Memories of a weekend in Alunda...

Alunda is a typical village off NH8 that links Mumbai to Ahmedabad. The closest town is Wada, which is probably the size of, or smaller than, Lokhandwala. In good weather (read roads that haven't been ravaged by the monsoon) and average traffic conditions, the distance between Borivali and Alunda takes about two hours. My in-laws have built a cottage on a plot in Alunda. Their society is surrounded by the hills and lies adjacent to a vast tract of adivasi, agricultural land. Here are some impressions from a recent visit to that haven of silence and peace.

• The first view from the bus of a green carpet of paddy fields, tall grass, lush trees and swollen rivers and ponds
• A lazy afternoon with the sound of the wind through the garden, the occasional birdcall, and the constant tinkling of wind chimes
• Untamed greenery almost five feet in height, growing thickly, running over every bit of available soil
• Watching spiders build webs to catch their dinner; a bulbul's nest on a frangipani tree; a chameleon concealing itself on the trunk of a drumstick tree
• A spider and its tiny web on a leaf, caught under a dewdrop in the early morning
• The ride back home in a Qualis, accompanied by the owner of the car who wasn't too confident about driving on the highway; the local panwallah who acted as driver due to his prior work experience as a truck-driver; and the local odd-job man who came along because "I want to see Mumbai, aur hamare gaaon ki gaadi jaa rahi hai."

The spirit of Mumbai

There are two kinds of people who talk about this phenomenon:
1) Those who run this country/state/city, or are supposed to. This sect believes that showering praises on the undying spirit of Mumbai gives them cause to test that spirit some more, and absolves them of all responsibility;
2) Defensive Mumbaikars or Mumbai-ites, especially when in heated conversation (read the 'I'm superior' argument) with Dilli-valas or Delhiites.

The spirit of Mumbai is the flavour of the season when drains overflow, uncleared garbage and dead rats compete for space on the roads, the Western Express Highway becomes negotiable by boat, and people spend their days throwing rain water out of their houses. The average Mumbai resident is as capable of a drunken brawl as his North Indian or any Indian counterpart, but somehow, the state of the city doesn't raise any tempers. Year after year, people die of dengue and malaria; year after year, officegoers take pleasure in relating 'stranded in the rain' stories. Flooding, water logging, houses being submerged... these aren't inconveniences any more, they're part of the Mumbai folklore, of what people have to go through to survive in this city.

Is this much-famed spirit just another name for sheer indifference? Or is it that the people of this city pleasure their struggles with the monsoon? Does it add to their self-esteem to have braved another rain, to have vanquished, perhaps, the only opponent they can vanquish? Is this some warped superiority complex that says, "Hey, look what I have to go through to just reach to work and back, look what I have to fight to live?" Or, is it a stoic resignation, a fatalist shrug of the shoulders, as eking out an existence and chasing dreams leaves space for nothing else?

saawan ko aane do...

In the middle of the much-awaited monsoon, parts of the country are wishing the rain clouds away, while in other parts, hopeful eyes gaze at the blue skies. There's something about the weather that always makes it a hot topic for conversation, whether you meet someone for the first time, renew contact with a long-lost friend, greet your spouse in the morning, or chat up a prospective partner. The weather is in nobody's control, yet everyone has an opinion on it. And the wisdom of the ages sprouts anew in the human mind, when the year's first rain showers the earth.

From the met department to the predictor family of astro, numero, and tarot, everyone is into second-guessing what the clouds have in mind. And once the monsoon's gameplan is clear, news channels move in for the kill. You can sense the announcer's exultation when the reporter hits paydirt--flooding in Milan Subway. The excitement is palpable, when citizens of this wet, wet city badmouth the BMC on camera. Channels feel they've earned their ad revenue the day the tracks get flooded, trains stop, commuters are stranded, and the country can see this live 24x7. As long as the monsoon arrives, and as long as this country has politicians, the news channels are assured of breaking news for at least three months of the year.

Despite the saas-bahu melodrama that the monsoon has been reduced to, there's still some untouched beauty left there. The fury, the unpredictability, and the sheer joy that rain falling on earth evokes is almost indescribable.

In Delhi, like everything else, the rain arrives with a lot of shosha. Dusty winds churn dead leaves and roadside garbage, the sky is thunderously angry and lightning flashes threateningly, until the rain begins, cooling tempers and bringing relief from the never-ending heat. In Mumbai, the rain arrives with the matter-of-factness of a crowded local train. Dark, heavy clouds move in from the horizon, gather mass, and empty their load. If you aren't smart enough to jump for cover in time, you're drenched, and before you know it, the sun is out. I had a ringside view of this at Marine Drive. Two women, deep in conversation, didn't bother to move, because they knew the futility of it. College kids took the opportunity of getting a good drench. Lovey-dovey twosomes... well, they continued with what they usually do at Marine Drive. Everyone grinned at each other, deriving pleasure from predicament. The tea-coffee and bhutta vendors peddled their wares with more confidence.

Of course, if you watch the news carefully, these images will flash too, along with the ones that satiate the morbid appetites of the nation. Like everything else in life, the monsoon too has two sides.