Of Guitar Lessons and Urban Ghettos

A friend of mine wanted to learn guitar. He comes from a fairly 'respectable' and 'well-educated' family. There were two options before him. He could learn it from a very talented maverick residing in a shady red light district for 5 grands or from a popular teacher in an affluent neighborhood for 10 grands. He chose, as most of us probably would have, the second option. No one overtly influenced him. But did he take the decision himself? Or was it, in some way, taken for him? Does a certain collective entity - faceless, nameless & memetic - often serve as the proxy for individualism?

Some weeks back I was chatting with an aquaintance in Bombay. I told him that I was living near Crawford Market. Pat came the response - "Oh! The inner Fort area..isn't it? That's a veritable mini Pakistan...lol."
There is another friend who stays near Bombay Central. The other night we were having dinner together and it was getting a little late. She told me she had to return fast..."I have to pass through a predominantly Muslim area before reaching my place. You know...it's so unsafe.."
Racial discrimination, Religious segregation, Urban ghettos....seem to be chapters from the history book. Do they have a place in the 21st century? Apparently not. Are they only the fanatics - a miniscule minority- who fan such chauvanistic emotions? That's one of the biggest myths of our times. Beneath the swanky buildings and fancy cars of the modern cities, camouflaged by the guard of cosmopolitanism, there is an unsavoury underbelly. Urban ghettos all over the world testify to the fact that even the educated elite house archaic stereotypes in their minds about other religions, castes or races. It has just become unfashionable to openly speak about them. But as they say...fashion has an odd way of turning itself around...

longing

the voice, the touch, the fights, the passion, the misunderstandings, the explanations...
the walks in moonlit nights...the moments of silent intimacy, the world through the eyes of each other
the cute little drawings we made, the songs we sang....i miss everything about you... everything that we did together
i still hope you'll come back....all the dreams we saw would come true....i'm willing to be everything that you wanted me to be..and more
it may remain just a hope after all...your hand on mine...but it's at least something to live for
my trust in our love...and in you...may it spark forever

rumblings of a bored soul...

what the heck im doin? writing blogs when i should be studying the weiner processes and a recovery rate model. sounds like some esoteric disease and its treatment. i feel like such a nerd...studying finance - something i have as much aptitude for as paris hilton has for rocket science. still i come to office everyday...study the documents dilligently..and eventually may even manage to churn out a decent report. but doesnt it suck? doing something you dont want to...and having to pretend how you love it more than your first orgasmic experience. but who am i complaining to? is that not what i have always done? trying to fix blame on someone else whenever i have f****d up my own life? now why do i have to blank out the four letters from that word? dats what one does to avoid censorship from the venerable moderators who often use smart little software tools to scan for 'bad' words but whose smartness is defied by the armour of asteriks. doesn't really make sense. does it? what purpose does it solve? as if people wouldnt know what word is that. if they wouldnt why the f**k should i mention the word at all? but it is a practice, a custom. customs are like that. you follow them even if they dont make sense. in fact thats why they are made...to save you the effort of makin sense of a whole lot of things so that perhaps you can put your sense to some more lofted cause. im staring at the screen so intently my guide thinks im deep in work. all im thinking about is which movie to watch after returning back from here...i have exhausted all the 60 movies i had brought along on my hard disk. wondering what new place to explore in bombay. last evening was great. the sound of jazz is still ringing in my ears. soul fry casa is heaven on earth. this city never ceases to amaze. the hairscape of the department head is intriguing too. there is this broad superhighway running along his scalp. but a few strands have been spared right in front. like a lone tree in the midst of the saharan desert. freak of nature. there is this another person in the department whose biggest frustration is probably that he is tucked away in a corner cubicle while even his junior collegues are smarting inside cosy cabins. he lets that out by shouting his way to glory all day long. if all people in the department start following his lead, auditors may just have to sit in the lobby and monitor the entire proceedings through the day. such queer characters. not that im any less queer. looking absorbed in work...but writing meaningless stuff hardly anyone would care to read. but its fun. meaningless stuff are like that. fun..more often than not. like dancing the night through at a disc. the other night i was at this hip and happening place - voted the best nightclub in bombay (as we were constantly reminded by dj akeel); the place is called poison. what a name! good heavens. for a moment i thought akeel was actually a snake lurking in the dark corridors which would spring on you if you happen to gawk at a girl a little too often. had to be a cool place though. packed like the local train on monday morning. even as the protruding parts of your body are under permanent encroachment, you are head over heels to get to the bar counter to order a drink that is likely to cost you a grand. being hep is like that. either put up with it and conquer the style frontiers or be perpetually labled a fashion-retard. its another matter that the diffence between the two is the same as that between a kingfisher and a peroni. all beers taste practically the same. dont they? the label decides the price. and the price decides the class. the class of course decides the customer. the purpose is to differentiate - the rich from the middle class, the fashionable from the nerds...This need to differentiate is key to human nature. almost intrinsic. we work harder to earn a better salary to be able to dine at a better restaurant, own a better car, sport a better address and wear smarter clothes which would impress a better girl and eventually lead to a life that appears more gilted than most others. all to invite better reviews from the faceless millions around us we call the society. so much for individualism. im of course not sayin that discs are bad. hell no....its close to 4.30 and i have been at my desk for some 3 hours now. i ll cut the ordeal short for you if at all you have managed to read though the post...time to catch a fag (dont raise ur eyebrows...i just mean a cig)...adios

Yeh Hai Bombay Meri Jaan

As the plane touched down, I went into a small reverie....couldn't help thinking that I was about to join my first paying job...albeit for two months. I had of course expected Bombay to be a busy city. So I lighted a cigarette and nested myself in the taxi seat expecting a long journey. After spending more time in the cab than I had done in the plane...I arrived near a shabby row of shops selling leather goods and assorted utensils. This, I was told, was the Crawford Market...and I had thought it would be the CP of Bombay! The hotel looked unassuming to say the least; but the rooms were pretty decent for the price tag they sported.

I had a much needed sound sleep through the night and woke up fresh on Sunday morning. After trudging the streets of the Victorian Fort Area...I and my roommate decided to try out the posh neighbourhood of Colaba and locate our office too. Tall residential apartments and office buildings characterized the business district of Bombay. But a rustic touch was omnipresent. The buildings were far from being the architectural wonders one would find in Nuevo-Modern third world cities like Shanghai. We found our office in a sky scraper in Cuffe parade at the tip of the peninsula. Together with Nariman Point this area is our very own Manhattan...but as a photo-essayist mentioned...with a fishing village attached. The coastline here is at the mercy of the Colaba fishermen. The slums dotting the sea front against the backdrop of the sky risers are a blunt rejoinder to the realities of the developing India. It is hard to say which one of these dwarfs the other.

A week of luxurious stay later, we moved to a modest hostel near Byculla. Of all things, we had least expected deafening traffic noise and irritating bed bugs would top the list of our problems through the month. Eventually we managed to shift to the hostel of St Xavier College. In spite of the late night curfew, it is a peaceful place to be in.

Having stayed at different locations and looked for accommodations almost everywhere around south Bombay, we were a little more privy to the idiosyncrasies of the place than your average back packer would be. The down-market eating joints found in almost every street are so similar in architecture, decor and taste of food, they could teach a lesson or two in standardization to the KFCs n SUBWAYs of the world. It was amazing to see how buildings were put to multiple uses - all during the span of a single day. For example, the extreme end of Crawford market is a stinking broiler wholesale house in the morning, a fragrant flower market in the evening and a repository of leather goods later in the night. Pavements in Bombay, of course, are not just mere walkways. Fashion Street near Colaba and the linking road footpath market in Bandra are sprawling enterprises on pavements. The double-decker buses and the horse driven carts are some of the relics of the yore.
Thanks to Harvard, the Dabbawallas of course are legends.

Amidst all the filth and the smoke, the Marine Drive brings in a whiff of fresh air, literally. The cool ocean breeze and the beautiful Queen’s Necklace would force even the stone-hearted into romantic contemplation.

In Bombay, beauty often comes with flaws. On the pavements and railway platforms, it isn't shocking to see a homeless person lying collapsed from drunkenness or hunger. Amidst spank structures, it is not uncommon to see a dilapidated apartment worth well over Rs 50,000 in rent.

After traveling in cabs for a couple of days and realizing how painfully slow and prohibitively expensive they were, we had to take the recourse of that ubiquitous symbol of the Bombay bourgeoisie - the local train. It is the cheapest, the fastest and the most reliable form of transport in this overcrowded sardine-box of a city. At first sight, one would be almost offended by the veritable sea of people near VT and Churchgate. The mad rush during the peak hours is unbelievable. But getting used to it is the only option for the majority of the teeming millions here.

Bombay lives on with the proverbial heartbeat of its stressed-out workers. Life is difficult here. But it is exciting too. One can't help noticing the contrasts, the contradictions - the old and the new, the high rises and the slums, the stink and the fragrance, the gilt surface and the rotting underbelly. But people still come into the city in alarming numbers; perhaps because it is one of the few places in the country where individualism gets rewarded. The common thread that runs through all in the city is the quest for survival and success. The poor desperately trying to make both ends meet, the common man haplessly going about his daily routine, the multimillionaire looking for his next venture, the stock broker following every crest and trough of the Sensex curve, the aspiring actor looking for his lucky break or even the page 3ite crane-eyed for the obliging scribe - no one rests in this city. Bombay is a great leveler. It has some poignant words written on its walls - No matter how rich or privileged you are, put your feet firmly on the ground. It puts you on a balloon but keeps the pin.

In spite of its flaws, it is impossible to write off Bombay. The highest shrine of enterprise in the country, it gives everyone a chance. It forces you to work hard but also allows you to party harder. It grows on you. Your wallet may well become light enough so it could fly but the smile is seldom robbed off your face.

Here, nothing is simple. Every story has two facets. It is hard to not overanalyze such a complex environment. It is hard not to see Bombay in a national and global perspective. It is hard, especially with politics on the mind, not to see every image in light of economic and social policy, to eye its complexities at face value. For a young intern and aspiring manager, a pilgrimage to Bombay offers a chance to - pardon the platitude - grow.

The Tempest

Its so calm outside...the storm brewing inside me seems incongruous...the entire span of my life is dwarfed by the goings on in the past one year. It's quite an experience to face snow and scorching sand at the same place. Almost organsmic pleasure to emotionally shattering moments....I hve seen them all... At times the boundaries in time became so fudgy that it was almost like living a dichotomous roller coster. At XIMB, I have gained friendships to last a lifetime, fallen in love (literally!) and recovered. Above all, I have altered the course of my life.

After nurturing the dream of persuing Masters in soild state physics for the better part pf my engineering, my joining an MBA course was more of a travesty than a choice. It took me quite some time to come to terms with something which I believed I was not cut out for. MBA seemed to be a delightful distraction...a sinful indulgence....I felt like having an extended holiday....until the rigours of the course finally put me firmly on the ground.

The striking new addition to my life after coming to XIMB was the almost unlimited freedom....and with it the urge to try everything at least once. The subjects were demanding....but the temptations were stronger. Midnight escapades became common, intoxication came in different forms and cupid became an eager teacher. With time, however, the gilt faded from the scheme of things...mellowed thoughts set in and I realised the need for moderation.

To echo Amundsen, nobody has probably stood at a spot so diametrically opposite to his original ambitions....But had Amundsen been to the North Pole, he wouldn't probably have been any more famous.

At the end of the day I would thank the cosmic conspiracy that made it all possible....'coz in the midst of this tempest I have at least read myself better...emerged stronger and better armoured....