"Simply the thing that I am shall make me live" - Shakespeare ...

She walked into the prayer-hall meaningfully; the back stiff, holding her craning head firm, so that she could get a clear view of the hall. Seated on the floor were mortals of different colours and delineations; and she grudgingly worried if this is where she would be required to sit, as a ‘significant other’. Her scanning eyes did finally trace a not-so-crowded area; here she could snugly fit in with her largish Chanel tote, she thought. She raced towards her goal, and plonked herself definitively, keeping her fashionable tote cautiously right next to her. Still unsure, she acquainted her fidgety eyes to her surroundings – an elegant bangle here, or a refined silk there. The sparkling diamond ring on someone’s hand, or a smartphone gracing someone’s palm; minute cues, which gave her significant assurance, that she was after all surrounded by some who were distinctly in her league; though plenty in that hall, who still represented an unobtrusive category, just like the haggard lady and her teenage daughter, sitting behind her, draped in their diaphanous bright clothes.

The puja was yet to begin, and crowds were still milling into the prayer-hall, filling up the empty spaces like a game of musical-chairs in progress -- except that, the music which set the rhythm to this morning ambience was the lilting Suprabhaatam by M.S Subbulakshmi. Peace was evident on most faces; they tried to immerse themselves in the purity of the morning…with eyes closed. And then trudged along a pedestrian, a dusky lady, probably in her fifties, carrying a paltry bunch of four red-roses and a palm-sized pouch, a cheap velvet concoction in purple, it bore the name of the jeweller in white, which the lady gladly used as her purse. Having noticed the stylish tote from a distance, she made her way, to the area. She picked up the bright Chanel matter-of-factly, and sat down, then warmly handed over the pricey item to its owner next to her. Was it time for all hell to break loose – how could a petty pair of hands touch a Chanel, and one that has been kept so gingerly on the floor...the tote owner just failed to undertsand. Appalled, she firmly demanded an explanation as to why her pretty bag was removed. “Madam, your bag looks so expensive, you should be more careful about it and keep it close to you, lest it gets stolen!” replied the lady prosaically. Least expecting that unadorned answer, the tote owner bellowed angrily, “it’s heavy; I can’t keep it on my lap, for the entire ceremony.” “Madam you have come here to be part of a puja ceremony, to unload yourself of your worries…why have you brought along another headache?” came another unpretentious reaction from the very modest woman. Stunned at that plain-speaking from an ordinary woman, the over-bearing tote owner felt a sharp sting inside her heart that unsettled her to the core; and yet in that instant a realisation dawned inside her. Through the rest of the morning while the purifying Vedic chants rented the air, the tote owner spied glances at her humble neighbour, who was sitting there pleasantly, immersed in the prayers; while she argued the merits of her day’s experience inside her head – the effect of which was jolting, and its lesson taking time to percolate her being. Yet somewhere inside her that message had found roots, and it would only be a matter of time before she herself would espouse that very belief.

The theatre of life on Marine Drive

…And so, the waves rolled on; undulating and incessant, just like the city itself. Glitzy buildings, crowding vehicles and rows of palm trees behind me, I looked on ahead, at the horizon -- the sparkling necklace of street lights however, commanding my attention every now and then. The sky-high buildings, now lit up in their evening finery as it were, looked resplendent. The glamour and sheen, part of the city’s DNA, was unmistakable…for even a ‘chanawallah’ looked so presentable in his crisp-white pyjama and shirt, selling his wares on one of Mumbai’s most glamorous spots. Yet the promenade sees a convergence of people from all walks of life. A humble family of four, excited to see the smart residences and hotels; a tired taxi-driver taking a breather from his gruelling hours or a modish young woman briskly walking the path, wearing a fine pair of Adidas. It’s a mishmash of colour and contrasts on this breezy stretch -- somewhere a sexagenarian, dressed in an earthly silk sari, sat unperturbed by all the hullaballoo around, taking in everything with the quiet demeanour of one who has seen life in all its colours; while elsewhere sat a youngish couple, cheek-to-cheek basking in the aura of new love, sharing sweet nothings, and laughing heartily! Nearby, a middle-aged man, looked forlornly at the horizon, probably lost in the nothingness; ironical in the ‘city of dreams’ which envelops one and all, in its everyday grind…’Keep Walking’, I’m poignantly reminded by a very recognisable Johnnie Walker sticker on a car – I do just that, and find my own place of quiet, soaking in the theatre of life as it unfolded on the very busy Marine Drive!

The divine oyster in the heart of Mumbai

The last strain of the orange-yellow sun was gradually waning from Mumbai's glazed skyline, while teeming crowds were negotiating a busy traffic on a muggy May evening. Bright street lights permeated the bustling milieu -- for the rest of the evening they will show the way, to a city that quite-literally never sleeps. There is urgency; a rush everywhere i look, and a noise that is deafening almost. The cacophony of sounds wheeling in my head, i looked at the white structure at a distance, poised elegantly against the roaring sea waves, Zen-like in its appeal. In an instant my mind achieved a quietude that i was so long striving for. Simple, yet mesmerizing it charmed my senses -- the crowds, the sounds, and the clutter were now a thing of the past.
I walked on with my sights laid on the minaret of the Haji Ali Dargah -- the white edifice, like a divine oyster, seemed to say, "come hither, for here is peace". Beggars on the pavement called out for alms and a sprightly middle-aged lady egged visitors to purchase the sweet-scented white and orange flowers laid plainly on her outstreched hands. Dusk had set in by now and hundreds were quietly making their way into the holy shrine. As i neared the steps, the rustic strains of Qwawalli reached my ears -- the words incoherent to my untrained ears, yet its appeal (to the Lord) so profound and gripping.
Having offered my obeisance, i looked around; admiring this antiquated Islamic edifice - its serene marble courtyard, the intricately laid pillars and minarets, and the enticing mirror work...and with that time just flew by. Night, having now engulfed the sea, the occasional roars reminded us of its stark presence every now and then; i walked back to the clutter of Mumbai once again -- yet this time with a serenity of mind and spirit...i felt replenished!

What makes sexy?

The other day the very opinionated Shobha Dey wrote an interesting article on Mamta Banerjee where she described the CM in-waiting as not being sexy. In Shobha Dey's perceived notion, which has been shaped in the world of elitist Mumbai glamour and brazen display, surely the very frugal Miss Banerjee might seem unsexy. Mamta is not a stilettoed, wine-sipping dolled-up uber society-chick trying to make sense of the latest fashion trends, and neither does she belong to the traditional and sophisticated political class of foreign-educated people. Mamta is, what her party symbolises as pure grass-roots -- a woman who has risen from a very modest background. She has often been erratic, belligerent and disruptive in the past -- but she is talented, knowledgable, and a thinker in the true sense of the term. Her methods might have been illogical in the past, her mannerisms devoid of any sophistication and her English full of grammatic errors, yet she had depth, she could discern and she could speak, albeit in the language of the masses. So what makes sexy then -- an outward air of refinement and sophistication? -- Surely Not! Sexy is independence of spirit, sexy is the indomitable mind, sexy is the ability to stick on and make your point of view known, and sexy is humility. If Mamta is all this, then she is sexy...even with those hackneyed flip-flops and the humble begali-cotton saree!