I walk out of my building—a fifteen-year-old highrise—and greet the neighbour who hasn’t paid his maintenance dues since we moved in. I am surprised to find he is walking. Usually he drives a black 4-seater Mercedes Cabriolet, which can barely accommodate him, his three daughters, and his wife, an extraordinarily fat woman with a perpetually haunted look. Under normal circumstances, I would have ignored him; but it was just the surprise of seeing him on foot that led me to deliver a terse, civic nod. Not that it gave me any pleasure. There’s something revolting about this man: his eyes are long and narrow, his lips are thin, almost invisible, his deportment, like a giant reptile, unctuous and bloated. I know I am not being biased when I say he looks like one of those perverts who hang around parks and playgrounds, hoping to befriend some innocent kid: he’s got that kind of a look. The defaulter nods back gratefully, or, rather, shamelessly. Each time he is asked to pay his maintenance dues (this would be at our building society meetings), he would have some excuse: he had all his money locked up in some venture; his bank accounts had been frozen by the income tax department; his business partner had cheated him and the matter was in court, sub judice, till then, he was financially incapacitated. The funny thing is he would be smiling when saying this, as though he enjoyed stretching our sense of decency. At some point, he ran out of excuses and the committee members exhausted their patience and demanded that he pay up. That’s when he would pull out his cell phone and ask if he should dial a politician who was notoriously powerful. Apparently, the politician and he were on excellent terms. They worked as a team, in cahoots, and had each other’s back.
Leaving the gilded gates of my building, I take a right. To my left is a lovely old Shiva temple, sculpted out of black stone. At the side is another temple that houses the guardian deity of our neighbourhood. A few hundred years ago, people weren’t taking chances: they would insure the neighbourhood against natural disasters – floods, fires, and plagues – by installing a guardian deity and praying to her. I like going to this temple and seeing my sleepy neighbourhood unite in worship. Rows and rows of women, seated before their Gods (Lord Shiva, Lord Ganesha, and Lord Hanuman), chanting melodiously in sync, while their menfolk stand respectfully at the side, their heads bowed, hands folded.
The temple has a courtyard and a well and is reminiscent of a village square. A proud rooster struts around fearlessly. Dogs sprawl in reproachful slumber. A black-and-white coated goat, tied to a water tap, gnaws at a bundle of grass. In the evenings, people assemble here and chat. The peace and devotion show on the faces of the residents; no one is in a hurry, no one has an axe to grind. They have left their fates to the guardian deity. Besides, time itself seems frozen here – as though nothing bad can ever happen.
Outside the temple, locals loiter in shorts. They rib each other. A family of gipsies work together, threading garlands. A large truck hands out newspapers, free, to those who wish to read. Another truck, a food truck, gleams with fresh vegetables. An elderly man with thick glasses and a four-pronged walking stick stops and stares at the sights before him. He smiles blandly: ah, yes, nothing has changed, nothing! All is peace and harmony, peace and camaraderie.
Turning into a side lane, I greet the barber standing outside his shop. He is a short, dark man with thick foggy glasses. There is admiration in the way I greet him. Because where else, these days, can you get a haircut for a hundred rupees? I had discovered this quite by chance, during the pandemic, when my regular salon had closed down. But this man, he had kept his place open, teaching jobless youth to navigate scalps of thick, unruly hair.
I feel a glow of warmth in my heart, a kindred peace in my mind. Sights of old Bombay do this to me: stir my sense of belonging, my love of heritage. And there is one such example right before my eyes: a circular Art Deco building, now in disarray but still bringing depth and character to the neighbourhood.
The barber calls out to me; he has a piece of gossip he wants to share. I wasn’t, frankly, interested, but didn’t want to offend him, so I draw up close. That fancy new salon which has opened up down the lane is not a decent place, he whispers. They give male customers a massage and a happy ending, he adds disapprovingly.
I express surprise, consternation, shock. I say to the old barber that I am very sorry to hear this but the male residents would surely object, and take strong measures to close down the place. “Hah!” he spits. “Object? You should see some of them sneak in. While their wives are busy making dinner or when they have gone to their mothers’. When these men get their salaries, the first thing they do is go there, to that den of vice!” He says he had complained to the authorities, both, the police and the municipality, but they said they had no evidence of wrongdoing, hence, were unable to take any action. He is sure the cops are getting a piece of the pie, if not that, at least a piece of the action. I say “yes, yes, quite possible,” nod sadly, and take leave of him. “Wait, wait,” he says. “You also complain. You call the police station, without giving your name, and tell them there are wicked things happening inside that place. Tell them how upset you are and how you are planning to approach the newspapers.” I stare at him and recognize the seeds of professional envy. Even a hundred-rupee haircut faces competition these days.
I come upon a stretch of land that has been cleared for a gated community. I am told there are to be two towers constructed here, both fifty stories tall and revealing views of an ocean shrunk and depleted by the coastal road. There would be twelve levels of parking, a clubhouse, a swimming pool, a jogging track, a supermarket, a pharmacy, a business centre, and a gymnasium. And tall ornate gates that would make the community impervious to outsiders. “Dogs and Indians not allowed!” was once the admonition of the English sahibs. But we were doing this to ourselves now, I think. Imposing limits on those who could enter our lives. Our own people.
I look at the long Art Deco building, where vendors go about their business.
The tailor huddled over his sewing machine, the tip of his tongue clenched between his teeth.
The ironing man working out of a dimly-lit hovel, pressing down on his iron. Behind him, a soft, fragrant mountain of clothes, crumpled and craving attention.
The grocer making packets of flour, grain, pulses, rice, and spices whilst taking orders on his cell phone.
The stationer feeding his photocopying machine with blank sheets of paper, while handing out batteries, pens, notebooks, and erasers.
The snack bar owner frying jalebis and samosas and bhajiyas and pakodas in large hissing pans, then wrapping them in old newspapers, which turn greasy from the oil that seeps through. And customers reaching eagerly for these packets.
The sweetmeat vendor churning milk in a large aluminium vessel; he’d scoop and churn with the dexterity of a juggler.
The cobbler threading soles that gaped like fish; then hammering them into submission. And the pharmacist handing out medicines with the airs of a doctor.
Where would all these people go once the gated community was up and running? I wonder. Once everything was available in-house. And its inhabitants were too lazy and too pampered to venture out for their shopping. They would simply order online. Or get their kids to do it.
I stare at the construction site which is cordoned off by blue corrugated sheets of tin. And above that I see the necks of earthmovers, lurching forward and pounding the earth, scooping out vast mounds of debris.
During the pandemic, the earthmovers had fallen silent and a whole mangrove had sprung up at the site, a gossamer forest, tall and swaying, needing no other water than what lay below, than what the city was originally built on. Truly, I was amazed to see the mangrove spring up, before my eyes, unasked, uninvited; nature asserting itself, nature breaking through rocks, pebbles, and concrete. And then mankind had swept in and hacked away the grass, burning the shrubs that remained, sending smoke signals all over the neighbourhood. No trespassing will be tolerated – not even by the rightful owners of the earth.
On one side, the gated community; on the other, the single- and double-story wooden structures, painted yellow and blue, with latticed balconies, shingled roofs, and small shuttered windows that open like accordions. You are meant to look out onto the street, meant to see the life that swirls below: familiar faces going about their daily routine with habitual efficiency. “Inclusive” and “exclusive” were just words that crept into our vocabulary later, which split our society and divided us.
And now the city is in a rush to reconstruct itself – out of thin air! And the vendors and small traders are at the receiving end. This is happening all over the city. Uniformly. Unsparingly. Even in the lane where Gandhi had lived and where tourists visit daily, in droves. There, too, old houses are being torn down, flowering trees are cut, gaudy buildings rise like birds of prey, and wood and stone are being forced to live alongside glass and metal, surfaces that can dazzle but never impress. Impossible neighbours.
I think about the defaulter. At last count, he owed the society five million rupees. He lived in a three thousand square feet apartment; he had three domestics, a driver, and a cook, and yet he held his neighbours to ransom; for fifteen years, he simply refused to pay. In a sense, it was we who were paying for his lifestyle; we, the residents.
My other neighbours are good, kind people. They had refused to send the defaulter an eviction notice, to move the courts and take tough measures against him. It is not that they are afraid of the politician but are reluctant to put a man out of his house. A man with a grossly overweight wife (probably unwell) and three daughters of marriageable age. In India, you can beat a man or humiliate him, but you just don’t go near his family. That – we don’t do.
And talking about families! Every year, the defaulter and his family went on vacation. We would see him in the foyer, dressed in a flowery beach shirt, shades, shorts, and boat shoes, ordering the security guards to load their luggage into a black SUV. His three daughters – skinny, giggly twenty-year-olds – would pose before the SUV, pout, cuddle, and take pictures with their cell phones. His wife, dressed in a churidar and sports shoes, would be lounging on a sofa, fanning herself with a magazine. If we were to pass by, she would stare at us (that stricken look would vanish), her face alight with hope that we would ask where they were going and when they’d be back. We could see she craved a bon voyage, a touch of neighbourly affection, which, regretfully, was not hers to enjoy.
Walking down the lane, I pass a Swachh Hindu hotel with a small black stove at its entrance and a big tawa with a white leathery dosa mix sizzling on it, and, next to that, is a Gomantak restaurant, emitting the strong unmistakable aromas of fried fish. And I look above the eateries and see the billboards of two rival political leaders, and both have happy, smiling faces, as though glad to share a common territory, common ground. And from a single-story building, the windows of a public school, come the sweet, melodious voices of young girls singing. And below the building their mothers wait, with patient faces and shopping bags in their hands.
I have come to the end of the lane now, where a big defunct telephone exchange wears all the signs of a failed enterprise. It had tried, by God it did! Offering special packages of LAN, Wi-Fi, and Data! But the private players had deep pockets and huge advertising budgets. With deals and discounts, they struck at its roots, they simply did it in. And next to that are small shops selling cell phone accessories, cheap imitations that would shock the Chinese and give them a run for their money.
In a few moments, I will enter another universe, for which I must prepare myself. I must shake off this sense of reverence for the past, and I must brace myself – to become a survivor. For the benefit of my reader, I will call this new universe Mumbai mayhem, as opposed to Bombay bonhomie, which is the one I now leave. But the distinctions have to be clear, very clear in my mind. Because here, in the new universe, an overhead skyway has made crossing hazardous, driving chaotic. The skywalk snakes out in all directions, as though its planners had changed their minds several times during the construction, choosing to experiment with the heart of a city, its hub. The skywalk scrapes past buildings with balconies, making the opening of windows impossible. It balances on fat ugly columns, it curls over whirling eddies of traffic, and it lets itself down on narrow sidewalks, with loose, broken paver blocks and families of homeless people, sheltering, cooking. And it will stare at me insolently, this stale rotting octopus of steel, reminding me that my city, my beloved city, is imploding before my eyes. And that no guardian deity on earth is going to save it.
