Commentary/Varsha Bhosle
Another one bites the dust
I landed in Bombay amidst a magnificent deluge on the day after
the Rain God-sanctioned natural bandh. I've a thing about the
rains: Unlike Alexander Frater, I was born during an untimely,
mid-November shower, but, like him, the very first sound I probably
heard was that of raindrops -- that is, if you discount the obstetrician's
terrified scream: "Arrrgh! Push it back in!" It was
the unseasonable that inspired the late Jaidev to bestow on the
improper one her name.
It was when I visited Russia in the summer -- a year after a winter
sojourn -- that I realised how the culture of some places depends
upon their climatic dominance. Moscow is not about trees blooming
and birds chirping and sunny smiles. It's huddling over vodka-laced
coffee in smoke-filled cafés; it's the jingling bells of
troika rides, skating in Gorky Park, brushing off thick flakes
from eyelashes... It is the alchemy of clean, white, softly
falling snow. And when I returned from Moscow flush in July, I
had an epiphany of the Mumbai monsoons: Can't say about amcha
culture-wulture, but despite all the predictable aggravations
and traditional carping, Bombay, like a weary whore vitalized
by a sharp snort of coke, abandons her apathetic gambits and comes
alive when it pours. Hmm, perhaps one needs to have a taste for
perversion...
My fondest childhood memories are of mischief in the rain. Of
squishy socks in squelching shoes splashing in forbidden overflowing
gutters. Of standing on the parapets of Marine Drive, waiting
for the pregnant waves of the storm-ravished sea to break against
the concrete into 20-feet-high towers and crash down on me. Of
eating bhutta roasted over the struggling embers fanned
by a talkative, toothless bhaiya who crouched under a wholly
useless umbrella. Of waiting for the voyeuristic moment when his
brolly would be whisked up and over like Monroe's defenseless
skirt
Later, the monsoons metamorphosed into adolescent romance: Of
clinging to a soaked sleeve; of pressing close under a raincoat
gallantly held aloft. Of slipping in drenched into the family-room
of an Irani café. Of pillion rides on mobikes, cheating
the needle-rain by nuzzling a broad back. Of being mesmerized
by smouldering eyes as a handkerchief stroked my dripping hair
OK, OK, it's not as exciting as Rajeev Srinivasan's exotic German-Mexican
woman and her not-so-chaste kiss, but hey, I want my CTs, too!
(That's local for 'cheap thrills'.)
Yup, ask any Mumbaikar, shringaar blossoms with the rains.
And what takes hold on the city, reverberates even through the
parched Thar. Sure, Bombay didn't enkindle the Megh Malhar,
nor did Kalidas pen his Meghdoot here
But it does
set aglow a certain magic that touches and augments the lives
of ordinary people -- a chimera that crosses the lines drawn between
classes, castes and creeds: O sajna, barkha bahaar ayi
Rain is falling chhama chham-chham
Sawan ka mahina, pavan
kare shor
Nainon mein badra chhaye
Tip-tip-tip-tip
baarish shuru ho gayi
Barsaat mein, humse miley tum sajan
And so I returned to the environment that supplies the strongest
and best common currency of India. But enough already about Bombay;
if one loves a place sufficiently, one simply stays put, is all.
Bee-sides, that's about as sappy as I get.
Problem: after being happily oblivious of current Indian affairs
over the last two months, what on Earth do I comment upon now?
Solution: 50 years of Indian Independence, specifically, the manifestation
I witnessed -- the India Day Parade in New York:
It was a humiliating spectacle, to say the least. Especially since
I had dragged two pals, both Italian Americans, to brave the hot
August day with me. For starters, I am absolutely convinced that
98% of the good folks gathered on the route, had only come to
see Amitabh Bachchan. As he approached, the pavements went stark
bonkers with the crowds stampeding along his stride. After he
went by, the people around me had also gone by. The only other
show of such spontaneous animation was reserved for the economy-package
of Jeetendra (perched on a -- naturally -- white carriage), Meenakshi
Sheshadri, Rajendra Kumar, etc.
I wondered about us desis: what makes us so selectively
sedentary? Just a week earlier, I'd witnessed the contrasting
Puerto Rican Parade on an equally hot afternoon: Every barrier
that lined the asphalt of Madison Avenue had jostled with humanity
and seemed to be dancing with red-and-white streamers. Each time
a car cruised by, loudly playing a Rican song, the throngs had
roared their approval and madly flourished their flags overhead.
This was before the parade had begun; during it, I could hear
the cheers two blocks away. Please don't throw ethnic-population
ratios at me -- Indians are a vociferous lot when they set their
lungs to it. I suppose the explanation is that we are above such
tacky displays. Yeah right, tell that to Bachchan's security guards.
If the janata was lifeless, the floats were even worse:
Apart from the ultra-visible ads, they conveyed naught. And what
they did convey, seemed to have been plotted by the script-writers
of Saturday Night Live. My favourite one was the one occupied
by The Cultural Ass of Bengal -- some bhadra purush had
probably deemed that the 'n' of 'Assn' was unnecessary. On the
platform, even though the fat lady crooning Rabindra Sangeet was
the principal component, a loud-speaker for her was not. Unless
it was meant to be a mime and silly me didn't grasp that.
Most perplexing was the Maharashtra Mandal's tableau of Indian
leaders -- I could discern "Bapuji", but who was the
babe with Johnson's Baby Powder all over her head
? I was
astonished that the Mandal had actually coughed up the moolah
to paint a banner and hire period costumes -- but that was before
I realised that the tableau had gone on foot: 'Twas cheaper than
renting and decorating a float, you see. Point to note: the bulk
of Marathi expats are prosperous professionals, not cabbies, cooks
or newsagents.
Then there was a Kerala entourage, consisting of perhaps 8 people,
four of whom hoisted the league's large pennant, while one brandished
a placard proclaiming the, er
community of President KR
Narayanan. And immediately behind them marched the large-ish contingent
of the Brahmin Society of New York. I think I fell down laughing
at that point. Talk about method in the juxtaposition.
Then there was our national carrier, the pride of India's stratosphere,
drum rolls
Air-India. What with all the fancy Moets it offers,
I had naturally expected it to keep up with the Bransons. Well,
its parade entry presented a crowned "beauty queen"
standing amidst a bunch of squatting, sweating bureaucrats. That
is all. I'm sure there's a message in that somewhere
Things livened up a bit (that is, during the funereal silences
which marked the interims between the appearances of filmstars)
on the advent of a commercial radio station's float: It blared
Daler Mehndi's Bolo Tararara which is definitely not an
easy thing to ignore. I thanked god for good old-fashioned Punjabi
verve and sang along; but by the end of the procession, my pals
had taken it to be the Indian anthem! You see, heeding the response
to that float, the ones behind had also decided to go with Daler.
I said to my friends: Yes, only our zestful anthem moves us.
So much for the parade. But back home, things were just as surreal:
I was told that the aunt had been prevented, "by the timely
intervention of MPs in the House", from uncorking a bottle
during the midnight session. I wondered, had the aunt planned
to launch Parliament like a ship, bottle in one hand, lyrics in
the other -- even as she sang? Was Cadburys hocking champagne as
Canada Dry now? You never know with these multinationals, I tell
you. But I'm still pondering the implications: the MPs in question
were Margaret Alva and Saroj Khaparde -- both not of the Swadeshi-touting
parties. There must be a sign in that somewhere
However, what has me really flummoxed is the reaction to the murder
of Gulshan Kumar. This was the man who made his fortune by pirating
music cassettes; a man whose overseas distribution network ran
in tandem with the Dubai dons'. In terms of royalties, he plundered
billions from music companies and every music-director and singer,
big and small. After which, à la Michael Corleone,
he supposedly went fully legit, and in true filmi fashion, all
was forgiven by the industry. But now, even journos write that
he was a simple, unassuming, god-fearing gent who fell prey to
gangland extortion. A victim of organised crime! Am I missing
something here? No matter how gruesome his death, I shed no tears
for slime. Another one bites the dust, is all.
Hmmm
that is not an upbeat note to leave you on. So let
me end with the happening that made me hold my head real high
whilst abroad -- to wit, the succession of Smt Rabri Devi to the
chief-ministership of Bihar. It proves that India, in just its
50th year of Democracy, is far advanced than the West: Tell me,
wouldn't Americans hold illiteracy against a candidate, no matter
how suitable she was for the job? Well, Rabriji can actually sign
in Hindi, which is all she needs to interact with the Centre,
anyway. Moreover, this bouncing mother of 9 children -- the couple's
such a fine endorsement for Indian parenthood -- has got her finger
firm on the Bihari pulse: "I will learn governance as I did
cooking and milking cows." Tell me, can Tony Blair calmly
handle pendent udders, huh?
All in all, you gotta hand it to the Yadavs -- they borrowed their
name from a certain nat-khat gwaala, and they stay devoted
to the divine dairy motif: rabri
milking
milch
cows
fodder
skimming the malai
And now
excuse me while I get a fix of heroin and acclimatize to Bharat
Mata.
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