On your mark, get set...Mumbai's always on the GO. Living in it is like running a race. The whistle blows. My bai wakes up at 4 in the morning. She sleeps at 1 AM. 'That's all?' I ask her incredulously.
There's the early morning race to just stand in queue, closest to the bathroom, mug in hand. Some of them do it in the open. No wonder trees grow so speedily here.
'Ye bade, bade makaan aane ke baad, hum theek se khuli hawa me baith bhi nahi sakhte', they complain. 'Watchman hume bhaga deta hai'.
The affluent take their dogs out for the same purpose. The rich and the poor thus bridge the gap. Hence walking on roads is a treat, what with the sight and smell.
And the sound? How can I forget?
Vehicles are in an eternal race for first place. My ears numbed now, I close the doors and windows. 'Zoom....zooom', sonny's video game. He's car racing. 'Can you lower that a bit? I ask.
Traffic is at standstill now. Racers must pause. So now begins the Thoo-thoo race. 'Thoo...thththooooo'...they must outdo each other in a spit second. The man on the bike does it. So does the one in the Mercedes. He leans out of the window..thooo...The man in the upper berth of the double decker bus peers out and lo! The man on the road below gets the quickest red dye on his whitest shirt.
The race for the train. Trains are packed with folk like sardines. They smell like them too. Getting into a local train is an amazing art. You just have to stand still in the crowd. The rush will take you in like a huge wave into the sea. Getting off is the same way too. What if one loses an arm or leg in the process? Mumbaiites don't really care. They are in a race. They must win. I'm afraid I haven't mastered it yet. I'd rather prefer to take the bus.
Or the rickety auto. 'Thoda fast chalao na', begs the college student. He's got an exam to give. 'Jaata hoon,jaata hoon,' the man in khaki replies, as he quickly winds his way around the longest route he can imagine. His meter races too. He glances at his rear view mirror from time to time. Adjusted at the right angle, to see the girl seated with the guy.
The Mumbai man's mind always races. He's always thinking. He cannot be still. He's got to make more money, buy a bigger car, a better house. His must be the best.
His heart races too. Misses a flutter,when this cute little thing crosses the road. The kitten. What did you think?
The Mumbai gal is running,running all the time. Either its after her cute boyfriend or her unfinished assignments. She's a thorough professional. No wasting time for her. Work, parlor visits, partying wee into the nights...her days go by in a whirr.
Pickpockets have a field day. Trains,buses packed to capacity send the adrenalin flowing in them. Some move around on bikes snatching gold from hapless women. There are schools for pickpockets to teach them the tricks of the trade. They may get worldwide acclaim too as the dabbawalas did some time ago.
Parks are full of oldies seated,standing in all odd positions. Yogic poses. Some form groups laughing away insanely. Laughter therapy. Hiding the smirk on their faces, brisk walkers pass them by. Sometimes an actor or actress blends in too. In their plainest avatar. The Mumbai man doesn't care for them. He has enough to care about already.
Endless queues, crazy trains, irksome weather..enough to get on their nerves. Brawls and fights happen then. Even in rich societies.
But Mumbai allows one to be himself. No hypocrisy about this city. 'We are what we are',is their funda.
This city provides perfect opportunity, total anonymity, camouflages one's misdeeds and even raises you to stardom.
Mumbai never sleeps.
