The dilemma of fairy tales: To believe or not to…

Ask me what I'm most smug about and pat comes my reply, my parents' "unimaginably true love story". 

A boy of 12, falling in love with a girl of eight, only to be snubbed by her throughout school life. At the age of 25 (during a visit with friends to Mount Mary in Bandra) — when he's still holding on to those beautiful memories of how she once sashayed into the school exam hall, borrowed his expensive Parker for the paper, and unconsciously put its cap into her mouth — he's startled by her presence.  
"Johnny," she says, "After such a long time?" 
"Err...Sandra," he asks, shocked, but not once surprised at what youth had done to the geeky teenager he still loved from school.
"Wow, you've grown into a handsome young man," she says.
He stuttered nervously, "Err..uhh...well...Thanks," wishing he had the courage to say the very same words to her.
That was 29 years ago. Today, they are married with three kids, and a house, they've so meticulously worked on, to make it "their home." Their's is a fairy tale — one which could undoubtedly begin with a "Once upon a time," and end with an "And they lived happily ever after." 

I've grown up listening to this fairy tale, or so believing in it, cause it played right in front of my eyes and I knew how beautiful it was. So, I would be lying if I hadn't expectantly waited for my very own little love story. 

At the cost of being mocked at and being made to look like a fool, I continued being this so called "believer," who waited for her "Mr Right" — that Knight in shining Armour (so much so that I also wrote two poems on it http://www.janeborges9.blogspot.in/2010/08/one-of-them-is-in-love-with-you.html) —  who blew her heart away (Yes, I can be very corny or mawkishly sentimental as dictionary.com puts it subtly). 
I was teased for being single, with one saying, "you will end up like an old hag, rotting at your office desk, till a good old 60" and the other saying, "you just don't look enough... why don't you keep your eyes open when you walk;" or my mother telling me every time she came from church. "I prayed that you find the right man, who keeps you happy and blaah, blaah, blaah, blaah". Trust me, none of these dampened my spirits. 

Then, one day something happened... no, not the love story... like how I had imagined. 
But even as a new hope has spooled in everyone's heart, except mine...I am reminded of my father — he still has that Parker pen, and guess what, it hasn't been washed or used since then. 

Quaint SoBo lost in the sound of bulldozers

I live on a gold mine, or so people say. Consider-ing how hard it is to find space in this city, I was pleasantly surprised when I moved to Chira Bazaar nine years ago.
Sandwiched between Marine Lines on the west and Kalbadevi to its east, Chira Bazaar — known as the gold souk of Mumbai — holds together some of the quaintest residential structures, cloth markets and one of the oldest churches (dating 1794) of Mumbai. But living on prized land comes with its own risks.
Take for instance, the men who greeted me at my doorstep one day. They handed me a sheet that read; “Owing to the poor infrastructure and high density of dilapidated buildings in Chira Bazaar, we have proposed that your area goes in for cluster redevelopment. In your interest, and the interest of the locality, we ask you to support our dream venture.”
A master plan of the redeveloped township, with a graphical representation, was attached with the note for my approval. As I scanned for my house in this over-ambitious proposal, one of the men satisfactorily pointed to a structure — a vague reminder of Ambanis’ Antilla on Altamount Road — saying “This is yours madam, isn’t it beautiful?”
Unable to appreciate it — the downside of not being an Ambani — I played along, “Is this all you have to offer?” With rehearsed clarity, he said, “No madam, select any design from here, we promise to make it your dream home.” He left me no choice, but to slam the door on him. That was two years ago.
In April this year, yet another mail was dropped into my letter-box, seeking our support for yet another Chira Bazaar makeover; this time though with an approved document from the BMC, a local politician and lawyer. Was it a threat, or was it really happening? It worries me, and probably every south Mumbai resident who has lived here long enough to see what the authorities are making of the old SoBo town and its aesthetics. I wouldn’t deny that ours is a fine structure, one with its teakwood beams intact even 100 years on. It has rooms, the size of mini-playgrounds — unnerving for anyone’s comfort in space-crunched Mumbai.
What I see outside my home though, is not a pretty picture; a 15-storey mirror building has already unsettled the dynamics of our narrow lane, while the window from my bedroom, where until four years ago you could see the horizon of the Arabian Sea, now opens to another under-construction building.
To save us from such a fate, we’ve been struggling for heritage status — the approval of which is still pending.
But the stars don’t seem to align for those who’ve been assigned such status either. A case in point being Khotachiwadi — declared a grade III heritage village in 1995 — and just a stone’s throw away from Chira Bazaar in Girgaum. The gaothan dotted with 150-year-old mansions, patches of greens and winding alleys is now overshadowed by a concrete jungle.
Visit the unassuming fashion designer James Ferreira, and he states the facts bluntly: “Despite the heritage status, three bungalows have been sold to builders, with a seven-storey already having made inroads into the area illegally.”
When I visited him in April this year, he rued, “One more down in March”. How many more to feed the land sharks and corrupt authorities? We really don’t know.
We keep dreaming Shanghai, and sometimes New York, yet what we land up in during the monsoons, is Venice of an impoverished kind. I am still waiting to hear from a politician or builder who promises to restore the existing buildings that defined Mumbai for centuries together.
Thanks to a few, the country’s only surviving opera house — the Royal Opera House in Mumbai — that was shut for over a decade, is finally being resurrected. But whatever happened to the Irani restaurants, villages and old residential mansions that are conveniently being ignored by the city’s conservation committee?
As I re-read the redevelopment letter again, a thought begins to haunt me. I am reminded of where I live and threatened by a menacing sound — that of bulldozers approaching.

Wings of the Migratory bird

A long time since have been at home,
No room I still have found,
My dreams abound, of a place I had known,
A country seas apart. 


My land to me, a stranger been,
Even years though have depart, 
My dreams abound, of a nest elsewhere,
Where sand and sun goes down.


Mind though here, heart astray,
Memories of yore still spun,
My dreams abound, of a time spent well,
In the hearth, some miles away. 


I wish it were, again someday,
When a flight was all it took,
My dreams abound, I'd now return,
With the wings of the migratory bird.

Coffee Culture

Drained as I was, I couldn’t fathom doing what I usually did. I wanted a break; break from work, from college, home, friends, and may be from myself. Often, when I felt this way, I would walk the open roads of south Mumbai. Sometimes, I started from home right to one end of the Queen’s Necklace at Marine Drive, and back. On other occasions, I would walk the busy streets of Fort, Colaba, CST when it got empty a few hours after the sun vanished from the horizon. The mouth of each road opened to narrow alleys, greeting me as I passed, before dissecting into another. I loved these walks. But today was not one of those occasions. I didn’t feel like a walk, instead I wanted to camp silently.

After weighing my options, I decided to hit the first cafeteria that came my way. The interiors were beautiful, each wall a different colour; if one bright, the other alternated with something dull. It was my first time here, and a perfect blend for my current frame of mind. I ordered a cappuccino at the counter, took a cushioned-seat at the corner of the vacant top floor, and pulled out a novel from my bag – All in the span of a few minutes. I was in some sort of hurry to read. I turned to the page where I had placed the bookmark the last time, and started reading:

 “The lute is bent, the arrow straight; judge men not by their looks, but their acts…”

I had barely immersed myself into a few pages, when some distraction moved me from my chore.

“Excuse me?”

“Yes.”

A perfectly handsome, well-attired man, slightly taller than me, with the most beautiful pair of deep-set eyes, was standing above.

“I see you are reading Cinnamons Gardens”.

I looked at the cover of the book, and reciprocated half-amused, “Guess…The cover speaks for itself.”

“Good book,” he said, flustered by the response.

I nodded and got down to read, sincerely hoping that the cold snub would put an end to the conversation. I wanted to read, not talk.

“Ma’am,” he said again. “Forgot what I actually came here for. Your coffee…”

“Oh! Sorry, I assumed you were one of those nosy people, wanting to indulge in small talk… and you weren’t in your uniform either. So…”

He smiled. “No need to justify ma’am. I can understand. We have no formal uniforms; it’s kind of our culture out here,” he said, and walked away.

I read on: “I waited for some word from you. Something. I thought I knew the person you were. But I was wrong…”

Barely 15 minutes had passed, when the perfectly handsome man returned. “Sorry to disturb you ma’am. Just a reminder, you’d have to pay right now.”

“Right now! But, I’ll be sitting here for some time. ”

“That’s absolutely fine. You can sit till we shut for the day,” he said, speaking in impeccable English, “But we have certain rules, pay once you are done with your drink. You see… it’s the culture out here.”

“Bill,” I asked amused.

“Rs 150,” he said.

“No cheque…” I asked again.

“We are an eco-friendly café ma’am. We don’t encourage the use of paper.”

I paid hesitantly. The service was quick, the coffee was great, the waiter was good looking, and the ambience was warm and nice. As long as they minded their own business, and let me mind mine, I had no problem.

“By the way, Shyam Selvadurai is an amazing author. I’ve read all of him,” he said, as he headed down.

I smiled. And the waiter was well-read too, what more could customers ask for.  

I continued reading: “Learn well what should be learnt, and then live your learning…”   

At around 9 pm, and over 130 pages down, I was broken by an anxious call from mom. Waking up to the fact that it was getting really late, I decided to leave. As I walked down, I thought of the perfectly handsome, well-read waiter. He hadn’t come on the top floor for over an hour, not like there were a lot of customers, but I really wished he had visited again. May be we could have spoken a little about the book, and got more of his opinion on it. In hindsight, it would have been quite an unusual conversation.

Sigh! If only I had prodded him to speak further, I thought.

I passed the counter and looked inquiringly to thank the man, but couldn’t find him anywhere. I had almost opened the exit door to leave, when someone called out to me. I turned.

“Ma’am you haven’t taken your order that you placed two hours ago,” a man standing, at the counter said.

“What?” I asked. “But didn’t you send a guy with my order.”

“No ma’am… I remember asking you to come and collect the cappuccino in 10 minutes.”

“I don’t remember any such thing.”

“I clearly do,” he said, staring pointedly at the self-service board on the counter, “And today, I am the only one who’s working here, so it’s impossible that I sent someone.”

“Okay! There is some sort of misunderstanding here…” I said, “Someone came up with the order, and a while later, took the money too.”

“You have the bill,” the man asked shocked.

“Aren’t you into this whole eco-friendly thing.”

“Excuse me???”

“Never mind,” I said, adding, “I’ll cancel that order then.”

“I am sorry ma’am. You can’t cancel the order, you will have to pay. It’s part of the culture here.”

“Okay! Okay! Let’s get done with you and your culture for good… how much?”

“Rs 40.”

“That’s it.”

“Yes ma’am. Any problem.”

“No…”  

I took the last Rs 50 note from my wallet, and handed it to the man. He gave me a weird green-coloured bill; I walked out fuming. I was both perplexed and angry, with all that had happened inside the cafeteria, but didn’t have the strength to argue. Noticing a small-bin right outside, I tore my bill after scrutinising it twice. I had paid three-times the amount for the coffee. I crumpled the torn scrap, to throw it when I noticed another green bill, like mine on top of the pile of filth. Curious, I picked it up.

It read:

2 Cappuccinos Rs 80

Chicken tikka sandwich Rs 70

I threw one last glace at the café. The man at the counter was wearing a uniform. It was all clear to me now. I took the labyrinthine road ahead. I had no other option; I was broke. 

The ISWK I remember...

Nine years after leaving school,
Nostalgia has suddenly spooled,
A memory of how it lavishly stood,
In a wadi amidst a few green woods.
White-washed walls and red-brick stones,
Like a mantle in the centre adorned;
ISWK engraved above, 
Unforgettable even 3,000 days after, somehow. 


May be now a distant past,
With missing visions that failed to last,
Of forgotten mates and classroom tales,
And the grey-uniform, now gone pale.
Of weekly circulars undersigned Mr. L. Lobo, I remember,
And the morning prayers, mediation and anthem, still so hard to sever.
ISWK deeply ingrained in my mind till now,
Unforgettable even 3,000 days after, somehow. 


Red, green, yellow and blue,
The houses, we all once belonged to,
For sports, debates and elocution,   
And other annual events for some healthy competition.
The assemblies in the school hall,
In the balcony, where we had a ball,
ISWK, as the curtains draw to show,
Unforgettable even 3,000 days after, somehow. 


Games we played a plenty,
Cricket, soccer and basketball for many,
And how we hated PE theory class,
The ground we loved without the grass.
And teachers we both adored and hated, 
Today we miss them all, equally unabated,
ISWK, a proud Kabirian, I am, I know,
Because unforgettable you are, even 3,000 days after, somehow.