Nothing changes ....or does it ?

Mumbai is having civic elections, and suddenly television is full, of various parties showing up what is wrong with Mumbai and blaming it on other parties. There are folks promising good water supply, green spaces, cheap housing , security for citizens, and all kinds of things , hitherto considered Utopian in Mumbai.   No one believes these lofty claims, and everyone has seen through the greed of the politicians.

At the ground level however, things remain the same and no one cares.

Over the last several years I have been doing the rounds of courts, as part of the handling of paperwork related to my late parents .  A lot of my time is spent sourcing stamp papers of various denominations, and getting all kinds of documents prepared, and notarized.

I had blogged earlier about doing this in Pune, and the amazing experiences one had there, in unexpected places selling stamp papers , amidst building ruins,and bus-washing places.  I thought Mumbai, being the state capital would be a bit different.

It was. :-)

At one of the courthouses in a western suburb which is a huge bus and train terminus, you get accosted by various black coated folks asking you what your work is. Some  say they will do it for you, and quote atrocious fees. So you kind of flit around in the courtyard chock-a block with advocates, and settle on someone.

 Then you get in line for the stamp paper.  There are stamp papers which must bear your name, and stamp papers which needn't. Naturally , mine are the former, and i get in a queue, that snakes artistically below a high window. Advocates, can buy their stamp papers on grounds without much gradient.  I reach the window, only after i climb on two large stones, and a huge cylindrical drum, only to learn that the denomination I want is not available/finished, and so I get the higher one.

 A lot of typing, disappearing, xeroxing, climbing stairs, later, I get what I need.  Actually I badly need a cup of tea.

I need to notarize stuff . Its on the 3rd floor. There is an elevator, but I am told it is only for judges.  I wonder what happens to older people, those with handicaps and so on, and I am told, the elevator is unreliable, and it stops at random.   I stay away.

Things are in place for higher levels, Us lower humans simply watch and listen. 

Then someone told me about a courthouse , in the eastern suburb, where I could go. Last week I went there.

Broad roads, lots of trees,  there didn't seem to be darting advocates anywhere.  I reached at around 10:30, to see a bunch of cops, and someone who looked like a plainclothesman/detective, standing and chatting. Before I could feel good about the nice environment, I found out that they sold NO stamp papers at this courthouse.  The guy who had the licence to do so, cheated, and had his licence confiscated. They hadn't yet found an honest replacement.

But every missing stamp paper thing has a silver lining. I was told by the staff of a Notary  at court, that I could get stuff "franked" ; ie you typed up the stuff and some bank authorized to do so would"Frank" it for the amount of the stamp paper.

After a huge search, I found a bank at the bottom of the hill where I reside, and traipsed down there,  by the side of the swank new 8 lane (or 10 lane; depends) road. The sidewalks have been given step motherly treatment, and most places you tangle with huge digging being done by the utilities. Someone has washed the courtyard outside the bank, and I land up inside with wet footwear and no entrance mat. The front office guy is very helpful, and I see a hope.  He asks me to pay at the counter.

The cashier gives me a look reserved for those "guilty until proven innocent", fingers the currency notes, and returns one back saying "Give another one, this one has a tear".  

I thought banks were supposed to replace soiled notes (so long as the pieces were connected naturally) . I request him .

"No. We do not replace notes. We are not the State Bank. Go there." And he glares.

I replace the note.  Once again the suspicious look.

" OK. Take these receipts and you will have to wait for an hour! "

There has been  no other customer  except me,  my documents for franking are with them, and I have no choice.  I decide to sit and wait it out, reading noticeboards, messages on my phone about valentines deals and some such.

Ten minutes later the front office calls me , and has me sign for my franked copies.

I rush out on my way to the court, for notarizing the papers.  I alternate between good and bad experiences.  I've just had a good one. I wonder what bad one lies in store.  I soon find out.

 I need to dash through fast traffic, perpendicular to it,  and cross across, through all kinds of construction debris under a flyover, to the other side to get a three wheeler to court. A few jumps and leaps later , and to the vast amusement of some folks, I find a vehicle to take me there.

The driver knows some shortcuts, and it costs me half as much to reach there today. I am thrilled.  I rush in to get my stuff notarized at the fellow who did it earlier. Work done, fees paid, I need to get home fast, and I find a 3 wheeler after much effort.

 It is noon.  He needs to get back to school duty in 45 minutes but is willing to do this quick trip.

He has much to say.

" One day left for civic elections. This place is a madhouse today. People brought in from outside on payment, to walk in processions ad shout at meetings. All these fellows hold illegal meetings and block roads. The supporters are plied with food and alcohol, and they act rude. Why must I vote for these chaps who call themselves social workers on a dais and revert to being a goonda the day after elections ?  I do this school transport work as my social contribution. What have they done?"

We are on the highway, and he speeds up.

" All the children of leaders are in the fray. None of them have worked a job from 9 to 5. How will they know the problems of people in Mumbai ?  Do they know what it is to miss a daily wage that puts food on the table ?  .....At first I thought I won't vote; but now I will. That's our only chance to throw the bad guys out...."

We reach my neighborhood, and I get off so he he can rush back in time for his school duty.

Its been a day of pluses and minuses changing by the hour.  There are times when you feel encouraged, and then , possibly disgusted.

No one really worries about the ordinary person in Mumbai.  Big projects are announced , started and  presumably completed  and whats most important, paid for.   So everyone gets their cut.

But there is some hope. Like the rickshawallah. 

He waits for the red light to change,  as he watches an election candidate jeep with flags, run through the  light, and just miss someone taking a U-turn.

I turn around and walk back to my building, amidst a bunch of trucks, loading up on wood from so many trees that have been cut on campus. Why ?  I don't know.

Like I said, the day has alternated between good and bad.  

At my level, nothing has changed....

            

Politicians, Dogs, and Banners

In the area where I live,  the population has increased by leaps and bounds over the years, with lots of commercial establishments, housing areas, schools, hospitals etc coming up.  In all these new fangled posh establishments, some of us still prefer to go to the old tried and tested, places. One such , is a polyclinic,  run by an old established  landowning family, where our dentist has practiced for the past so any years, way before we became an official suburb.

The local prominent landowner's descendants, are active in politics, and like to think they represent us. The 2009 general elections  saw some desperate campaigning.

I was once sitting in the dentists chair, in great discomfort and pain,  some retractor type stuff stuck in my mouth, 5 circular lights shining into my face, when someone knocked on the door and entered in.  I could still glance sideways and could see a fellow in a "leader's" white khadi outfit, walking in with folded hands. Much welcoming and greeting, and he asked for us to come and vote for him. After small talk, much facetious smiling, he moved on, into some other doctor's chambers, to interrupt someone else again.   Soon after he went, the old lady , a doctor, whose doctor daughter currently managed the polyclinic came by. My dentist took a short break to greet and talk to her , out of respect. 

"He came to touch my feet before starting the campaign. I  told him, this time you must win with a great majority. " she said. (She had known his late father, the original elected person). "It will be good. All those land cases of his, which are stuck, will then get cleared ! "

(I didn't have too much of a problem gaping in shock, since my mouth was held wide open anyway )  . Politics was that blatantly practiced. (Or should I say, "is " ?...)

Subsequently, with tons of hoardings from various candidates, blaring announcements,  endless freebies being handed out and promised, the man got elected, and since then has joined what I call the Hoarding brigade.

Your work needn't speak, but your image, with folded hands, a big cutout, with photos of all your chamchas, (apple-polishers) with their designations, as well as National leaders, past and present, dead or alive,  on a huge hoarding,  was supposed to speak loudly.

It indicated that you were always consulted by them, you knew them, played marbles in childhood with them, were related to them, were as crooked as them, whatever.....

It's not only your subordinates, but  these leaders have no qualms having their pictures  on hoardings, next to late Mahatma Gandhi, late Indira Gandhi(and her assorted late and living family members, the PM, local chief ministers, leaders of the opposition, sometimes even the President of the country.  Someone is always congratulating someone on a (rigged) election, birthday, or welcoming someone with creative spelling mistakes, all this on huge wide hoardings, placed with a blatant disregard for gates, traffic signals, trees, windows of apartments and houses, all so you can see it from a distance.

One of our cricket commentators on TV, decided to spearhead a "remove hoardings" campaign in a gap between his cricket commitments. He met political power-folks, who were photographed agreeing with him 100%, a campaign to remove hoardings was announced. The major local paper took it up.  For a while it looked like it would work.  The municipal authorities, had to depute a vehicle, and 4 people to remove a single hoarding, and most of the hoardings put up (50%) were illegal, where no permission was taken. 

In Mumbai , at least 500 Hoardings fill the skyline everyday .  Announcing social initiatives, visits, birthdays, and assorted religious festivals of every type imaginable. (You must cater to all communities, to be perceived as secular).  Some housing societies crib about ventilation being hindered, light being insufficient due to these huge swathes of fabric hanging across, etc. Some tear these down, some get threatened by goons. Some folks who came to visit us once even missed the turn at our locality gate, because there was a huge hording of a politician covering the wall at the entrance.  And then there are hoarding wars. Candidates  try to out do each other  in size of hoarding, eminent leaders images,  occasions, and followers photos. There have been instances of someone tearing down hoardings and then some coming up overnight. Clearly, political pressure, and law and order folks keep away from each other.

My hometown, Pune , is often criticised for its banners, and signs outside houses and roads.  People from other towns,  like to make fun of this. There are even facebook pages dedicated to this.

And so it was with a sense of great delight that i chanced upon this wonderful pseudopolitical banner displayed recently in the Pune suburb of Hadapser.  Prominently on a corner building.

It celebrated the birthday of a Dog called MaxiDada (Maxi being his name, and Dada a suffix added to indicate seniority). It also  exhibited names and designations of office bearer dogs,( named Bruno,Moti and Brani), and one office bearer Cat (named Money...err Mani),  who featured on the banner, wishing their leader heartily on his birthday. The banner , predictably spanned across two floors of a multistoreyed building, and suitably blocked someone's corner balcony.

I really don't know if anyone cribbed about this. I don't know if anyone tore it down. I even wonder if any political goon types even noticed it and learned a lesson.

Someone said this was a project by some disgusted senior citizens of the area.

But what i enjoyed the best was a comment by someone saying, "please don't insult the dogs.... " 

:-)



 

In praise of the small and simple.....

She appeared at the door last week. An old stooped lady, wearing glasses with fairly thick lenses. Wearing a traditional nine yard sari, the sort you carefully wash, fold and then store under the mattress in such a way, that it gets a natural ironing, thanks to everyone sitting and or lying down on the one big bed in the house , holding several mattresses. In her house, the place isn't big enough for large amounts of furniture. And the mattresses are pulled down at night for everyone else, while the oldest elder gets the bed.

She was accompanied by a grandson. That's who I thought he was. At first I didn't recognize her. She looked up at me, and smiled. Toothlessly. Through her cataracted eyes. Shining. And then it hit home.

Bhagabai. Who was so much a part of my life when i went to my parents for my first delivery.

It is very traditional, for a girl expecting her first child, to go to her parent's house sometime before her due date. Today, with so many working women, and migration to the metros from small towns, understanding parents make the reverse trip to be there for their daughter and help. Sometimes, understanding parents-in-law chip in with their own help.

But going to one's parents house gives you the sort of freedom, you don't get anywhere else. You can sleep late, cups of tea magically appear when you vaguely wish about them, all kinds of culinary stuff is made for you, and you can absolutely dig in without appearing to be a greedy fool. "I don't feel like doing this", a phrase you dare not utter in front of your in-laws, is quite acceptable here. Although it is considered bad manners to sit with your feet up even in front of your parents (forget in-laws), going to your parents at this point is like mentally putting your feet up , if you know what I mean .... When you go out, you run into some of your school friends' parents and siblings, the local cycle shop fellow who repaired your punctures in college, asks after you and your husband, and the vegetable lady, sends her granddaughter with you, to carry the veggies when you return from shopping .

Post delivery, a very interesting person arrives on the scene. That was Bhagabai.

About 30 years ago, it was fairly routine to employ ladies like Bhagabai, for what was called Post-natal massage, and bathing and massaging the baby. I came home from hospital, and settled in. Bhagabai appeared a few days later. Ladies like her, are experts in the bathing and massaging of babies, in the traditional way. Alongside, they also massage the desperately tired muscles and ligaments of the mother, and there is a technique to it.

They use ordinary oil, and you feel the goodness oozing out of the rough, hardened, fingers, as your muscles get a indulgent talking to. An unusual aspect of the massage is a small utensil made out of a certain alloy , for which I do not know the English name. This utensil, and the oil , is rubbed on the soles of your feet, to remove the "heat". Whatever the science behind this, it used to feel good, and you felt very light after the sole rubbing. You were then accompanied into the bath, where water, as hot as you could tolerate, was poured on you by the big tumblerfuls, and garbanzo flour paste was used to remove any oil that had not managed to seep in by then, into your somnolent body. It felt wonderful. It did things not only to your body, but also to your mind. And some hot-off-he-griddle freshly made tortillas for breakfast with some delicious veggies completed the heavenly routine.

Bhagabai would then sit on the floor, with her feet out in front. Tuck in her saree above her knees, spread a soft white freshly washed cotton towel across her knees, and place the baby on her knees. A dab of oil on her palm, a rubbing together of the palms, and she would proceed to massage, the fairly new knees and ankles and things. Arms, shoulders and back were next. Sometimes the baby was laid on its stomach , so that the shoulders got a nice rub. Indian babies tend to have a nice mop of dark hair, and that was oiled too, with a special type of massage at the point where the fontanel was. You needed to go a bit easy there, as things were still joining up there at that point. The baby was bathed with warm water, to which sprigs of Neem were added. No soap was used, but it was all about using garbanzo flour paste. It had no chemicals, it didn't matter if you managed to eat some, and the face shone after you washed , to such an extent, Proctor and Gamble would have simply quietly vanished if they were watching....

Swaddled in fresh cotton clothes, and a cotton wrap , special wraps being done for the belly button area of the baby which was still healing from the loss of the umbilicus, the baby would lie restfully next to the mother, while Bhagabai would fan a largish plate containing some charcoal fire. She would then throw a mixture of few seeds like fennel, cumin, ajwain (carom seeds), etc, on the fire, and a wonderful smoke and aroma would pervade the room. This was designed to disinfect the atmosphere in the room, as well as give protection from allergies to the mother and child.

At the end of it all, she would sit back, have a cup of tea, chat with my mother for a while, and push off for her next massage assignment. If she felt the child was developing a cold or something, she would alter the mixture of the final seeds that were smoked, and the baby would be fine.

Bhagabai came to us for a month for me, and another month more for my son. She was a big part of the day we had the naming ceremony, and got special sarees from my in-laws and parents on that day. By and by I returned to my own home in Mumbai, and lost touch with her. But she would come once in a while to see my mother, ask after us. At some point of time, she kind of retired from all this and went back to her native place, to her ancestral house, where she lived then with her two sons and their wives and children.

She had been to Pune , and someone told her about my parents being no more. She asked about us, and my cousin told her where I lived. Her grandson was accompanying her to Mumbai as they had come to see someone who was seriously ill , and in hospital, and belonged to Bhagabai's generation.

On an impulse, she found out how to get to my place and came. To offer condolences.

"You know , those days are gone. These young mothers today can't sit still. They start going out to work and shopping, and stuff, and eat outside stuff. They worry about their figures. They avoid eating the old style prescribed stuff , satwik food, and then complain about aches and pains and inability to breastfeed the child....", . She shook her head, adjusted the end of her saree over her head, and looked up at me, as her grandson sort of rolled his eyes and looked up, but indulgently.

I remembered a friend's daughter who had just delivered and I asked if she was interested. She was nearby. Bhagabai could stay with me, and go there. It would be a nice change for Bhagabai, for me, and the new mother.

She smiled.

"You know, the heart is willing, the hands are willing, but I need to go back in a few days. " She motioned to her son to carry the empty teacups and plates into the kitchen and leave them there.

Her reason completely stumped me.

"Elections are there. My name is registered at the village. And I have to be there to vote. I have not missed a single election so far. It is important that we vote for the correct chap. today money power is misused. ....."

Yes, we are having our national elections in April.

This has been a tumultuous time.

Tumultuous in the highs and lows of economy, morals, money,violence,politics and yes, sport; as the 26/11 carnage in Mumbai festers in every one's mind, and makes you look over your shoulder, more than normal. For the ordinary person on the street, worry is a real and valid activity, till you reach your destination. Every time your child is late getting home, your hand reaches for the TV remote.

In the midst of this, India decided to keep its date with democracy. We have general elections, every 5 years. And now is the time.

Come April, and in a country , with an estimated population of 1.15 billion, representing 17% of the world population, 714,000,000 voters will use 1,368,430 electronic voting machines, to indicate their choice. Some will fly in, pose, smile, and vote; some will drive; some will step out of a decelerating public transport to do their civic duty; and in the back of beyond, rural areas, some elder son with a strong back, will carry his old mother piggyback over hill and dale, so she can cast her vote. She may be illiterate, may not know the names of first citizens, but she has a fine work ethic, a pride in the country, and can discuss and decide which man or woman, is worth voting for.

29 different languages are spoken by at least 1 million people each, where several hundred languages are designated as mother-tongues.Being the most culturally, linguistically and genetically diverse geographical entity after the African continent, this country is home to folks from 9 major religions, Hindu (80.5)% (13.4%), , Muslims Christians (2.3%), Sikhs (1.9%), Buddhists (0.8%), Jains (0.4%), Jews, Zoroastrians, Bahá'ís and others. Tribals constitute 8.1% of the population.

Folks will make their way to 828,804 polling booths, and do their bit to preserve democracy.

Something we seem to be fairly good at, given that we have more reasons to divide us than unite us.

The Home Minister cannot emphasize enough the security aspect of these elections, and the country's law and order forces are totally committed to this.

In the midst of this , the Indian Premier League, the most commercialized money making cricket extravaganza , if there was one, schedules its matches right in the middle of the election period. This, despite the fact that a schoolchild knows that elections must happen before May.

As if that wasn't enough, Mr Lalit Modi, the gung-ho IPL commissioner argues and tangles with the government demanding security for the games. The latest terrorist attack on the Sri Lanka Cricket team in Pakistan has upped the threat perception. Big names in cricket , from UK, Australia, NZ, and SA, who have signed up, are expressing doubts about their own availability , worried about the security aspect.

Everyone is aware, but the amount of security personnel are barely enough for countrywide elections. The interests of the country are paramount. Cricket can always be played later. And IPL isn't even cricket, like test cricket. . It's like McDonald's trying to be the Taj Mahal Hotel.

The news channels show nothing else for 3-4 days, not having the IPL matches is declared a shame on the Nation, and the IPL pffice bearers, all politicians , who knew when the elections were scheduled, alternately huddle together, and fly cross country in a frenzy of discussions.

Yes, the IPL matches WILL be held. But not in India. The head honcho, Mr Modi flies to SA and the change in venue to SA is announced.

To me. the IPL-organizers is a standing example of what should not be. Wheelers and dealers. To them, its all about maximizing revenue, and reducing losses. Commercials and media ads, and sponsorships, and stadia advertising. They have "bought" and traded cricketers for huge sums, and will have mud on their face if these don't turn up due to perceived security problems.

So they make outrageous security demands from the government during election time. Refusals from the government are blithely dismissed as political posturing. In the meanwhile, someone somewhere is quietly moving the jamboree out of India. So that the foreign players will turn up. The Indian players will miss out on so much family time because of travelling .They play for the country, and that dedication is ruthlessly exploited. So many people will stay away from the country and forget to vote. But who cares.

These big guys, non-playing, non-sporting IPL types, who have so much in life, money, power, prestige, hangers on, authority, and what have you, don't have one thing that Bhagabai has.

National pride.

Its your country, and its important that you vote. That you be there.

But is anyone listening ?