more, a few of my friends plugged for Atlas Shrugged.


Squirming in the squeeze of the rush I turned my head to check the page he was on. Sensing my gaze he looked sideways at me and smiled. He worked in the paper industry, and if I recollect correctly the name was Ballarpur Paper Industries. The company has a presence in Mumbai and is known for the quality of its paper products. Before he got off the train he held up the book so I could take a picture.

Not everyone travelling on the local trains can or is inclined to make the effort the Ayn Rand fan made.



They’ll wait for some breathing space before they'll open their books to read, that is until they can release at least one hand from the support overhead, else like this traveler holding on to his copy of Mario Puzo’s The Family while hanging onto the support with both hands, they'll catch up with reading on the return journey if they get lucky with some reading space.

Mario Puzo is a regular among readers on the locals. His bestseller The Godfather was popular at one time. Now I do not see the book as often. It might have to do with television channels repeatedly running the film adaptation of the book. If it’s merely the story one is looking for then chances are few would pick up The Godfather after they’ve seen the film regardless of its merits. When talk turns to his bestseller, it is not the book that gets discussed but the film adaptation of the same. Francis Ford Coppola immortalized Vito and Michael Corleone. Like the Italian mafia, Bombay is about money.

A traveller once told me that Bombay runs on dalals, middlemen or brokers. And not surprisingly the Bombay Stock Exchange is located on Dalal Street.

My uncle once joked that Bombay runs on Vitamin M – Money. It is after all the commercial capital of India. Travelling to work by the local trains confirmed it for me. I first learnt the basics of the stock market from hearing Gujarati folks on the train discuss stocks, even conducting buying and selling over the phone while on their way to work. So when I saw a youth preparing to read Robert Kiyosaki’s Rich Dad, Poor Dad, I was in little doubt that here was someone who’s just joined the Network Marketing brigade for the Vitamin M the practitioners will most likely have promised him. Amway, Herbalife and the lot.


Rich Dad, Poor Dad is the one book that Network Marketing recruiters invariably use to bolster their projections of earnings to convince potential recruits to come aboard their teams. The recruiters, most with a steady job already, are dreaded for their persuasive skills, and persistence. In most instances they’re someone you know, making it harder to find wriggle space.

I was handed Rich Dad, Poor Dad once. I returned the book without reading it and was honest about it. I felt guilty when the astonished Network Marketing recruiter asked me, “YOU DON’T WANT TO MAKE MONEY?” which sounded more like an accusation for insulting the Bombay spirit no less!


Travelling on the Mumbai local trains in rush hour traffic requires one to be prepared to fight one's way in through crowds hanging on for dear life at the entrance, so it’s rare that someone will smile at you if he is not a Network Marketer looking to build his team. Now I can spot one from the distance.

The potential recruit is often pursued to a Catch-22 situation!

Speaking of Joseph Heller’s Catch-22, I’m surprised with the frequency I see it being read on the Mumbai local trains, its signature red cover calling attention to its presence. The readers are usually between 20 and 40 years of age.

The youth in denims reading Heller's masterpiece one travelling day had a seat by the window, his back to the motion of the train. Travellers lucky enough to find seating on rush hour locals usually prefer to sit in the direction of the motion of the train for the breeze. It can get unbelievably stuffy in the rush hour crush. He wore full sleeves, and was most likely employed in Marketing or tasked with a client-facing role at his place of work for, given a choice no one in his right mind would choose to turn up in full sleeves on the local trains. I couldn't help wondering if the book in his hand mirrored his work life.

For some strange reason, even though there’s very little resemblance between the main protagonists, I’m been reminded of Larry Darell from Somerset Maugham’s The Razor’s Edge each time I remember Yossarian on seeing a fellow traveller read Joseph Heller’s Catch-22 in the train. They were both airmen, and the war changed them both, but they figured in different wars – Larry Darell in WWI and Yossarian in WWII, and faced different dilemmas, and went about it differently. The closest I might come to explaining why might possibly have to do with Heller’s reason for naming the protagonist Yossarian, to emphasize that he, Yossarian, was cut from a different cloth from the uniform he wore. Still!

Long after I read The Razor’s Edge, its epigraph, a line from a verse in the Katha-Upanishad, still moves me. It read, The sharp edge of a razor is difficult to pass over; thus the wise say the path to Salvation is hard.


Later, he inserted a bookmark where he'd stopped reading, closed the book and made his way to the exit. On the local trains, the exit and the entrance are the same.

When classes are in session college and high school students traveling on the local trains to their institutions, and poring over their textbooks at exam time is a common sight.


However it is uncommon to find professionals poring over Computer Programming tomes on rush hour locals, unless of course they’re heading for an interview at one of the many IT firms in the city.

I thought it likely that my fellow traveler, concentrating on C# Programming, was indeed heading for an interview. C# Essentials is quick reckoner.

Like with Ayn Rand’s works, books on chess are a rare sight on the local trains. In the crowded compartments travellers are too busy managing their time on the train in minimizing discomfort to self and fellow traveller while maneuvering their positions through human walls in ensuring their exit at their destinations to actually summon the energy required to make sense of complicated positions on the 64 squares. So I was pleasantly surprised to find a youth opposite me deep in thought in Techniques Of End Games In Chess.


He was seated so that helped him. It was a weekend. And that helped too. I had stepped into the compartment after being out on my feet for hours in Lalbaug to photograph the immersion processions winding their way through the formerly vibrant mill district that helped make Bombay into a powerhouse.

It’s years now since I last bent over a chess board in concentration. There was a time when I was in the reserves of my school chess team, waiting for opportunities to play the top board at Inter-school chess tournaments. I traveled as a stand-by with the team during chess tournaments while never really getting an opportunity to play the top board. No one fell sick on my team. So that was that.


Not once did the chess enthusiast lift his head from the book, not even when the train stopped to let passengers in. He sat in absolute silence, occasionally running his fingers down one side of his face before switching to the other side. Seeing him immersed in the end game techniques I floated back in time to when I first learnt chess from Soviet chess books that Vinayak had stocked in his pad after he left his brother’s residence on landing a job in a nearby town.

I was eight when I believe I first met Vinayak. Vinayak was the younger brother of my father’s colleague at work. His brother was married. But Vinayak was a bachelor, possibly just out of college.

He was lean, so lean that he actually hunched inwards when he walked, his bell-bottoms trailing behind him. His sideburns fell over his ear in the best tradition of the Bacchan look. He was an enigma, no less. He was known to be brilliant when he put his mind to a task. He barely spoke. No one knew what went on his head. At times I doubted if he did either. He was fair, sharp nose and all. After school I would find my way to his house, generally loafing around and looking over countless printed circuit boards and fancy looking electronic components that his brother used to build gadgets or repair radios and tape recorders. At the time he possibly had every EFY (Electronics For You) magazine that ever made it to print. He was a hobbyist, Vinayak’s brother that is. And at eight years I pretty much had a free run of their place.

A year or two later we moved town after Dad transferred in his job. Within two years of our moving town, Vinayak, now barely in his twenties, landed a job at a bank in the town we had moved to. I had turned eleven.

Twice a week I would pull away from playing Kabaddi or Cricket or any of the many games in vogue at the time and walk three kilometers to his pad to play chess, and back the same way.

Left to himself his home had embraced cigarette smoke like one would a long lost friend. Cigarette butts littered the room. On a plank he had hammered into the wall an unusually wide range of books on chess graced the wall. Most were of Soviet imprint. The only glossy books we ever saw in those days were the Soviet Woman and Sputnik. There was one other Soviet magazine I cannot quite recollect now. I think it was the Soviet Times.

Like a Master introducing a new recruit to a secret cult, Vinayak would open the books by turn and tutor me into chess openings, middle game play, and end game finishes. Tal, Spassky, Korchnoi were no longer alien names but active protagonists facing off with their opponents as we played their games on the board. Every once in a while, Vinayak would turn his head without taking his eyes off the board and drag deeply on his cigarette, his cheeks sinking to the bone, eyes narrowing to slits before his face momentarily disappeared behind a wall of smoke curling up lazily to the ceiling. He was never in a hurry with anything.

He rarely spoke, smiled often, and had a twinkle in his eye each time I fell for his piece sacrifice. He would throw up his hands if I attempted to reverse my moves. “No you can’t take it back. Think before you play a move.”

It would be some time before I learnt to resist his poisoned pawns, and even longer before I came around to the fact that it paid to defend my pawns, and that there’re rewards to be had in pushing them to the opponent's 6th rank, then to the 7th. And that it was important to look for opportunities to create passed pawns.

Learnings that did not lose their way in the smoke.


Note: Read PART I and PART II in my series noting the books my fellow travelers read in Mumbai local trains on their way to work and back, and sometimes on their way elsewhere around the city.

A Request: I started out photographing travelers reading books few years ago to build up sufficient numbers that could be converted into posts. I’m all for this concept and my series involving traveling readers pictured with their books being taken forward by others in their cities and I would appreciate it very much if you would note/credit and link back here if this inspired you to do a series or a variation of the series of your own.

Since this is a part of my larger India Book Project involving books and the reading people, I’ll be counting on the link-back for continued and further participation of new readers.

Related Posts in my India Book Project Series

1. Granthayan, A Mobile Book Store
2. Indian Copy