Mumbai Malaria

This is a story I wrote almost 10 months back, when I just recovered from malaria. Was reading back found it worth posting.

In October 2008 I fought a severe attack of malaria, which made weak enough to realise the power tiny mosquitoes hold over an ever progressing human race.

All these three decades I thought I was invincible to malaria. I have survived it all. In my University days in Allahabad, on the banks of the Yamuna and surrounded by 600 hectares of agricultural land, where mosquitoes were omnipresent, I survived.

They sucked litres of blood from my body, but I was never victim of their dread. Four years in University made me ignore them and gave me the confidence to venture into mosquitoes territory without any fear.

A year in my journalism school in the hills of Dhenkanal, Orissa and another year in the of southern districts of Jharkhand, all falling in the malaria prone corridors of the country, cemented my confidence that I have some inbuilt resistance to mosquito related diseases.

In Dhenkanal many of fellow mates in the hostel would lost to the mosquitoes face but I was unscathed. In Jharkhand when I was into my unfulfilled social engineering dreams, the situation was alarming. In the 36 villages I was working everyday some or the other house will have a malaria patient.
Many of the didis in the 60 self-help groups I was working with would be absent on weekly meets. Either they themselves would be ill or their children.

I have seen with a weak and guilty heart many of them losing lives to the dreaded mosquito related disease. The poor guys had no option but to rely on the local quack, for which some of them had to walk as much as 60 kilometres.

But today I fear a mosquito more than ever. Also my utopian believe – Indian metro cities have no such old world oriental diseases as malaria – died for ever.

Jab We Met (Mumbai to Vishakhapatnam)

When I boarded the train at Chatrapati Shivaji Terminus, for home, I was reluctant. It's almost three years since I had not traveled by train, thanks to the low airfare regime, official trips, and reporting assignments, that brought me into the sky mode. For some one with almost eight years of traveling experience in general and sleeper compartments of trains, that runs through most of India including Bihar, (you know why i mentioned this state's name only..with all respect to its residents offcourse) another long train journey shouldn't be that bothering. But it disturbed me at least at that moment when I smelt the train steel. This disconnect happened because I was amazed by the air travel, its glamour and tried forget my humble past. But energy brokers in Manhattan and Singapore worked day and night to screw my happiness...they relied on crude oil to get over the down turn in the equity markets. As crude pries jumped three times in two years, pushing the whole world to a high-cost-proposition (what we call inflation)...now everything is expensive on this earth..not to mention air fares. I was still meandering through my thought maze, when the train stopped at Dadar. My co-passenger in the third-class AC compartment entered. She entered gracefully and asked me to stand up and give her a second to manage her stuff. Her stuff meant a small bag and a her kid, whose eyes were transfixed on me. I didn't know why kids always look at me with amusement...but her mom was not too happy with her kid taking interest in this uncle. I must be looking like a rouge fighter, who just back from some battle. I tried pacify her suspicion by opening a novel I was carrying. I took all the pain to show her the title and authors name till the time she read it and remember it. I know she was reading my book and through which supposedly my mind. Her child, by now I an guess, must not be old that two years was also reading the ook cover with her mother (I guessed). It read 'A distant Window' by Mahashweta Devi.
This one was gifted by Tripta, a visitor to my place, when I was in Ghaghra, the beautiful nondescript settlement in south Jharkhand.
After some investigation it seemed the mother and daughter behaved as if they have realised I'm not the kind of guy they are afraid of. Till Lonavla it was raining and the baby was excited about the rains which she could she through the window. I was shifting my eyes between distant window, the book, and the nearby window for a glance of the beautiful nature. As Konark Express, the train I was traveling in, pierced through the misty Shahyadri hill I was into romantics....the kid by that time realised she's wasting too much of her precious time watching the scenery and not playing. Now the rolly-polly baby was suddenly full of energy and decided to stop my romanticism with nature from the train. She suddenly pounced on me with permission of her mother naturally and shouted "ab bebo khelega", almost with the authority of a general. I didn't have the courage to refuse such a sweet heart and started a pillow fight with her. She won all the time and punched me with her tiny pillow. I was defeated and showed all the gestures of a loser to her...she was all the more excited. I didn't realise, when the night crept in...her mom took her as she was tired. She wanted a session of breast feeding, and shouted 'doodh'. But her young mother was conscious of my presence in front of her. I understood and chose to go to the doors at the end of the compartment.

Friends in my life

Today is friendship day...and like most of us who have given thought to this day's existence in the calender year must have one question in mind...who are the real friends in our lives? So far as my life is concerned...I have my shares of trials and trivia to find out who true friends are. At the foremost its the family. Values that have been inculcated into my life and have kept me afloat through a quarter of a century are obviously gifted by them. Their support or rather influence is always there with me and is like a fixed asset. Through most of my early childhood parents and my sibling have been my best friend. Outside them was there really anyone else?
I think Draupadi, a local fisherman's daughter was a closest friend both for me and my sister outside our parents as long long as we had not been to school.
She's the one who will play the whole day with us when mom and dad will go to work. I remember her teaching us numbers, dancing, and our favorite castle building in sand. She left quite a long lasting impact in our lives. She for first time taught us to become creative.
Draupadi, I last heard was working with her husband for some large farmer in Bathinda district of Punjab. In 2006, during a reporting assignment I even tried to find her out in Saddepur village, near Gidderbah...(address as given by her parents)....but she was not be found...

After Draupadi it was Saroj for me. At the age of five I met him first in the school and we became the best friends. It all started with competition in the school and suddenly started appreciating each other's academic performance. I think he has been instrumental in deciding my future career. In a competitive environment I would always stand first and he followed, ut in mathematics he was 100 from class one to ten. I started with 100 in class one and ended at 75 by class ten. I did really well in every other subject. But losing in mathematics to him made me hate the subject and never strive for it. The result I'm a journalist today.
But remember at least 20 people who were worse in mathematics than me in school are either --techies, professors or managers --but all in the field information technology.
As expected Saroj is a techie too and lives in amchi Mumbai.
In intermediate days i had no friends from college. I was in the best science college in my state and though I was open to friendship no one else was. For everybody it was IIT-JEE or cracking some state level engineering or medical entrance.
This was the time when my female language teacher in the science college became my best friend. This woman was feeling out of place in this cutthroat island of IIT dreamers and equally fierce know-all science professors. In the period of two years we had discussed it all. The bad ones like the boring atmosphere, the fear of dreaming surroundings, her domineering science counterparts and the deadly subject mathematics. The most illogioal of all subjets. Where everything is based on 'let us assume.' The demons --Calculus and Coordinate geometry-- simply sucked.
She was like an oasis for me in that desert:) Here my friendship chapter ended in the eastern Indian city of Bhubaneswar. The language teacher continues to teach in the same college.
At 17, when I entered University of Allahabad in the true North Indian city, I discovered a whole new world of experience. The people here were too different from my earlier notion. I feared to have any friends here primarily because of severe ragging during the first year. Later I realized the social fabric here is torn unlike in Orissa. Caste and religion undertones dictated relationships to great extent. I was not to accept this. My best friends here were all Keralite Christian guys and girls. I just loved their temperament. Joshua, Edwin, Jincy, Sommy, Parthiva and many more names. All 44 in my batch were like great people. Being in the Christmas chorus, evangelicals...I liked every moment with them.
Bidhos Paul from Koraput, - a district whose per capita income is as low as Ethiopia -is another man who had been a great friend and philosopher in my life. Bidhos today works in rural development projects in interior tribal districts bordering Orissa and Andhra Pradesh.
Javed Jan from Kasmir and Junwa from Burma were two more.
After Allahabad came Banaras Hindu University. Here I had encountered brilliant people but simpletons. Here I like the Univeristy and its lirary the most. The Yoga classes, the evenings on the banks of Ganges. The city itself was my best friend this time. It changed me internally for sure. I nearly discovered my soul here. Friends who made my days here were Amit Kanaujia and Tripurai Sharma..both have been very influential. Whole dairy technology batch, laboratory, library and hostel staff, my Yoga guru. Islam barber, Bihariji chaiwale. Dr Prabha Singh, the law professor, Swetlana, the russian tourist were a part of my life here.

Lily Boy ...

I finally made my splash it into water... and Dad is a proud person. The ace swimmer of his village, who nearly made it to the state level events had always this in his mind that I can't swim.
Today, in his late 50's he can swim effortlessly for hours in the broadest and wildest of rivers in Orissa, the eastern Indian state where both of us were born.

In childhood days his swimming pool was the algae infested green village Pond. He understood the pulse of water, snakes, frogs, and all his companions in swimming at a very early age. People say, how once he developed the fancy to beat the water snakes in free style swimming on their own turf.
It went like this his friends would hit the water snakes resting at the coast of the pond and then Dad will make his splash this would ensue at least a 50 meter race side-by-side withe snakes. Which he would win constantly. In his boyhood he had another heroic distinction to his kitty...Protecting the village lilies :)

In coastal villages of Orissa, only some well managed less utilised ponds play host to lillies. They could be pink, blue or white in colour and blossom in all seasons except summer.

In this case the village boys had a gang war like situation:)....the gang war like situation evolved after boys from the other village started stealing pink water lilies from the pond in which Dad and his friends were swimming.

The lilies were so important...why?... because unmarried village girls would adorn them during the 'Rojo' festival, a way of welcoming rain God, crucial for sustainable food production and the rural economy.

So in village parlance in those days lilies were almost like diamonds. Stakes were high for those lilies about 500 in number all blossoming to the fullest...the festival is tomorrow...
It was a half moon night when five boys decided to stay awake to protect the pond from the attack of the foreign boys :)
They had rice flakes and jaggery with them for food and by 9 'O clock in the night the boys swam midway through the river and took positions on the small island like structure inside the river. It was drizzling Dad and others had to wait for about 7 hours before the enemies strike. It was 4 a.m, early in the morning but with rain and clouds the vision was not clear. Shankarda, Dad's friend could see some underwater movement and informed his gang.
Dad took the lead and along with his four friends staged an underwater fight with the enemies, who were double in number.
Most in Dad's team lost the fight and pleaded for a safe passage to the pond coast and allowed the boys from the other village to take the lilies. But Dad was not to oblige. But didn't have much choice to make. He chose a dangerous one....:)) to stay and fight till he can... the result was not easy... biggest boy the other village got him by his neck and pushed him underwater......after some resistance Dad overpowered him and the rest was recorded in his villages history. With the chief inside water his sub-ordinates panicked. By that time villagers came to understand about the underwater fight. All of them were caught and at the age of 9, Dad was a saviour for the villages lilies and maidens too:)...
Since then he's called the Lily boy in his village.
Note: The biog boy whom, Dad got into underwater later helped Dad in his studies and remained his mentor forever...Happy ending........

It took me two days to write the blog and the update is that I can swim even better .....

Working on a rainy day

Working on a rainy day is not new to me, but it was new to discover, what happens to those who lose their food and home, when rains arrive.
Mumbai's rains are unique, they are as disciplined as its people, they pour and pour atleast more than any of the four other metropolitan cities India has. Yet, more people turn up at work in Mumbai, than in other places, on a similar rainy day. Reason, rains come at all the unwanted times in those cities. In Mumbai, it always hits its highs only after an average worker reaches office. It is also synchronized with the exodus time of the commuter for home in the evening. Rains stop, during the peak commuting hours, as if they are offering guard of honour to the spirit of Mumbai.
Interestingly it lashes on Saturdays and Sundays,when most of the workforce is back at cozy, homely atmosphere, thereby not comprising on its duty of water distribution to this part of the world. Well my analysis is based on my two years of stay in the city and sans the horrible rainy July in 2005, when the city was in rocks, as it experienced highest preipitation in its recorded history.
Now, I think my idea of Mumbai is too limited. I'm talking about the white collar workforce, what happens to those who have to work everyday for their food.
Last week, Rags...(heart of gold as I call him) helped me to have a sneak preview to the that world. I was not exactly convinced to curtail my leisurely Sunday plans for knowing the constraints of of people in Bharat (as we all deprived India). But then it was heart of gold (HOG), who had asked. I couldn't refuse.

It was raining since the morning, we took a train from Belapur, which stopped after 30 mins, or after covering about 25 percent of our destination path. Then we walked, took a bus, again walked and finally reached near the opulent Hirnandani township near Powai. HOG took me to Mrs Thanawalla, living in one of the swankiest Hiranandani villas. I was surprised to see a Humvee, the giant utility vehicle, most prefered by the American military , in front of her house. Well that was not anyway related to our move. Mrs Thanawalla gave us six bags of biscuits and bread and a bucket full of milk. I knew HOG, can mould people to help his cause. But I was got more interested in knowing how he got to this lady, and what's the story behind the hummer (you can't run it on Mumbai roads then what was it doing there). Anyways the time was not conducive for me to ask such questions then. So I had keep the questions with myself.

We left in a hurry from her house and entered into the nearby slum, which was like a dilapidated valley surrounded by exceptionally tall, brilliantly designed plush skyscrapers. But the look of the slum was equally dreary, dingy and broken if we talk of a comparison with the buildings. Suddenly some twenty kids ran toward us. "Raghuda".."raghuda" alare (meaning here comes Raghuda)...offcourse they were referring to my friend, HOG.

HOG asked me to help him in distributing the food stuff. We had a nice time chatting with the kids while getting drenched in rain. HOG knew everyone by name and had a personal chat about health, school and food. After about two hours we were to leave when HOG asked for 'what would they require next Sunday'. Milk and Parle-G they all said. HOG immediately informed Mrs Thanawalla about next weeks menu over phone.

Now it was time to go back home. HOG seemed to be happy after serving the kids. I too was feeling more confident about myself after talking to the kids. I was pursuing HOG to come to my place, but he had to live for Latur for delivering another menu in some village. I said goodluck. As I reached Kanjurmarg station to get back to Kurla, found all trains of the track due to heavy rains. Spent some four hours in the station before services resumed. Was sipping coffee and thinking about working on a rainy day with the kids and HOG. But, yes intermittently, the surprise of Humvee was entering into my mind.

Power theft happens because power can't be given, it has to be taken

Today I went to see the first Hindi movie in a theater after some months..umm.. almost six..yes exactly six months. Most of these months I avoided my friends' idea of watching some run-of-the-mill hindi stuff after I suffered the torture of Jhoom Bara Bar on their advice. Besides Abhineet, the movie enthusiast in our gang is married now and has more interesting things to do than forcing us to Meghraj. Well Mehraj is the oldest of Vashi cinema theaters and even today we prefer it the most. Firstly because the tickets here are at least 40 percent less expensive than the rest of the theater brigade, including Adlabs, Cinemax and all..secondly you have 50 percent more chance of getting tickets here than the other swanky places.

Now back to the cinema today. Mr Roy, aka the-news-smuggler, who knows more about this world than most of we friends do, proposed watching Sarkar Raj, the new offering from Ram Gopal Verma (the Francis Ford Coppola of Indian cinema).

We didn't agree initially for the movie as we were strolling on the Palm Beach road and enjoying the breeze from the Thane creek, while counting the newly erected scrappers on the New Bombay skyline . But after sometime we four men were thoroughly bored with each other and proceeded to Meghgraj.

The movie initially was about style of Abhishek Bachhan, the most happening of the children of the yesteryears' super star actors, and his wife Aiswarya Rai, to whom he's married for an year now.

I identify with this guy because I can grow my beard and mustaches like him. But I envy him when I think he had his first hit film, after 21 flops. And today he's the rising star. Not everyone is as lucky. The media which blasted him for years, now adulates him, every other day. Well thats a part of the game, and it also enforces the believe that if you have it, (I mean perseverance) people will have to accept.

But the samething didn't happen in the film, where the Bachhan kid is killed ruthlessly, despite having nearly absolute power. He's the son of a political God father (a very Indian coinage I think of, where politics is powered by someone who's neither a politician nor a businessman, not even a don). And the film had tried to draw some parallels from the failure of Enron, the American utility giant, and its Dabhol power project in India. Verma portrays, how the idea of a massive power project was the breeding ground for political turmoil in the western state of Maharashtra. The director, however, refused any such connection in his reply to the media.

Now the film was not bad to me at all. It could be called a good movie as per my movie quotient. I learnt three things from this two-and-a-half hours show. First, power cannot be given it has to be taken. Second profit is something which is for all. Third, you should live by your principles or at least tell others what you think...because you may not be successful in your own mission, but some one more capable may realise your dreams.

And one fourth idea I have discovered about five hours after the movie ended. Before deciding on your mission in life take a break ask others suggestions as well gauge their reactions. Because your grand mission in life will only click , when it achieves scale. People may laugh at you pre-mission but then you know what they are laughing at.

You will be smarter the next time when the real thing begins.

Hill school memories

This is a Sunday evening... all friends who flocked my house since morning have left. We had a nice time playing cards over wine and cheese. We discussed about all the beautiful days we spent in the hill school, where we did journalism. Though from different batches we all graduated from the same school.
All boys and girls discussed about their long lost relationships and how the limited period of nine months didn't allow them to build a permanent one. We tried to figure out about our buddies who have found space on television and those who's bylines appear on newspapers.
Now I'm back in my bedroom-cum-study going back to those days through the few pictures I have managed to save. I'm getting nostalgic, can't help it. But anyways will have to sleep now ...tomorrow is a Monday.. so its better I sleep now...

In and out in three months: feeling bad

I'm not lost forever. And if you think I am, you must be tracking me really close... nearly lost in me. Those were my helpless explanations to MS. She's getting married this month end and wanted to know.. was never really interested in her.
She had many admirers, she was like a queen.....It was not that I wouldn't have been interested in her. She turned my head every time she walked by me. But for some strange reason I thought I'll pretend as if I'm lost in my work, or analysing the toughest thing in the world, with no space in my eyes for a beautiful woman, just to avoid her.
It worked for me ....MS would wait till late and one day asked where do I stay. I laughed as we both knew we stay next to eahothers' place, and travel in the same train.
But as a gentleman I did talk all the formal stuff...then she was exited .."oh thats great we will take the same train...the 8.20 (p.m) one from VT. Now I won't be bored for an hour." I too was equally happy such a beautiful woman for company in the train drudgery.
My life had changed... Mumbai's trains and madness was beneficial, as it allowed us to indulge more on ourselves.
It all began in October, just before the Mumbai's inconspicuous winters and we moved together for three-months. A trip to the tiger trail in Kanha, one to Bhuj and weekends at my place. Occasional night roaming in South Mumbai.
Mid-January ...one day she called me tell that someone's to come to see her. Her parents are coming to Mumbai from Indore. I knew she's to get married. I said congrats. She cried. I said we were clear from the beginning that we are not to be here for ever for each other.
She said that's fine "I know that,..but just thought that you will feel bad and will dare to say so," she cried again.
We still went to Matheran (a small hill station nearby) on a weekend trip poured ours hearts on eachother. Tried to say that, "we are mature human beings," and "we will always remain good friends."
This was the time for me get lost in myself again and her to enter into her new relationship. No body was to blame, but we both were sad...feeling bad. But friends now poke at us and say..in and out in three months...

New Mumbai

People warned me .....I didn't listen to....I moved to Vashi, staying away from the Mumbai that glitters. It's called the sleepy-line by western and central liners. Oh now what am I talking on 'lines'. It's a language only Mumbaikars can understand.
Let me explain to others.... Mumbai's life, love, money, entrepreneurship and even temperament is defined by train lines. Well before that let me clarify one thing, those people who are the ultra rich, politicians -basically people who don't travel by train- live in a place called south Mumbai, which is next to the Gateway of India, Nariman Point, Bombay Stock Exchange and Reserve Bank of India.

Now after south Mumbai, it's the western Mumbaikars, who, live and talk about the famous Bandra and Juhu (where Amiabh Bachhan lives),.... here glamor and money thrives. Central line is rooted to the ground, belongs to culturally stable hardworking people, the soldiers on whom Mumbai thrives. Then comes the harbor line, where I live and lives the dreams of a new Mumbai. New people, who came to Mumbai only after Manmohan Singh liberalized India's economy.

Just more than a decade ago even this line was limited to Chembur, where Bollywood actor and director Raj Kapoor set his studio years ago finding the Thane creek and salt pans nearby as suiting locales for his movies ....The line then moved over the small creek of sea to bring people like me to this new city.

This city has sea, hills, space and dreams of people who belong to a different Mumbai. People who are ready with their ideas to rock the world. Watchout.....