Travel

Monday, March 26, 2012

A Walk Down Marine Drive


It’s a sea like any other. There aren’t even big waves to boast of. But there is a charm – a rather inexplicable one – that draws me back to this place again and again.


I’ve always wondered what was so special about Marine Drive. Why is it that I make sure that anyone who visits Bombay has to go there? What makes it such a major tourist destination? What makes me – time and again – walk into Dadar station just to hop onto a train heading towards Churchgate, just to go and lie down next to the sea all by myself?

The view is beautiful, there’s no doubt about that. But at the end of the day, it’s a sea like any other. It doesn’t have Goa’s waves to boast of, or the breathtaking shades of blue like Maldives. It’s isn’t lined with pubs or amazing restaurants, and if you ever begin to search for a dustbin, you’re probably in for a long and unsuccessful trek. In fact, having been home recently, I’d say it looks almost identical to the Gulf Road in Kuwait.

Despite all this, I keep going back there. And the last time I went there to show Mom around, staring at all the people around me, I think I started to understand a part of that charm.

It was a Sunday evening, and as any Mumbaiker would know, Marine drive was packed. Packed with anybody and everybody – children, adults, old couples, young couples, gay couples, Parsis, Muslims, Hindus, Christians, Indians, non-Indians, rich folk, poor folk, people in saris, burqas, tank tops and shorts, either jogging or walking or sitting or sleeping  –  all human beings were welcome. Actually, for that matter, so were monkeys and dogs (pet as well as stray). And I realized that this is exactly what makes Marine Drive so special – anyone and everyone is welcome there. There is an unspoken, unwritten, open invitation available for all.

Then again, it’s Bombay. It’s filled with people. Nobody ever needs an invitation to get on the local train. So how can people make this place so special? I think it’s because over here the people are no longer special. Sitting in awe of the vast sea and feeling alive with every gust of the wind, individuals stop mattering. There are no expectations, no entrance fee, no dress code, no code of conduct, and no restrictions based on your background. Nobody is going to ask you who you are, nobody cares what you wear or where you live. You could live in a mansion or on the street – here, it doesn’t matter. Because here, everyone’s the same. Whether you’re the CEO of a major company or the street vendor selling channa, it just doesn’t matter. Unless you’re Salman Khan, I doubt anyone’s going to spare more than a few seconds to glance at your. it’s just you, the sea and the wind, and about a hundred odd people whom you probably have nothing in common with, except a love for this place.

And unlike every other place in Bombay where people seem to always be in a hurry to get places, here, time just slows down. You’re no longer trying to reach a destination, you’re already there, so you might as well enjoy every moment. 

Sunday, March 11, 2012

A lice problem...


Before leaving for Bombay, mum told me not to go around proclaiming the news to people. So, naturally, I decided to write a blog about it and post it on Facebook.


It started as a small insignificant itch, before slowly gaining the kind of frenzy that had me scratching my head at every given moment, regardless of who was around. After one month of crazy scratching, the first thing I said to my mother when I met her was “Something is wrong with my head! Please have a look.”

She didn’t have to look, really. The incessant scratching was enough to tell her what was the problem. But just to confirm, she glanced through my hair, before stating, “Yep, you’ve got lice.”

Now, for anyone who might not be aware, head lice (singular: louse) are “wingless insects spending their entire life on human scalp and feeding exclusively on human blood.” – Source: Wikipedia.

Okay, so the problem was diagnosed. I had insects sucking the blood from my scalp and making babies all over my head. Now all we had to worry about was the cure. So we scanned the pages of Google to figure out the best way to remove head-lice. After rejecting the possibility of dousing my hair in cooking oil and vinegar, I decided on a safer alternative – poison.

At least, that’s what it said on the cover of Licel oil. Moment of self-realization: pouring oil on your head suddenly becomes a lot harder when the bottle comes with a single-word warning: poison.

In any case, I did it. Twice. I even bought a special lice comb from this guy at Dadar station, who laughed when I asked him for it, saying most people never ask him for a lice-comb so directly. His words reminded me of something my mother had mentioned. Apparently, society – aka people – tend to have very similar reactions when they encounter someone who has head lice. I think the reaction goes something like: ewwwwwwwwww!!!!!!!!!

Before leaving for Bombay, mum told me not to go around proclaiming the news to people. I think she knew my erratic tendencies a bit too well.

So, naturally, I decided to write a blog about it and post it on Facebook.

I’m trying to understand the connection between head lice and eww. Sure, the last thing anyone wants is to have little insects pouring their faeces all over your head, but still. The problem is the insect, not the person, right? Why ostracize the person?

Perhaps this has a lot to do with the cause of head-lice infestation: they are more common in places where personal hygiene is not seen as being of utmost importance – such as slums, where people might have slightly bigger concerns in their lives. And the most common way for transmission is through hair-to-hair contact. Assuming that I got the lice from one of my 45 kids, the thought that comes to mind is – how do I make sure I don’t get it again?

The answer is simple – I stay away from them. Physically, I maintain my distance. This means no carrying them, or swinging them around, or receiving impromptu bear hugs from the entire class.

To any other person, the choice might be a no-brainer, especially when you consider the importance of your hair, the embarrassment from walking around scratching your head at all times, and the thought of creepy-crawly insects going at it through your lovely tresses.

To me, the choice is also a no-brainer, especially when I think of a little girl Mahek who gives the warmest hugs after Mom; the kind of hug that cheers you up no matter how bad your day is going; the kind of hug that makes me get down on my knees in front of this little kid and ask her specially for a hug - a request she is only too happy to fulfill.

Three guesses as to which option I would choose?

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

The mind of a grouchy adult

Remember when you were a little kid, and were constantly told by adults - don't put your hand out of the car window, don't touch that knife, don't get wet in the rain, don't run down the stairs, don't stand too close to the door in the train, don't run, don't stand, don't sit, don't talk - just don't.


And the whole time there was just one thought running through your head - Aaaaaaaaarrrrghhhhhhhhh!!!

Why did adults have to be so negative all the time?! Were they programmed to say the words "don't" or "no"? Do they really have no faith in children? Do they really think I'm so stupid as to intentionally burn my hand with an iron? Please, I know it is hot! (from experience...)

I promised myself that when I became an adult, I would never treat kids as though they were incapable to doing anything correctly - I'd let them try new things, make their own mistakes, learn from their mistakes. I'll show the adults around me how it's really done. Now all I needed to do was find myself a kid or two...

I found 45 of them. And in the words of Russell Peters - I turned grouchy adult so fast...!!!

Every request that came my way automatically met with a no.


No, you cannot run in the corridor. No, you cannot jump on the benches. They're kids. They're tiny kids. They don't know any better. I'm the adult around here. I can't let them go haywire. I'll have to say no.

Yep, I became the very adult version I had always told myself I'd never be.

But today, standing at the doorway of a local train, I was just reminiscing about all those times as a kid when I was told not to stand too close to the edge, and I couldn't help but wonder why adults become such boring grouches when we're around kids. Is it that I don't trust my kids? Do I really think they're going to jump out of the window of the bus if it is open too wide?

After mulling over this for 30 minutes in the Bombay local, I came to one simple explanation - fear. I have been given the responsibility of 45 children, and I think this responsibility is scarier than being responsible for a multinational corporation. Because one small incident could end disastrously. Sure, the odds of something going wrong are probably less than 5%, but even that is too much for the side of me that is scared of "what if something goes wrong". It's easy to be responsible for yourself, but not so much for others. Especially when the others belong to someone else, and your careless gaze could be the reason for a family shattering to pieces. I have no problem with my kids running down the stairs, but every time one of them falls and gets hurt, the guilt weighs down as I have to face their parents.

So I don't think the problem is that adults don't trust kids - in fact, the chances of us "grown-ups" getting hurt by doing something stupid are probably much greater than kids, considering how sure we are of ourselves. It's that we - at least I - fear that I won't be able to keep up with the responsibility of their safety. So instead of giving them the 95% odds of successfully running backwards across the corridor, I just tell them a flat out no.

Then again, maybe it really is that adults get automatically programmed to reply in negatives. Maybe it's an unconscious initiation rite.

I think someone up there is probably using my life right now to teach his kids the meaning of the words "irony" and "hypocrisy."

Grouchy Adult, signing off.

Sunday, March 4, 2012

That Meeting Ground

I spoke to a close friend of mine today. We share a lot of things, yet the one thing we do not share is our nationalities. As we were discussing whether it would be better to meet up in Canada or Dubai, this thought struck me:

You live across from me
Across that street
Across that line
The one we're not allowed to cross

I can stand at my gate
Yet I cannot see you
I can wave to you
Yet have no idea if you're waving back
Even though you live across from me
Across that line we're not allowed to cross

I want to see you
I want to cross the street
I want to cross this line I can't see
But they hold me back
The voices, the anger, the resentment
They are not mine, yet they surround me
They won't let me cross
All I can do is stand at my gate and wave
Hoping, that you're waving back

I want to see your house,
The one I saw in pictures
I want to see your family
Whom I heard you talking to on the phone
I want to see your friends
Who you always spoke about
I want to see your neighbourhood
Which sounds very similar to my own
I want to see you

We're neighbours who cannot meet
Living in a suburb of rivalry
Looking for a common ground
One that is far from our homes
Where there are no voices, anger or resentment

But that meeting ground comes at a price
I can see you
But I still cannot see your home
The one I saw in pictures
I cannot see your family
Whom I heard you talking to on the phone
I cannot see your friends
Who you always spoke about
I cannot see your neighbourhood
Which sounds very similar to my own
I cannot see your country
Which sits next to my own.