CARTOONS IN PARLIAMENT

SAME OLD NEW DELHI: With the healthy debate in both Houses regarding the seditious Nehru-Ambedkar cartoon threatening to settle into worrisome introspection, this intrepid reporter interviewed several important politicians.

Caught curling her eyelashes on the steps of Parliament House, newly elected Rajya Sabha MP Rekha had to be persuaded that yet another rendition of ‘Yeh kya jagah hai doston’, would not qualify as an answer. Rahul Gandhi bravely stepped up to announce that he was on way to board his umpteenth helicopter to Vidarbha, where he intends to interrogate local farmers about their take on this crucial issue.

Former Free Press Journal cartoonist and protector of free speech Balasaheb Thackeray stated, “Everybody is agreeing with each other so I am disagreeing with them.” His beloved nephew Raj politely informed us that all cartoonists would be dealt with, ‘Sena-style’. He did not specify which Sena. Political wags commented that it doesn’t matter.

CM of the expensively renamed debt-stricken state of Paschimbanga Mamata Banerjee felt the Centre was simply copying her stance in dealing with cartoons. CPI(M) General Secretary Prakash Karat enviously said, “What the Left could not enforce in over thirty years of uninterrupted rule, Mamata has enforced in less than a year – totalitarianism.”

Regarding her caricature, former Tamilian actress Jayalalitha complained, “The camera used to add ten pounds to how I look, why do cartoonists do the same?” BSP supremo Mayawati offered, “I think my figure-hugging dresses make me appear slim.” BJP President Nitin Gadkari heartily agreed, adding that the press had neglected to portray him in his post-bariatric surgery thinner avatar.

US Secretary of State Hillary Clinton said this in a media statement: ‘The recent developments in the local and national socio-political affairs of India will have an overall impact on the democratic commitment of the entire South-East Asian Region blah blah… and the United States will continue to bomb Pakistan to defend the same’.  Or something to that effect, we can’t be sure.

Anna Hazare announced that he would fast until someone mentioned him in print again, in comic strips or otherwise.

Baba Ramdev advised everyone to take a deep breath and chill.

When we questioned a child, who studies from the booklet the Maharashtra Board likes to call its history textbook, about contemporary Indian history, he said – “India became independent. Then whole world was black-and-white, like in those old song videos my parents watch on TV. Then I was born! Then – excuse me I have to go watch IPL.”

Rumours circulating in South Block point towards ninety-year-old cartoonist R K Laxman being declared Public Enemy Number One.

Meanwhile, when questioned about the shortage of storage facilities for a bumper harvest, Minister of Agriculture, Food and Public Distribution Mr. Sharad Pawar, opined that someone should do something about it.

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PHONED MEMORIES

This is not a rant against cell phones. It is a recounting of the simple pleasures that they cannot give.

Back in the 50’s, my grandmother worked at the switchboard in Bombay Telephones. A famous someone wished to place a call from Kolhapur to Bombay. The operators refused to make the connection, until the caller acceded to their request.

The caller was a young Lata Mangeshkar, and they made her sing for them.

My grandparents still own an ancient instrument, complete with dial. It takes a minute to place a call, index finger rotating the glass disc to the right digit, waiting, then dialling the next one. A series of clicks brings you closer to the right connection.

By the time you hear a voice, you’re bursting with anticipation.

It comes from a time when phone numbers were permanent, and you had fifty of them (literally) at your fingertips. No one lost touch, or panicked when a contact list was lost.

Those were also the days of telephone etiquette. One did not make calls between lunchtime and four, and after ten at night. Slumbers were never disturbed. A call past midnight was terrifying; someone was dying, or dead.

In those pre-caller ID days, every call would be answered with a gently inquisitive “Hello?” When you made calls, you’d begin with a polite ‘Hello, this is one-and-one, so-and-so’s so-and-so; may I speak with so-and-so please?” And you’d be asked to hold.

This, of course, was before we began initiating conversations with “Waatsaaaaaaap?!!!”

When meetings were arranged telephonically, everyone would show up on time. If not, you’d find the nearest PCO and call the expected person’s landline, counting seconds on the LED screen, till it was time for the next rupee. And oh the happiness of unexpectedly finding that person in a crowd!

With one instrument and several members in each house, you’d often exchange pleasantries with everyone in your friend’s family before speaking with your friend. If yours was a family of three and your cousin’s of four, exchanging festive wishes necessitated twelve individual conversations. And if that call was STD, you’d have to yell loud enough to wish your neighbours, just to make yourself heard.

Privacy, of course, was unheard of. Sensitive calls were made, and prayed for, only when no else was at home. If you stared at the landline hard enough, it would ring. You’d snatch the receiver off the hook, manage to entangle yourself in the cord, and send the instrument crashing to the floor. Then you’d find yourself a comfortable corner, cradle the receiver between ear and shoulder, and talk. For hours. Or until the bell rang.

Then (Praise the Lord!) came cordless phones. You’d sneak it under the blankets at night, and have to explain to your parents next morning just why it was completely discharged. And if you suddenly heard some hushed disturbance, you knew someone had picked up the extension, and it was time to talk about the weather.

I miss those days.

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WHAT A WONDERFUL WORLD

Run to King’s Circle. Train to CST. Cab to Gateway. Ferry to Mandwa. Bus to Alibaug. Tum-tum to Cheool village. Postcard sunset. Twenty friends. The weekend ahead.

Pretty old cottage. Wooden balcony. Swing on porch. Blue shutters. Hidden by trees. In the middle of nowhere. A retreat.

Chairs by poolside. Soft yellow lighting. Soul-stirring music. Good food. Few plates. Sharing.

Stuffed. Hammock. Swaying. Breeze. Bliss.

Eyelids drooping. Heads dropping. Streeeeeetch. Time to…what’s that? Really? Conversation. Laughter. Interrogation. A secret unfolds. And another.

Morning.

Maggi for breakfast. Maggi for lunch. Maggi langar. Egg butter salt. Amateur cooks. Omelette. Yum.

Jump in pool. Pool small. Some people big. Law of displacement. Who cares? Water fight!

Volleyball. Stunts. Dives. Scares. Photos. Photos. More photos.

Inflatable float. Lie on float. Pepsi in hand. Bask in sun. Close eyes. Dream. Open eyes. Coconut trees. White clouds. Blue sky. Wow.

Capris. Sunglasses. Chappals. Hat. Venture out. Village lanes. Charming homes. Fragrance of the earth. Not a leaf stirs. The world is green.

Beach is blue. Sand golden. High tide. Clear waters. Chappals in hand. Feet in foam. Walk.

Finding shells. Collecting them. Borrowing bikes. Cycling into the sunset.

Night sky clear. So many stars. Joining the dots. There’s Orion. And there’s…shooting star! Clench eyes shut. Make wish. Exhale.

Too many  people. Too few beds. So what? Lie down. Touch. Shoulders elbows knees.  Wiggle. No place to move. Don’t want to move. What too many people?

Think. Feel. Bond. Say. Do. Smile. Remember.

Life. As good as it gets.

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EAST OF EAST: A TRAVELOGUE

Photographs by Nihit Mhatre and Swayam Mohapatra

Mumbai’s Harbour Line is like Garfield’s Odie – Jumps up and down (between alternately elevated and ground-level stations), and is irrepressibly curious (as it meanders along its crazily tortuous route). North of Wadala are unremarkable suburbs; South of Masjid is well-trodden Bombay – one Sunday afternoon, we decided to explore what lies between.

What can the Monorail looming over desolate Sewri station transport? Flamingos exhausted by trying to find landing-space at the fast disappearing mudflats? I wonder.

It would perhaps serve better, ferrying oil-laden wagons instead. Sewri’s answer to Vasai’s saltpans, mammoth petroleum distilleries gleam in the three o’clock sun.

On a condemned foot-overbridge, we try persuading two brown-haired urchins to let us photograph them.

They refuse.

Nadeem, Nishaan and Aadib are more enthusiastic.

Enthusiastic enough to volunteer themselves as our guides. Walking with them, we spot an abandoned Bombay Port Trust building being hammered to the earth.

Few people actually live here. The windows of these ghost apartments are picturesquely broken.

With a toothy grin, Nadeem pipes up – ‘Hum log ne hi todey sab’.

Now reduced to witnessing ‘bat-ball’ matches, Sewri fort offers a breathtaking, mangrove-lined view of the sea.

It also showcases some daredevil stunts.

We add Nadeem as a Facebook friend, and depart to the drone of the 4.45 azaan. Meanwhile, our three new friends are plotting to kill a man dead.

This building has the most easily memorisable address ever – Cotton Association of India, Cotton Exchange Building, opposite Cotton Green station, Cotton Green.

The world seems to have forgotten everything else about the place.

Hulking masses of industries in the distance show no signs of activity. A sun-bleached wall is all that remains of what was probably a godown once.

The Bombay Fire Salvage Corps (established 1907) building is faded and forgotten – where’s the fire?

Driverless trucks laden with rusting metal are parked everywhere. Through a tiny window, I enter a derelict factory reminiscent of Kaagaz Ke Phool’s legendary studio shots – dust-sheeted floors, sunlight streaming in through ceiling shutters, and the air thick with pigeon feathers.

Cotton Green is centrally located and has acres of land available for development. I wonder what keeps the realty sharks away.

As we walk to Reay Road, the sun begins to set.

We clamber onto a side platform laden with hundreds of sacks of JK Lakshmi cement. The track alongside appears disused. What will they help build? Who will pick them up? When?

From Dockyard Road, we walk to the foot of the imposing yellow arch of Mazagaon Docks Limited (Shipbuilders to the Nation). Photography is ominously prohibited. So we just hang around, and look.

At Sandhurst Road, we watch zooming Bombay traffic from a vantage point.

We are tired. So are some others.

We’ve seen these places before. But from train windows. There is so much left to explore. The hilltop garden next to Dockyard Road station. The Sandhurst Road shunting yard that excites train enthusiasts like me to delirium.

So we will be back. Some day.

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THE PATIENT’S WIFE

My husband is ill. I take him to hospital. The day is spent waiting. A day’s wages are lost. The medicines are expensive. How can I buy them all? But if I don’t, how will he recover? If he doesn’t, who will earn? If no-one does, how will I feed the children? And if they aren’t fed, won’t they fall ill?

Yes, I have backaches, joint pains and painful periods. So what? When did I become the problem?

She queues up for an OPD paper with a baby on her hip (and another on the way). A diminutive thing, she staggers under her husband’s weight as they trudge up the stairs to bees number. Whilst waiting for their two minutes with the doctor, she adjusts her pallu, as if she were in her marital home, not a hospital. When it’s their turn, she shuffles the incomprehensible case papers in her hands, and gives the doctor an ingratiating smile. Then elaborates on her husband’s symptoms and answers the doctor’s cursory questions, much better than her husband ever could. She is anxious as hell, but does not show it.

Spends an hour finding the Ophthal OPD to follow up on an ENT reference. Takes her husband to Nair for a hearing test that isn’t conducted in Sion. Until recently, also to KEM, because they were the only ones with an MRI machine.

A week later, she’s back. Before prescribing medicines, doctors ask her husband if he drinks. When he replies that he’s stopped (since this morning), she supports him with a good-humoured smile. Even if he beat her up last night.

She isn’t vengeful. Instead, she stifles her husband’s moans. Donates blood. Or a kidney.

She’s illiterate, but doctors ignore her husband, and explain his treatment regimen to her, like they do to the parents of a sick child. She becomes an expert on which medicines are available for free in the hospital pharmacy, and which she must scrounge to buy from outside. And she stares blankly as docs try to explain that the OTs are being renovated, and her husband cannot be operated upon until two months later. All right, she says, we’ll wait. Like there’s a choice.

When he’s admitted to the ward, she struggles to keep her family together. She fights a daily battle with (non-existent) security to meet her husband after (non-existent) visiting hours. She brings him home-cooked food. And begs the overworked resident to please take another look.

Ignored by residents as an ignoramus. Yelled at by nurses for getting in the way. Reduced to a fly on the wall as enthusiastic medical students poke and prod her husband’s stuporous form during a clinic.

When he dies, she collapses. Or wails along with the other women. Then pulls herself together. Neither fainting nor crying will provide tomorrow’s meal.

If fate is kind, she will watch over her husband patiently as he recovers. By the time he’s fit, she may just be a patient herself.

Think about her sometimes.

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