Midnight is the time to reflect on the day. To feel what should have been felt in real time, but the excessively busy day would not permit. Any side I turn around, there are people. Loads of them.
I have walked like twenty-five thousand steps in one day and give or take, but mostly take, a couple of thousand on other, until I am not longer directing my legs but, instead, they are dragging me. Paralysis of all kinds, emotional, mental and physical, is à la mode lately.
Tiring but enlivening.
I see people, animals, birds, vehicles, concrete tower blocks. Stray or domesticated or wild. They are aplenty. More than necessary. In many cases, they are not there to provide comfort, but to teach to be without any company.
Life is such a waste for some. So much time. Such a long life to be alone. There are so many people, and yet so much loneliness. All that noise but not enough to pierce their silence.
Why can’t anyone see what I see?
Immunity? Selfishness? Busyness?
Busy with what? Self-serving agendas?
How are people who only think about their own welfare come to be known as the ‘kind people’, while those who like to make some noise come to be known as the nasty ones?
Isn’t it the easiest thing in the world do? To stick to one’s own selfish agendas, save every dime for one’s own self, to hell with the rest of the world as long as our own house is warm?
Charity? What charity?
How easy it is to be the kind one! Praises from all sides. Ready to be canonised.
I don’t want hassle-free. I want noise. I create noise. Because I think. I find time to think. I make noise for everything that is not right, not to attract attention to my deeds. I want answers because I ask questions.
I am not selling my soul.
How can people eat their meals in peace when there are people out there starving? How can some splurge when there is not enough for some to buy a packet of bread? How can they pay no heed to people dying avoidable deaths, not of overindulgence? How can they think only about themselves?
Since when have opportunism, greed, selfishness become virtuous traits?
These people are lonley. They are hungry, sad, ill, poor, hopeless, aimless. Deprived of everything. Stripped of dignity.
So many people near them. Not one for them. I can sit here forever with them. Watch their every move. What makes them tick? What motivates them to wake up every morning for the daily drudgery?
Pilani will always be my home. I have lived much less in Pilani than in any other town out of all the towns I have lived in. But I was born only in Pilani. That explains the special attachment. Same for my dad. He is a Pilaniwala at heart despite fleeing from the place in his early teens, following in his father, my grandfather’s footsteps.
The seaside city of dreams – a cornucopia of night life, bright lights, beaches, film studios, artists, film stars, clubs, restaurants, cafes, dance bars, five-star hotels, high rise, chawls and slums. A metropolis with deep pockets and abject poverty in equal measure.
My dad ‘took’ the train from Chirawa. There was no train ticket for a penniless boy. So, he leapt on the buffers between two bogies and rode sitting on it for part of the long journey. At Sawai Madhopur, where the train stopped briefly, he got off to stretch himself. A lassi seller asked him to mind his stall while he fetched some ice from a nearby shop. My dad, in that time, stirred himself a lassi glass and gulped it down before the man returned. Extreme times, extreme measures. Back on the Frontier Mail, this time hanging outside the door, persevering the exhaustion, drowsiness, hunger, soot and chill, gripping firmly on the handle bars, he forced his eyes open for he knew that to succumb was to die.
My grandfather had already made Bombay his home since the 1920s. He worked in the city but the salary could not be stretched as far as shifting the whole family there. So, he would come to Pilani during Diwali or Holi, bringing with him urban gifts and tales. My dad was crazy about Bombay and wanted to be there by hook or by crook. That’s exactly what he did. Hooked to the train, ticketless.
South Bombay, by then, was a home to several wealthy Rajasthanis from and around Pilani. Clever businessmen they were. They were mostly the baniyas, the traditionally enterprising and occupational community. Birlas being the richest in India and to remain so for the rest of the 20th century. My grandfather, being a brahmin, didn’t know the ‘b’ of business but had a penchant for reading, singing, telling jokes, folktales, fat-bottomed girls, and faking astrology. He found employment at the Birlas – the brotherhood and all, but was ‘the panditji’ on demand.
Alighting from the train at Bombay Central, my dad walked 3 or 4 km to CP Tank which was actually a water tank but the area it was in had come to be known as that too. There, he somehow found his way to Bahman Bari (home of the brahmins) where my grandfather lodged with other brahmins from Pilani and nearby towns. My dad was only allowed to remain there for a day or two before he was sent back home, this time with a ticket.
But, he attempted again. And again. Against my grandma’s wish. She is believed to have told him, ” You keep running away from Pilani, but a day will come when you will pine for it.” Which, decades later, as dad narrated the story to us, was the case.
My grandfather gave up in the end and my dad stuck around in Bombay to try his luck in films. He had the right looks but very little patience. My grandpa got him admitted to Filmistan (Studios). I somehow never thought that my dad was cut out for acting. But he did do a film or two. At the age of 16 or 17, he featured in Angan, (released 1959), with the very famous Rehman, Street Singer (1966) with Chandrashekhar, and a few more. He could not persevere for better roles, so he much later (when *I* was in my teens) got into film production. He co-produced with my mum a film titled Ek Naya Itihas (released 1984) that featured some fine actors like Hema Malini, Vinod Mehra, Reza Murad and Om Shiv Puri, and one attempted film with Rajesh Khanna, Neetu Singh (now Kapoor) and Anil Dhawan that never reached far due to lack of funds. My dad never entered films, in essence, but never left films either, frequenting Churchgate’s Gaylord and other venues where the filmi lot hung out together for the free flowing booze and the pretty pretty girls.
Opposite the Bahman Bari was also my mum’s residence. My nanaji had bought that place soon after the partition when they arrived there from Karachi. The balconies of my mum’s home and dad’s flat faced each other. It does not require a great deal of imagination to understand how they must have met. My mother was a comely, gentle, homely and industrious girl. My dad knew instantly she was the one for him.
My grandma died very young leaving the burden of one younger son and three very young daughters on mostly my dad as my grandfather was going to retire to come back home few months too late.
My dad called his brother to the city, and a year later married my mum.
The ‘hook or by crook’ attitude was now directed at making a success of the monetary kind. My mum became a mum to my aunts, his sisters, and spent some time in Pilani, a big move for a girl brought-up in Bombay of the time. That’s when I was born. We spent time shuttling between Bombay and Pilani as my dad was still trying to find his feet and could not afford a bigger apartment in Bombay until later, for the whole family, aunts and grandpa included. But they would visit from time to time. My sister, Sheetal (fondly called Bubbles) was born in Bombay. Somewhere in between came Ahmedabad and his alliance with Sanjay Gandhi who made him join the Youth Congress. He entered politics but devoted his time in supporting certain agendas than diving into it full-time. Same as with films, he remained on the fringe of politics, but never left it either. I believed he was not shrewd enough for politics despite having friends in the field. My brother, the youngest of us three, was born in Ahmedabad. Three of us, three different cities, three different seasons – summer, monsoon and winter.
Before long, dad was re-catapulted to Bombay. He started business ventures, but he too didn’t know the ‘b’ of business since he didn’t know the ‘a’ of account-keeping. A flamboyantly social guy, my dad, enjoyed having people over for dinners and drinks once he was financially comfortable.
He never forgot his real home though, Pilani. He found, and sometimes created, reasons to assemble all his siblings and their families at the family home. Pujas, havans, shraads, grandfather’s wish, and then my marriage, whatever it took to call them over. He craved to return home from time to time. He forever contracted builders at Pilani home to keep the home ‘open’ as that meant returning often to check on them.
It must be where one is born that one remains strongly attached to. Pilani calls me in the same way, or maybe a little less, as it does my dad, and yet I lived there much less than in any other town out of all the towns I have lived in. Also because it is my father’s home. I miss Bombay too. Some of the best years of my life were spent there. It is my mother’s first home. She grew up there. A city where my parents met. It is where their dreams came true.
A city of dreams, still, for many aspirants who must be at this very moment clinging onto the buffers of the trains en route to Bombay, nka Mumbai.