Goodbye Mumbai, Hello Kolkata

When my phone got filled to capacity after the deluge of new numbers, of movers and packers, new schools in Kolkata I needed to check with for my son, new colleagues at my new office, new bosses, new HR managers, I decided it was time to delete a few numbers from my Mumbai days. I needed more space and in any case I wouldn’t be calling up some numbers in Mumbai ever again.

So I thumbed through them in alphabetical order, deciding which ones I could dispense with. The very first number, saved as A, was my very own in Mumbai, strategically saved to avoid calling another’s phone unwittingly. Every time I boarded that can of sardines called local train, I’d get crushed amid humans jostling for space and my phone would by default dial the first number saved under A. I’ll soon have to replace the A with my new number in Kolkata so, I thought, I could delete the Mumbai number. But it had become so much a part of my identity, my password when I went to surf the net at my neighbourhood cybercafé in Mumbai. Maybe it could be retained, there were so many sentiments attached.

Next came my landlord’s number in Mumbai, the retired cop from Bahrain who made it possible for me to live four of my five years there without involving any broker. We paid no commission to any broker, mutual trust was our interface. Often, I paid him the 11-months’ rent more than a week after we went together to renew our lease agreement. I would pay for the court papers and to the typist who put our arrangement in words, while he would bribe the cops to approve the same without the necessary formality of verification. When I left, he and his wife told me to tell him in advance should I ever return to Mumbai and they shall ready their house again, maybe ask their tenant to vacate, for us. There was no question of deleting his number.

Then came the mother of a patient who shared the room with us when my mom was admitted for a knee-replacement. She at first avoided us when she heard that my mother was a doctor. But, gradually, on realising that we were as shocked by the hospital staff’s curiosity to know if ours’ was an insurance case and when an expert insisted that my mom needed a pacemaker to weather the knee-replacement surgery, she befriended my mom. On learning that I worked for a newspaper, she asked me if I could solve a problem she faced at her office. When I realised I would not be able to do so, she understood, sharing with me an experience of hers, years ago, when she found a nail inside a cola bottle. She rushed to a newspaper office, the bottle in hand. She hoped to see its photograph in the next day’s papers but instead got a call from the cola company that evening, saying they wanted to compensate her for the unfortunate incident. It’s ironical I am naming neither the cola company nor the newspaper office she approached. I’m not in touch with her any more, but will retain her number, and maybe let her know my new one soon.

There were names of some editors of other publications, which I should retain, for I keep getting calls from friends looking for a new job, asking for such contact IDs in Mumbai.  Numbers of correspondents from an earlier organisation I worked for in Mumbai, who still remember me every Eid or Diwali.

 There were numbers of brokers I had saved prefixing ‘broker’. I had no need of them for the last four years in Mumbai, but they remind me of my early days of struggle, you need those numbers the moment you land in Mumbai with a new job.

 The number of the man who sent us home safely, after office every day at my last office in Mumbai. It’s difficult to forget his smile, even if he sometimes made us wait for an hour before there was a car-a-quorum in the direction of our home. The last time I took a drop home, he too boarded the car as he had to go some place beyond mine, like he often did. When I got off at my place, I told both him and the driver, ‘Phir milengey’ I know not why. And he too replied, ‘Phir milengey’.

I enjoyed writing the following story very much. I was in Mumbai for the launch of HT's edition there in July 2005. While I was there, Mumbai was inundated by heavy rains in what is now famous as 26/7. A day later a major fire destroyed ONGC's production platform at Bombay High, leaving 11 dead. On the morning of July 29 that year I left a Mumbai still inundated by salty tears to return to Kolkata. Just as I settled on my seat and started reading the newspaper from the seat pocket in front of me, my co-passenger arrived. He looked like he had just walked out of a jail or a hospital, making me feel a bit uncomfortable. Nevertheless, I ignored his outwardly appearance and continued reading the newspaper. Suddenly, he grabbed the paper from my hand, almost preparing me for a fight. But before I could protest, he pointed to the picture of Bombay High on Page 1 and told me, almost incohorently, "I was there, I was there when it burnt down..." As the aircraft taxied to take off, I fastened my seat belt and settled down to hear his ordeal. By the time I landed in Kolkata and reached my office I had the following story with me. Though it was published in HT's Kolkata edition of July 30, 2005 and again in the Mumbai edition some time later, the editions have not been archived yet, so it is not available online.

Escape from Bombay High

Tareq Zahir

When Anil Kumar, assistant executive engineer (productions) ONGC, was floating in the Arabian Sea for almost six hours — before being rescued by a boat — he remembered the day he was posted at Bombay High North (BHN).
He and his colleague were asked which area they wanted to work in — BHN or Water Injection North (WIN)? Both opted for BHN, saying their training would be wasted at WIN.
That was when his senior asked them their weights. Kumar weighed 64, his colleague 63. Though that is no official criterion for selection, Kumar being the heavier of the two was sent to BHN.
Not that he really regrets it, but it did cross his mind while afloat and hoping to live — for his 2 month-old daughter among other people and things — that if his weight had been a kilogram less it would have been his colleague who would have had to face the ordeal.
Even now he does not feel he should have opted for WIN. The trauma of the past two days still haunts him but he knows he has to return to BHN, at least to depose for the inquiry into the fire.
He must now be on his way to Dhanbad, by train, after arriving in Kolkata by a Jet Airways flight on Friday morning. It is home he wants to think of, but images of the burning platform, colleagues getting devoured by the engulfing flames, of barely managing to stay afloat, keep coming back.
Kumar, who does night shifts at BHM (8pm to 8 am), was asleep when Samudra Rakshak collided with the platform (which he insists is platform and not 'rig' as is being reported). To his trained mind and body, the tremors were a sign that something was wrong. From his fourth floor base he looked downwards and heard what was the unmistakable sound of gas hissing out of the pipeline. The smell only confirmed his worst fears.
He returned to his room for an instant, and it was then that he heard the gas catching fire.
From his platform he rushed to the platform on the east. He realised he had forgotten to get his lifejacket, but it was too late to return to his platform which was already engulfed in flames.
A.T. Dohore, a rush-about (R/A), who returned to his room to get his necessary medicines, returned half-burnt and never really made it.
Kumar kept going east, from one platform to another, until he decided he had to choose between the devil and the sea.
He climbed down a ladder and jumped into the sea. There were many others who, too, jumped.
Some like superintending engineer in charge of maintenance, S. Pradeep, were, at first, reluctant to jump. Ironically, though he did take the plunge in the end, Pradeep died within minutes of being saved by rescue officials.
Most of those who jumped into the sea went for lifeboats. Once they found one they formed groups and climbed on.
Kumar, however, drifted apart from the others. The strong waves took him away and it was only a blessing in disguise, he thought. For the water had become all oily and he feared the fire from the station would spread to the water.
Half an hour later he came across an upturned lifeboat. He and five others climbed onto it and were there for some time. An hour later, however, it too sank, and the group got separated again. A wooden plank and then one more arrived like a godsend before Kumar.
Around 7 pm, he saw a boat that was carrying out search operations. It threw a rope at him, but the boat was about 300 metres away and the thin rope cut into his hands. Unable to grip the lifesaver, he let it go.
For the next three hours the wooden plank was his only solace. He tried to keep his ears above water, fearing he would go deaf if water entered it. But after some time he realised the effort was too tiring, and he wanted to save his stamina till daybreak.
He saw many a boat. But they were either too far away, or did not notice him. He also feared he would freeze like Leonardo di Caprio in 'Titanic'. The salty waters were making it difficult for him to keep his eyes open. A year ago a senior at ONGC, who had survived a copter crash, had told him that it is easy, if one tries, to stay afloat. That only sounded reassuring.
At about 10 pm, there was another speedboat, the MAL 16. It had a powerful searchlight but it was not focussed on him. A less powerful searchlight to its side was, however, searching in his direction.
Every time Kumar raised his hand to wave at a boat he would start sinking. He was not sure if he should wave at this one. Reluctantly, he tried one more time.
Immediately, the boat focussed its powerful searchlight on him and moved closer. People on the speedboat beckoned him to come closer, but he didn't know how to swim, and he couldn't have done it anyway, holding on to the plank as he was.
Soon they threw a lifebuoy and asked him to leave the plank. The moment he left the plank, there was a huge wave and he feared he would drown. He tightened his grip to a rope they had thrown at him. They downed a ladder and asked him to climb onto it. He had no strength left to climb it, but they insisted that he must do it.
When he showed his inability, they sent a rope with a loop. His instincts told him he had to tighten it around his waist. Soon, he was being pulled aboard.
The first thing he did on being saved was touch the feet of the man who pulled him aboard.
He thought he was the only person saved but there were a few others on board.
The boat continued rescue operations till early the next morning before proceeding for Mumbai, which it reached at 4 pm on Thursday, exactly 24 hours after his nightmare began.
He learnt that his family had been told that he was safe at 8 pm itself, when actually he had been saved at 10 pm. Possibly because he has a namesake in ONGC. He feared his family would not be convinced, as they too were aware that he had a namesake at ONGC. But, it was no time to worry. It was time to look on.
In those 24 hours he had died a thousand times. But, he believes, it was his willingness to live that made him survive.

This Ain't A Love Song

Someday I shall forget
That which I wont to love
And I did come to loathe
When it had come to pass

A mirage it was to me
A dream of myriad colours
And I did run a while
Before I had my fall

And thus did I awake
Aware of what some spake
T'was not the one of love
Music to my ears

And for years to come
I shall nurse thee heart
Sufferings to it known
Are but my very own

Dreams

It is just a dream now
That I shall fulfil somehow
Should you ask me, how?
To think, I do wring my brow

Time has for me stood still
Is what I used to think until
I had to foot, so large a bill
The price you pay, when time you kill

Aware I am now of late
Conscious now of my fate
Surrounded by so much to hate
I cannot any more wait

Strive I shall for my goal
For I have to play a role
A kind suited to me whole
My happiness shall then be whole

Why am I writing about cricket?

Those who know me well should wonder why I am writing about cricket. Because I have never fully understood the game. I grew up in a part of Africa where everybody played football. So when I returned to India, I used to think cricket was like football. I thought the wickets were like goal posts. One side tries to break the other side's wicket. Sacrilege for an Indian to think so. But when it was explained to me it did not trigger any interest in me.
And all my cousins were mad about the game. So I hated it even more. They played cricket, which I was just no good at. And one-day matches were a torture. All my cousins would be glued to the screen, and I had nobody to play with. And I could not enjoy the match on TV either.
But the torture got worse with time. When somebody remarked that all Muslims are Pakistani supporters. I knew some where, and I hated it. But I thought that only those Indian Muslims who support Pakistan were hated. It took me some time to realise that because of those some or many Indian Muslims who support Pakistan in cricket, every Indian Muslim gets hated. So when people said that I am a Muslim and must be a Pakistani supporter, I was deeply hurt and felt insulted.
But I don't blame them anymore. After seeing the ugly side of Muslims, I believe the Chaddiwalas (pink or saffron) are saints when compared to the Taliban.
Today I understand better. But in those days it was not easy. I continued to criticise Pakistan, first because I never liked a nation created for 'Muslims'. Second, because I thought I must be vocal to stop being clubbed with pro-Pakistani Muslims. Initially, I felt ashamed that Indian Muslims were pro-Pakistani. So, I criticised Pakistan wherever I got a chance. More so, if I met Muslims who seemed pro-Pakistani.
But, I soon realised that most people considered me pro-Pakistani, just because I was a Muslim. Some were considerate enough to say, 'You are different, but most Muslims are desh-drohis (anti-nationals)'. Though it should have sounded like a consolation, it hurt. I mean for Indian Muslims to support Pakistan in cricket is definitely wrong and condemnable, but does it really make them anti-national? There are reasons why I disagree.
If all Indian Muslims who have supported Pakistan in cricket were really desh-drohis, the country would have broken apart by now. It is a childish, stupid and illiterate thing -- being Indian and supporting Pakistan -- and thankfully we don't hear about it nowadays.
I even know of Muslim friends who were India supporters but suddenly started supporting Pakistan. I was shocked. They told me they were doing so because they were tired of being called Pakistani supporters and had decided to actually support it.
These and other experiences made me decide that I would rather die doing something for India than start supporting Pakistan because of such aspersions. Nothing like that happened. Like in jingoistic movies, I wanted something to happen where it looked clear that I had died for the country. So that all those who doubted my loyalty could shut up.
I would discuss these things with my father. He shared his own cricket torture with me. He and his colleague had been at work, oblivious to the results of an India-Pakistan cricket match one day. They were driving back home and wondering what the outcome was. Just when they passed Park Circus (a Muslim locality in Kolkata) they saw loud fireworks. My father's colleague remarked, "Pakistan has won the match". My father felt ashamed. On returning home he realised that it was India which had won the match.
He told me that I have to learn to accept that because of the behaviour and attitude of some Muslims there will always be some hatred that one has to put up with. So I blamed it on my fate. At being born a Muslim.
Then, one day. It was 1997. 50th year of our Independence. I was then doing a course at NIIT. On August 15th, we had a party. We were all playing with Paintbox on the computer. I was drawing a flag, the tricolour. A classmate came and saw and remarked. "You need to do these things, right? Otherwise people will think you are a Pakistani supporter."
Something within me died. It confirmed once and for all, that whatever I do, my loyalty to India will always be suspect. That sentence still rings in my ears, like a slap in Bollywood movies.
It changed me altogether. It made me conscious. Everytime, there was a cricket match on, if I was not at home I felt awkward. If India batted well, I was careful not to rejoice, lest someone make the same kind of remark. I made no expression, whether India won or lost. I just hated India-Pakistan matches. I started feeling that everybody was looking at me after every ball to see my reaction. Though it was not the case, I started imagining it was happening. Like I had my loyalty test to clear everytime India played Pakistan. It was torture. Because I did not feel comfortable doing anything. I could not be myself. Whether I smiled or frowned it seemed to mean the same thing. I used to freeze during such matches and try and stay as far away from the TV as possible. I used to fear that even my indifference would mean something.
Even today when I think of those days, I shudder. But thankfully, I think, we have moved on. I don't watch cricket. It does not affect my life or stop me from going about my other plans. And yet, I am not sure why I felt like crying when Sachin hit 200 and as a former colleague from a newspaper put it, hit 'Mamata's budget for a six'.
Maybe I have overcome that phase. Or maybe I was too happy inside and could not hold back.

Three Accidents

Kolkata 2004
I’m sure those mall trolleys will soon have horns. Like cars on our crowded streets, these trolleys just don't budge. Nobody keeps to the left or bothers if he/she is blocking somebody's path. Forget trolleys, even pedestrians could do with horns these days. Imagine trying to rush to work through a narrow lane. You will encounter people walking hand-in-hand at a leisurely pace, while you hunt for an opening from where to overtake. Maybe it would help if you could honk. Until the authorities come up with that, I thought the next best thing to do would be speeding. So, whenever I saw a crowded path ahead, I simply ran. Big feet landing with a thud, announcing my hurry, seemed to help. Or, I hummed loudly while brushing through people. That made overtaking people easier. So long as people coming from the front kept to their left it was smooth sailing. Then, one day, as I was speeding through, believing my truck-like demeanour would show me the way, I hit someone hard. There was no crash, but bone hit bone and rebounded. I looked up to see who the victim was. An old frail man in a dhoti kurta, he could easily have been my family patriarch. I could not meet his eyes. I looked downcast, ashamed. With great effort I finally tried to meet his eye. All he said was, “Bete, tumhe choth to nahi ayee? (Son, hope you didn’t get hurt!)”

Cuttack 2008
My father is riding a scooter. It has ferried our family for 25 years now, but like many other mementos it stays with us. When I first joined work, I rode to my workplace on it. I am in Mumbai and my father, now retired, still rides it sometimes, in Cuttack. One day, he is returning after visiting a friend. At a crossing, he waits for some speeding youth to overtake him. But the two bike-borne youths still come and hit his scooter from behind. Luckily nothing happens. Until then. “Old man, you should not drink. And if you do, you should drink at home. For, you are an old man and can die. But we are the youth. We should not die.”

Mumbai 2009
Should I buy bread to have with eggs, or milk to have with cornflakes, I debate on my way back from the gym. Just as I am approaching my place, a car stops short of hitting me in front of a neighbouring society’s gate. I want to tell him that he might as well “run me over”. He lowers the window and, “@#$%@#$%@#$%.” I try once again, but he cuts me with more “@#$%”. I give up, “you are a battameez insaan (uncivilised man).”
“Come, I will teach you tameez (civilized behaviour), you @#$%^%.” He steps on the accelerator, the car runs over my foot. Thank god for small mercies, light cars and sports shoes. But this time I yell, “you @#$%^&.”
He comes out of his car, asks the watchman to get a danda (stick). They both go looking for one. I should use this time to flee. I don’t. When he comes back, I tell him we should go to the police station and settle this. But he grabs me by my shirt and tries to shove me into his car. “Yes, let us do that. Get into the car, chal, sit there,” he tells me. I am like, “Don’t touch me.” And then, “…..”
I next see my two-year-old son standing beside me, telling me something (Remember Meena Kumari in the last scene in Mere Apne?). I wonder how my son came to be there when he was away in Kolkata at that time.
Next moment I am lying on the road, blood oozing from my mouth, my cellphone clutched in one hand. My tormentor and his car have left. I ask the watchman the car’s number. He tells me, sotto voce, ‘Go away from here’.

At the cinema

Ever since my wife and toddler son joined me in Mumbai, we had stopped watching movies on the big screen. Denied the luxury called undisturbed sleep at home, thanks to our bundle of joy’s uninterrupted wailing, we dared not venture into a multiplex and look back at it as our hall of shame. We would just rent or buy a VCD and wait for our son to go to sleep. But by the time we could coax him into dreams we would be yawning ourselves. So we dropped the idea of watching a movie altogether.
We would look back at the last time we had been to a hall together in Kolkata, or when I had been to one in Mumbai alone. Otherwise, it made little difference to us whether it was ‘A Wednesday’, Thursday (Ghajini) or Friday. It looked like we had already seen our last show, at least for the time being.
A visit to the movies section of Landmark or Crossword meant looking nostalgically at a combo collection of Ray movies, or with regret at the new offering of movies from West Asia courtesy NDTV Lumiere.
And we comforted ourselves by reading the reviews or hearing friends speak about the movies they had seen. SMS jokes giving out the secret of a must-watch suspense thriller had little impact on us. Until, one Saturday (my off day).
Though we had stopped going to the movies, we did what we thought was the next best thing. We would go and sit inside a multiplex complex close to our home. It was the ideal setting to look back at how much fun it was to sit outside the government-owned Nandan cinema complex in Kolkata. People do not go there to just watch movies. There’s always a theatre festival going on in the open inside the complex. Or there’s a fountain beside which lovers just sit and watch and are watched. There are stalls doing brisk business selling coffee, tea and other edibles. Some went there only to see then chief minister Buddhadeb Bhattacharjee arriving to translate Gabriel García Márquez into Bengali.
The multiplex near our place did not offer any of these Nandan-esque possibilities, but images of Nandan moved before our eyes, nevertheless, as we sat in front of a fountain and stared into the nothingness.
So lost were we in our thoughts, we never realised when our son had crawled all the way to the entrance of the hall. We saw a couple and their son looking askance, seeking out the careless parents. I waved at them and rushed to relieve them the responsibility of babysitting as they proceeded to watch a movie.
On coming close, the man smiled at me and asked if I was planning to watch a movie. I said ‘No,’ not letting him know what it meant to us. He then went on to say that he had bought some extra tickets as he wanted to watch the movie and they would not screen it until at least a certain number of tickets were sold. Seeing my reluctance he added that he would give me the tickets for free. I decided I would buy the tickets from him.
I told him I would need to ask my wife. By the time I talked to my wife, still near the fountain, and went back, he had found some other takers and was left with just one ticket, which he graciously gave to me, drowning all my pleas to buy the ticket. With the ticket in hand, I proceeded to buy one more for my wife, while she hurried home to collect milk bottles and extra diapers. We were not expecting to be in there till even the interval, though. We just wanted to go in long enough to watch the curtain rise, the lights go off, and the light from the projector hit the screen, just to get a feel of some of the things we were missing. And make a respectable exit, before our son started wailing.
But surprise of surprises, our son stood and watched the whole movie, from between two seats. He cried only when we tried to make him sit, as he was too short to watch the screen while seated.
Movies have cast their magic in our lives once more, and we now have someone who is, as they say, catching them young.