I am a habitual train traveller. One thing
I have noticed in these journeys is that as the train enters a city
the passing scene prepares you for its individuality that slugs you
in the face. For example entering Mumbai in the mornings one sees
people unconcernedly defecating on the tracks, the other sight is of
the chawls and slums in which a majority of the city’s population
resides. These vignettes prepare you for some basic facts about this
city. The first is that the people of Mumbai have been forced to
develop a cloak of indifference that allows them to function as
humans; the second is that the city is filthy and the minority that
is rich are the only ones who are seemingly able to escape the
filth.
In the case of Delhi, trains originating
from the South pass by walls of factories, large houses and even
hutments as they enter into the city and chug to the railway station.
Passengers get to see advertisements for quacks solving problems that
range from sexual dysfunction to piles. Though one could argue that
these advertisements indicate the oneness’s of the city, the fact
is that it only mirrors the image of Delhi being the rape capital of
the country with a cuisine that is rich and spicy that goes by the
sobriquets of Punjabi and Mughlai.
The train tracks that guide trains into Banguluru do not prepare their passengers for the mess that is Banguluru today. One gets to see open green fields and a glassy glint in the distance that could just be the end of the rainbow – but nothing else.
From the air the story is very different. An aeroplane gives a macro view of things unlike a train the tunnels you into the very heart of the city. The first thing that comes to view as one enters in Mumbai airspace to land are the variety of colours – the blue/green/brown sea the colour depending on the distance from the shore, the brown air that hovers above the city and the swathe of blue coloured plastic sheets that protect the tiny shanties from the rains, interspersed among the shanties the tall multi stories, these as if signalling the soaring unbridled ambition of the city’s denizens. In Delhi too one flies through a brown haze – called smog-in the winters. At night one can see the capital’s secular arteries and veins lit on which zoom and trundle a variety of vehicles – everything from Lamborghini’s to bicycles. One descends into shades of green fields of Bangaluru.
The thing is, though I now have to live in Delhi, given a choice I would not like to live in any of the three cities. There are some common reasons – for example the traffic in these three cities would drive a Zen monk crazy. It is not only the energy and time wasted in being part of traffic jams that drives one up the wall, it is seeing the selfish desperate audacity of others breaking rules to get ahead of the jam and in the process causing greater confusion that is frustrating. It is also the callous consumption of the residents in these cities that has resulted in a problem that now seems insurmountable – increasing air pollution, waste and increasing density of vehicles.
Mumbai a
place to learn the meaning of turning a blind eye
One thing that gets my goats is the annual
ritual that Mumbai has just before the monsoons. The media like the
municipality gets into tizzy about the metropolis’s preparation for
the rainfest. Everyone from the politician to the bureaucrat promise
deliverance from the problems caused by the rains and the media
faithfully transmit it to the Mumbaikars.
But every year the story
is the same – floods, overflowing drains, cancelled trains and
photos of long lines of commuters walking on railway tracks through
sheets of rain. For a city that is the home of the dream industry –
the parrot like annual repetition of this scene is very depressing.
One cannot fathom the resilience and the power of hope that gives the aam Mumbaikars the fortitude to travel for hours in crowded compartments to get to work and return home for a few hours. Nor can one imagine how the population can live with a stench that is a mix of rotting garbage, fish, the sea and human detritus. It would seem that Mumbai gives us the true meaning of the term ‘turning a blind eye’ – the rich live as if there are no poor and suffering, the politicians choose to forget the promises they make, the poor in their efforts to survive are oblivious of the sacrifices they are being made to endure, and the aam admi just trundle along not seeing anything beyond their noses.
Though one could argue that the city has a rich repository of culture and that the city is alive, a question – at what cost? A city where the majority of population live in slums, where one cannot escape the rich-poor divide which does not seem to shrink, where those governing the city have not yet been able to find a solution to the monsoon problems is no place for anyone.
Delhi the
capital of testosterone
Delhi has
always wanted to become the Mumbai of the North. In the last few
years it has finally succeeded. The roads get flooded in the
monsoon resulting in jams and delayed metro services. But Delhi has
another thing which I have issues with it – the testosterone that
everybody seems to be carrying around. It is not only seen in the
rapes that happen in the city, it is also the road rage that one is
forced to deal with.
On the subject of roads this is one of the
few cities where I have noticed that official cars with government
officers in them don’t stop behind the zebra crossing at a signal,
where policemen on motorcycles drive on the wrong side of the road
with sirens on full blast but in no hurry to catch any wrong doer.
To tell you the truth I have stopped both policemen and other people breaking traffic rules. The policemen have been kind enough to hear me out and then proceed with what they were doing; the chauffeurs of babu’s and the rich have told me to move on, even as their mistresses, or masters for that matter, perused their files or phones; the common person on the other hand has threatened to beat me up.
Bangaluru
cosmopolitanism at a price
I would be the first to say that Bangaluru
has a very cosmopolitan section of society easily visible by their
sense of style. I won’t be wrong in saying that Bangaluru has some
of the most stylish and beautiful women in the country. It also has a
vibrant night-life that ends at around mid-night; but till that time
one can savour a variety of cuisines, try out artesian beer and dance
to various genres of music. The best downer that the city provides
for its revellers after a night carousing about town is dealing with
rickshaws that charge an arm and a leg or just refuse to accept you
as a charge. There have also been instances of conscientious
citizenry (who are not the police) trying to preserve their idea of
India and its culture, thrashing people in these
places.
Conscientious citizenry is the other thing that is common to these cities. Where Delhi has full throated young blood trying to soothe or boost their fragile egos by bludgeoning their male counter-parts or by molesting girls, Mumbai and Banguluru have hordes dedicated to protecting a myopic, conservative and mythical concept of Indian society. These types of citizenry in Mumbai and Banguluru are more organised, they have leaders who espouse narrow political and moral beliefs. The followers of these leaders are happy to share these views with others, communicating them through violence or threats thereof.
Cities and
their food
Each of these cities have their
institutions for food; Mumbai everything from Baghdadi or Bade Miyan
and Zunkha Bhakri to the restaurants in the rarefied environs of
multi-starred hotels. Delhi with its history laced cuisine and the
restaurants that swear they carry on those traditions to those
offering international cuisines in rustic surroundings of villages
within the city and in air-conditioned edifices of malls and five
stars. I am going out on a limb when I say that though Bangaluru has
its MTR and Vidyarthi Bhavan it does not have a cuisine identified
it, that is why Bangaluru has gone in a different direction with
independently run restaurants offering a range of cuisines and a
population willing to risk their taste buds and open their wallets
for the experience.
But these cities have their traditional foods that would satisfy any gourmand – the vada pavs and vegetable sandwiches of Mumbai, the chole khulche of Delhi and the food in the many small stand-up eateries called Darshini’s of Bangaluru, these that cater to the common man are what keep the cities going. And this is what makes these cities special to me. Based in Delhi I realise the value of the chole khulche stall not only for me but also for the everyday people. My trips to Mumbai are made easier with the ubiquitous vada pavs and sandwiches, or crunching through the multi-stories of a vegetable sandwich makes Mumbai more habitable. There is always a plan for at least one breakfast and lunch at a Darshini closest to where I put up in Banguluru; the world seems manageable as one tears off a piece of oily crispy dosa standing inside these small eateries that open onto the chaos of an overflowing road.
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