So, I made it another Sunday morning movie screening by Enlighten. I beat my own very low expectations of how many movies I'd make it to, when I originally got the 6 month membership in February... In case you are wondering, the Taj Enlighten Society screens classic and foreign language movies every Sunday morning at Cinemax, Versova. More details at their site here. The biggest challenge with watching these movies is the 'Sunday morning' part, as it has a habit of following Saturday evenings and its revelries.
Today's movie L'Orchestra di Piazza Vittorio, marks the last of a month long Italian movie fest. It's a docu-movie on the stitching together of an orchestra of immigrants in Rome. A real life filming of things as they happened, started at the time when they didn't even know if they would be able to pull it off. The movie briefly touches upon many themes - A mission to save a historic theatre that has fallen into disrepair, the quest for music that spans boundaries, the bonds and chasms between people and styles so different, immigration and politics, and the creeping modernism of one of the oldest cities in the world. But that is not the most striking part of the movie.
What you cannot escape, is the individuals that make up that orchestra - their stories, their characters, their situations. The musician who became a threat to his government because he was teaching in the slums in Ecuador. The trumpeter, who at the age of 12, wrote a song on how he wants to leave Cuba. The two irrepressible Indian tabla players, and their infectious enthusiasm. The 'dude' arab and his constantly changing sunglasses. Each of them could fill a full length movie with their own stories.
And that brings me to yesterday's movie - Persepolis. Another auto-bio narrated in a different style. A story of living through a revolution, a war, so many personal losses and trying to straddle vastly different cultures. And the amazing sense of humour that still comes through.
Each story was narrated with love. And with art and music making it more poignant. And there are so many stories around us, if we ever stopped to ask.
The stories we could tell...
Strangers again
Been too tired and lazy to blog recently. Came across this lovely picture, and figured since a picture is worth a thousand words.....
And what a year!
And thus we complete a year - a year in Mumbai, a year in Lehman Brothers, a year in this particular flat.
I won't comment on work, or on the flat. But I think Mumbai needs a whole post dedicated to it. It's one of those topics that everyone feels the needs to talk on. Books have been written on Mumbai, songs have been composed for it, movies have been made with it as a theme. And somehow, this constant dissecting of the city and what it's made of never gets tiring.
Now, I would never be presumptuous enough to simply say 'I like Mumbai'. Mumbai isn't that simple to classify. And it doesn't evoke just a simple 'I like' or 'I hate' emotion. The roads, the weather, the local trains, can exhaust you. The life, the speed, the beautiful buildings can take your breath away. And the simple practicality of everything here can stun you.
I like the way everyone here talks of Mumbai more as a process, than as a place. It's not just a lot of harried people from across the country that is called Mumbai. It's the way they all interact with each other. From the first auto waala who told me 'Mumbai mein to baaju waale ka naam bhi pata hota hai' on the first day I came here and was trying to ask around for the way to my apartment building, to the recent taxi driver who said 'Agar aisa hota, to Mumbai kabhi nahi chalta!' in response to a comment that some taxis have faulty meters.
Which brings me to the transport system. The biggest impact on an outsider in any city, is made by the auto and cab drivers. Which is where Mumbai has a huge edge over other cities like Delhi, Bangalore and Chennai. The autos here have spoiled me for anything else.
The city that never sleeps - yes, it's trite and a cliche. But I can't put it a better way. The fact that you can think of 11 pm as evening (ok, the job may have something to do with this), and find a coffee house packed, with autos lined outside till 1am, is perhaps the best thing that the city has to offer. It's like the city gives you more hours per day. But then, you need more hours per day just to get anywhere.
Distances - talk about putting things into perspective. A 45 minute, 80 bucks ride in a auto, is 'close by'. And, if someone calls you at 4pm, to go 'town side' - you regretfully decline as it us too late to go.
And what's with the weather here. Coming from ambiguous Bangalore, which has wintry mornings, summery afternoons and the rainy season whenever the clouds feel like it, such orderly seasons are hard to understand. Blazing hot and humid summers, followed by squelchy and depressing monsoons, followed by two months of nice weather. Every year.
Most people remember the city by one particular thing. For me, it's the attitudes here. The typical Mumbaiwaala. No, it's not the rush they seem to be in all the time. It's not the tough 'don't mess with me' attitude. I'm talking about the incredible rationality they display (at times). Take the local trains, for instance. Incredibly complicated and hard to gauge. And they have them all down pat. And the incident when all the residents in Vasai boycotted the trains for a day, in protest of the fact that they have so few trains. The feeling everyone seems to have, that we are all in this together, and each and everyone of us has to do our part to make things possible. Nash equilibrium - eat that!!
And it is true. Mumbai is a phenomenon. And it wouldn't be possible if the millions that live here didn't do their part. Or atleast half of those millions didn't do their part.
A Mirror Reflection
It was when he was hunched down behind a tree, sweat trickling down his forehead and praying like he'd never prayed before, that he heard the sound. A footstep, the light hum of someone breathing, very close at hand. He squinted between the branches and saw him. Someone from the other side, barely two feet away from him.
His life flashed in front of him.. that other world - his wife, his two kids. Waiting back home. The letters he got everyday. Yesterday she'd written to say that the younger one was having trouble in school, struggling with the subjects. Little household problems; the fridge was broken and she'd call the electrician again. Big household problems; Ma had developed a recurring pain in the chest and they needed to take her to the doctor. Life was going on, but at the same time, it was suspended. They were all waiting for him to get back. Waiting for this to be over.
Almost as a reflex, he pulled his gun into position. Like he had been trained to do so many times. Those training sessions seemed so long back. In another world, in another time. But it felt right, didn't need any thought.
It was as he pulled the trigger that it happened. The other man turned and their eyes locked. Barely two feet between them. And he saw eyes that were staring into certain death. The surprise, the incomprehension, the terror. And something else. A sorrow, not for himself, but for something else.
There was the sound of the impact, the glance lost focus and the man crumpled in front of him. And he just he sat there shaking. In that split second, he'd had the overwhelming feeling that he was looking into his own eyes. Eyes that had also bid good bye to a wife and two kids back home. Eyes that had sought the blessings of parents and elders. Eyes that were counting the days when they would see that other world again.
The man on the ground was the same age as him. Of a different ethinicity, different grooming. But otherwise, the same as him. The same wishes, same aspirations, same worries. And this war that brought him to this. Taken a life, to save his own. He'd shot him down for... for what? What was it that he was fighting for? He didn't even remember now. Some people sitting far away had made the decision. Decided it was for the best of everyone. And this day he had come face to face with himself, and pulled the trigger on himself.
He knew he should move. The gun shot would draw others here, and this was a dangerous place to be. But he couldn't leave. He just sat and stared, in morbid fascination, at that inert figure, the blood pooling in front of him.
Half an hour later, or may be an hour, maybe two... he got up and, on unsteady legs, made his way back to the camp. Nothing had changed - he was the same man of an hour back. And then again, everything had changed. He was the survivor of the encounter. But then again, it was not him that survived. He knew in that moment, that nothing would be the same again. Each day he'd wake up with the knowledge that someone else would not see that day, because of him.
------------------------------------------------------
And he avoided mirrors after that. It was like he could never look into his eyes again.
Why can't it be the same here?
I've seen it in Bangalore, and now I see it in Mumbai. People who would move for different reasons, and then bemoan the place they left behind.
In Bangalore it was the pathetic infrastructure (which is true enough) and how pubs close at 11. In Mumbai it is the bad roads and constant traffic.
What a lot of people don't realise is the cause and effect that works here.
You had great weather, wide roads and brilliant public transport. So if things were so great back home, why did you move here? For the jobs, the standard of living, the schools... things that your homes didn't give you. And that may be the reason why things are so much better organised back there. Because your city/town did not have to face the pressure of fast paced industrialisation, of a million people landing on it's railway platforms and looking for jobs, and a place to stay.
It's the cities that pay the price for the towns to stay charming. It's the people in the cities who live in that fast paced and draining world that make it possible for the towns to remain slow paced and easy going. Towns don't need to stock up on good jobs, because it can just send its ambitious few to the cities for those.
When the Government decided to promote Bangalore as an IT destination, it was the people of Bangalore who paid the price, as they saw all that they loved about the city come down before their eyes.
Show some respect for that adopted home. It's what's supplying your living.
Pretend you don't see them
I'm quite impressed with this designer and especially her idea. I see why Louis Vuitton would be worried. Their multi-million dollar business runs on their name... and she is giving them a bad name. But I'm more taken with the idea of trying to jar people in to seeing what familiarity has made us blind to.
Everyday, I pass by this slum area on the way to work. And I don't see them anymore. At the traffic lights I see them, and then again, I don't. It's not apathy, it's just numbness. Thinking about their plight every time is more than I can handle. So I stop thinking about it.
There are so many messages out there, it's like we've become deaf to all the noise. And each new adverstiser needs to shout louder, getting his message heard, but making us a little more deaf in the process.
The message this designer is sending is pretty loud in itself. And it's worth hearing. But how long till all messages reach this decibel level and we need something louder?
Don't know what you're missing till....
....you find it?
I've spent a couple of really lovely weekends. I was complaining about how much time I've spent in Mumbai, without going to a lot of the places I wanted to be to. So my similar minded friend volunteered to come with me and we spent a couple of days hanging around Colaba and Bandra - definitely the best of Mumbai. We even explored some of the IIT Mumbai campus.
And it was only then that I realised how much I've missed such days. The Bangalore kinda days. Low on excitement and generally without an agenda. Long pointless arguments with my sister and other girl-friends, on human behavior, origin of words, how societies and cultures formed, why people are nasty and a million other things.
'Daytime' days. Walking around the roadside stalls and picking things that looked interesting (and cheap). Shopping for clothes (with the difference that this time I actually bought things, compared to my earlier I'm-broke-and-only-window-shopping).
Being with people whom you can be nice and courteous too, knowing they will return the favour. This may seem a strange thing to say, but recently I feel I've been surrounded by people who treat you well only if you throw some attitude their way. One of hazards of having studied in a college with less than 8% women, is that most of your friends are men. And I had actually forgotten how much easier an all-girl outing is. There's no explaining it, it's just a lot lesser stress.
And now, suddenly, I'm missing these things again.
Generation Outrageous
Me: Well, new cars are expensive. And the good thing about a Maruti 800 is that if you get it smashed up, at least it won't cost you that much.
Aunt: (stunned silence) Oh my goodness! My heart almost stopped when I heard the words 'Maruti 800' and 'smashed up' together.
Me: Huh? Oh! err.. I meant small scratches and dents you know.. not real smashing up....
(Note to myself: Watch what you say when talking to Aunt!!)
We talk different - my generation, I mean. We exaggerate the bad and gloss over the good.
Some of it may be the world scene and news papers and all the wars and crimes we have seen. Some of it is the American sit-coms, with the 'I'm so cool, nothing can surprise me' tone. Maybe even all the Warcraft and Age of Empires games. I used to get annoyed when my little cousin said 'Damn! I just died' in the middle of those games. Death is not something to joke about, I'd try to say. Now it's just another word, without the associated images of horror and finality.
There may be some psychological reason behind it - the mind tends to trivialize the painful. Or it may be social conditioning. Four letter words are not rude, they show that you are not squeamish or girlie (and how is that bad?). And being called 'nice' is an insult. Coz nice guys never win, and it's all about winning and losing here.
While I can be brutal myself, it worries me, if I ever stop to think about it. I believe that it all just a facade and that behind this show of cynicism and apathy, there are real hearts beating and that there are people who care. But how long before we start believing our own lies?
