Bidding farewell to the double-decker bus!

Mumbai’s iconic double-decker buses will soon be history. The last one is about to be phased out for good.

Every city has its unique character. When you think of erstwhile Bombay, a dozen images flash instantly- the city that teaches you to dream big, the city that never sleeps, Bollywood, packed suburban trains and last but not the least, the red double-decker BEST bus.

The buses date back to the days of the Raj. It’s as if the British wanted to recreate a slice of London in Bombay. The yesteryear bird’s eye-view photograph of Flora Fountain, from one of the high-rises, with the double-decker buses crawling about like ants, is almost a replica of London’s Piccadilly Circus. Years later, on a visit to London, the double-deckers didn’t appear overly fancy. It was as if, you had already “been there and done that” in Bombay.

Double-decker buses are indelibly linked to childhood. For less than 25 paise, still termed “chaar aana”, you could travel from Sion to King’s Circle. A short walk took you to school. You retraced the same path in the evening. Only certain buses were double-deckers. You looked for them, even if it meant more wait time.

Bus number 9 was a top favorite. It started from Colaba, at the Southern tip of the city and snaked its way to “Antop Hill”. The moment it arrived, you immediately raced to the top tier. No self-respecting schoolboy sat on the bottom tier. With enthusiasm overflowing in those adolescent legs, you covered two steps at a time, through that tiny staircase, till you reached the top floor. And once on the top floor, you made a dash to the two front seats.

Unlike the other seats that had windows to the sides, the front seat was special. It had 2 windows, well, in front! It was like sitting on top of a fort- a vantage point, that gave you a panoramic vision, stretched like a cinemascope. “I am the monarch of all that I survey!” such was the feeling of empowerment. You didn’t have to do anything to bide your time. You simply observed- people and places, and kept yourself amused, till your destination.

The top floor did not permit standees. Perhaps, there was a worry, that the bus would be top heavy and turn turtle! That made the rides on the top deck, always a pleasant experience. For the bus conductors, it meant double-duty- they had to come up the stairs repeatedly to issue tickets.

Rains and Bombay went hand in hand. Every monsoon, the same areas got flooded. There was knee deep water, sometimes till the waist, with the rain pelting away, as though, there is no tomorrow. The double-decker was your resolute caretaker. You were certain, given its gigantic size, it could plough through the swirling flood waters, with ease.

From time to time, someone visited Bombay. You showed them around the city. The tourist spots were the usual tick-mark items- Gateway of India and Malabar Hills, Juhu Beach and Elephanta Caves. But you took special pride to show off one attraction that had "the Bombay stamp". It was a monument on the move, that no other city had- the red color double-decker bus!

As I reflect, it all comes back to the mind’s eye- The Number 9, the top deck, sitting on those green color seats, enroute to the inter-school match.  A cricket kit by the side with the handle of the bat jutting out. The destination- Azad Maidan.  And the heart, beating with one singular dream- to be the next Gavaskar!

Bombay is an acquired taste. It can be intimidating to the newcomer- seemingly populated with more automatons than real people.  “Aye dil hai mushkil, jeena yahaan, zara hatke, zara bachke, yeh hai Bombay meri jaan!” But a few rides on the red-bus and the city grows on you. Soon, it holds you in its warm embrace. The lyrics change, just like the next stanza in the song- “Aye dil, hai aasaan jeena yahaan, suno mister, suno bandhu, yeh hai bambai meri jaan!”

Bombay will never be the same again. “Double-decker, bus number 9! You beauty! You will be missed!”

 PS: Johny Walker in the film CID, 1956. Rafi and Geeta Dutt in that iconic song on Bombay!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OShZhbjDA98

What's in a name?

Recently, I got a call from the HR department, that my name was not matching with the other records they have. I had to furnish all the details- passport, Aadhar card, PAN card etc. I discovered there were minor differences between these documents. Either my name had a slight variation, or my father’s name, sometimes both.

This is not the first time that my name has led to issues. Almost the entire world works on the premise that everyone has 3 parts to the name- “first name”, “father’s name” and “surname”. It has to follow a pattern like “John F Kennedy (JFK)” and “Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar (SRT)”.

People from the southern part of India face a peculiar problem. We don’t have a surname. “What do you mean you don’t have a surname?” “Yes, I don’t have a surname sir. I have a name, that’s all!” “What about your father? Does he have a surname?” “My father also does not have a surname. He also has only a name!”  Thankfully, he didn’t go further up, in my ancestry, but the sense of bewilderment was apparent.

Across the globe, any form carries 3 separate spaces to be mandatorily filled. If it is an online form, it is a greater stick in the mud and will not allow you to proceed to the next line, until you have filled all items.

The root of the problem starts here and haunts you right through life. Depending on the mood of the day, I have tried different antics. In some, I repeated, “Shankar Shankar Shankar”. In some, I filled “Shankar Gopalkrishnan Gopalkrishnan”. Sometimes, I tried other combinations, “Gopalkrishnan Shankar Gopalkrishnan”. If I was particularly cranky, I tried initials- “Shankar G G” or “G Shankar G” or “G G Shankar”. I took advice from informed people. “See! We call them Gavaskar, Pataudi etc. because that’s their surname. If you want to be called Shankar, put that as your surname! With this sage advice, I have school certificates sequenced the opposite way- as “Gopalkrishnan Shankar”.

I have often toyed with the idea of “manufacturing” a surname. Some people use their profession- like Farokh Engineer or Bejan Daruwala. May be, I can be “computerkar”. Others use their native place as a surname. Musicians like Lalgudi and Semmangudi have place-oriented surnames. But what if you are born in a metropolis? It will look plain silly to be called “Bombay Shankar! “Hey Bombay! Come here!” Also, what should you do when Bombay is changed to Mumbai? What if the native place is a mouthful like Tirupaapuliyur or Tiruvidaimarudur? You would run out of ink or have no space on the form, leaving your name dangling midway- something like “Shankar Tirupaapu”!

Across the Atlantic, the surname is called “last name”.  At immigration, they often ask you, “Sir, what is your “last name”?” You wonder how you should answer- “Last name? I don’t recall who called me names...last. Hopefully he didn’t call me an idiot!” Jokes apart, they have a fourth category to the name in these places called “preferred name” or “chosen name”. It is a nickname. You wonder if you should write something like “Bunty” or “munna”- so that you would read Shankar “munna” Gopalkrishnan in full! It’s easy for the American. He writes “Jack” which is apparently a nickname for John- as simple as that!

Well before the children were born, we already had a surname fabricated and ready for them. We didn’t want them to go through this identity crisis. Their first names came much later. This created a fresh problem. At times, you need to prove that the children are related to you at the immigration desk. If they go by their own last names, and you do not have one, how do you prove you are one family?

Didn’t someone say, “What’s in a name? A rose by any other name, would smell as sweet”? Apparently, the gentleman who wrote this, followed this advice too. There are at least 6 different ways he signed his works- William Shakp, William Shaksper, Wm Shakspe, William Shakspere, Willm Shakspere and finally William Shakespeare.

If this bard had lived in today’s day and age, his works would have been dismissed as non-authentic. And even if he got past this hurdle, he would have got stuck at the immigration desk. “Guru! We don’t care if you are Shakespeare…ok aa?  Your passport-name does not match your 10th class school-certificate name ok aa? First, get 3 xerox copies of these documents signed, stamped, and endorsed by a gazetted officer…ok aa? Then, we will allow you. Ok aa?”

 

Airport send offs!

Sending someone off at the airport is never easy. There is a brooding sense of helplessness. It is as if you left the task midway, and without closure, abruptly returned home. Once the person enters the terminal gates, a Lakshman Rekha is drawn- you can go thus far, and no more. It is like a fortress- the draw-bridge is pulled up, the fort-gate is shut tight, and you are left outside, high and dry.

Contrast this with a send off at the railway station. It does not matter that your daughter is over 20 years old and can travel on her own. You get the parental kick that the decision making is still in your hands. At the railway station, you hail for the porter. You haggle over the price. You follow him to the correct carriage. You crosscheck that the name is mentioned in the reservation chart pasted outside.

You decide where the luggage should go- a couple below the seat, and one more on the opposite side, within eye-contact. You sit in the coupe till the train is about to move with repeat Stone-Age instructions, “Be careful- especially with the ticket, cellphone and money! And yes, don’t sleep with your head on the side of the window!”

You wait till the train leaves the station and the back of the last carriage recedes into the distance. The sense of satisfaction is immense and serves as a counterweight to the inevitable pangs of separation.

An airport, on the other hand, is an imposing and confusing place.  Multiple terminals, multiple airlines, domestic flights, international flights- you are overawed by the sheer magnitude. Unlike a railway station, where help is ready and handy, the airport relies entirely on self-help (barring special help for the old and the challenged). You are on your own- getting the luggage cart, lifting the suitcases and dragging the cart around. And battle with many an obstacle- checking in, security check, immigration, customs and what not.

Once a person walks through the terminal gates, it’s as if you are watching a movie. You can watch through the glass-walls, but you cannot change the plot. Parental anxiety takes over, scrutinizing every move. “Did she take back the passport after showing it to that security man? Why is she so distracted? You got to be 100% attentive!” You raise your voice here, as though your daughter can hear and respond, forgetting she is a good 150 meters away, behind the sound-proof, glass fortress.

“Why is she lugging the suitcase in that direction where there are no counters? Can’t she ask someone? For heaven sake, ask! Ask if you don’t know! Ask!” It is like back-seat driving- you unconsciously press the brake and accelerator, but the car continues to move on, with a mind of its own.

In the milling crowd inside the terminal, it’s easy to lose track. “Where did she go now? Where did she go? I just saw her!” Wife prods, “She’s standing next to that pillar, the third one from the front. Can you see?” You move around, to find a different vantage point with a better view, peering through the glass wall, this way and that, till a security guard restrains you, “Sir, you have to go back and stand! You are obstructing other people!”

In a train journey, you cozy up to co-passengers quickly. They become just like family. At airports and in airplanes, you find different people- a non-committal, apathetic, reserved bunch, that stays silent and aloof. May be, the setting does that to people. It is as though the “milk of human kindness” does not run through those veins at all!

The movie ends abruptly. Daughter walks off into the distance, takes the escalator and melts into the crowd. The suitcase-cart is not in hand. She must have checked in successfully, you infer. There is no point in waiting any more, though the flight takes off 3 hours later!

As we head home, we realize the futility to micro-manage and control every detail. We learn to worry less, and let-go more.  A greater cosmic power will protect, care, and shape the lives of everyone, including our children. We submit to that power- like a feather submits to the breeze and allows it to be carried to lands, new and exotic- hawaayein, hawaayein… ley jaayein tujhe kahaan….na mujhko khabar, na tujhko pataa…

Online behavioral study!

When it comes to quirky online behavior, we are all equally culpable. After all, we do in Rome as Romans do.

It all begins in the social media groups we are part of. There are more groups than we can handle: “when-we-were-in-kindergarten” group, “when-we-were-in-high-school” group, college group, past work-place groups, current work-place group, apartment-group, extended-family-group, immediate-family group and “your-college-going-child’s-parent” group. You never join any group. Someone adds you, and all of a sudden, you are swimming in it. You cannot exit a group. It will dent your social image.

The groups are many, but the behavior is the same. It is tough to generate content to keep these groups going. After the initial euphoria of enthusiastic exchanges wears off, there is dead silence. The lull is broken only when someone types, “Happy birthday Rajesh”. The group gets a new lease of life. Each one replies, “Happy birthday Rajesh”.  Rajesh replies, “Thank you!” and with a “smiley” emoji. The “smiley” emoji is met with a matching “smiley” rejoinder.  As each message appears, your cellphone beeps. Each time you check, you see one more “happy birthday”, one more “thank you” and two more smileys. This goes on for most part of the day and the next, until everyone has vented out, or thankfully, run out of steam.

At times, there is a twist to the tale. Rajesh responds, “It is not my birthday today!” Now, there are emoji responses- the-laughing-face-with tears-trickling-out emoji. For that emoji, we have reply-emojis and for the reply-emoji, we have reply-reply-emojis, that extends ad infinitum. Silence reigns once more, until the next happy-birthday exchange is triggered. And yes, this repeats in each group that you are a part of.

Sometimes, you join a live program virtually, with an audience spread across the globe. Well before the program starts, the chat-session is already hyper-active. Someone types “Hello from Sydney” with a bunch of emojis. This is responded with “Hi from Los Angeles”. There are more and more hellos- from London, from Paris, and from every blessed place. At least with the previous group, you knew the number of people. Here, there is no end in sight. The cynic in you toys with the idea- why not add some exotic Indian places? Afterall, we have no dearth of places, that too, with poly-syllabic names.  How about “Hello from Koliwada”, “Hello from Chunabhatti”, “Hello from Gangai-konda-chola-puram”, “Hello from Venkata-narasimha-raju-vari-petta”! Why not?

If it is religious program, each person makes it point to type “pranams” followed by a bunch of “namaste” emojis. The chat keeps scrolling, with more pranams and more namastes. Hopefully, someone is reading and blessing these folks. If it is a musical program, well before the artiste has begun, there are already congratulatory messages- “Way to go!”, “proud of you”, “kudos”, “lots of love” and a bunch of heart emojis.  

The music concert is now in progress. The chat-scroll continues unabated. Someone types, “great Kalyani raaga”. Another responds- “mellifluous Kalyani” and third says, “out of the world Kalyani”. After 100 such adulatory remarks on Kalyani have scrolled up, the 101st person types, “Dudes- that’s not Kalyani. That’s the raaga Lataangi”. The chat-scroll knows no embarrassment. It responds with a flurry of namaste emojis for the informed music critic in their midst. The parallel chat-show must go on and on, regardless of the main program. It’s like sitting in a concert hall with the din of crosstalk and market-place chatter all around. And yes, you came to hear sublime music.

Sometimes, a tall leader passes away and the group must express its condolence. Someone types “Rest In Peace”. Others don’t have so much time. They simply type “RIP”. The whole group is filled with RIP and more RIP. If the dead could come back alive, he would have knocked each one on the head, nice and hard- “Yes, yes, I will rest, provided you allow me!” Some have no time for even RIP. They respond with the “sad/teary” emoji. At least with typed lines, you cannot go wrong. Emoji selection can be deadly. Someone accidentally selects the “smiley” emoji, that too multiple smileys! Only towards the end of the day, he goes back to the group to realize his blunder. By then, he has been trolled, flamed and roasted for his insensitivity. How does he make up now? No problem! Delete your post, sprinkle some namaste emojis, and now, all is well, with you and the world at large.

How would Shakespeare have reacted to current online behavior? Perhaps, his famous quote was meant for today’s time and age. “O Judgement! Thou art fled to brutish beasts and men have lost their reason!” The exasperation sums it up. Truly, we have lost our reason!

 

Endearment in English!

English is a formal language. It sounds stiff and austere, like a sermon read from the pulpit. When we watch English films, we wonder how the conversation is so clipped. The characters seem wooden, like the ventriloquist’s doll- only the lip moves, the face is totally blank. Indians come from the opposite end of the spectrum. We have our roots in a theatrical culture. The body language is loud- as if we need variations in 8 different body-parts, ashta-vakra, before we can utter a single sentence! All the regional languages have the tone and natural cadence that lend themselves to this form of animated expression.

But English has made inroads into a huge swathe of the Indian population. It is here to stay. Some even claim to think in English. We are now stuck with a strange problem. How do we bring an element of endearment and informality, so that we can stay loose and casual, and still use English? As we look around the country, English has undergone a complete transformation, colored by the construct in the regional language.

“Rey” is a colloquial slang in “Mumbaiyya Hindi” used liberally when close buddies chitchat.  It spills over to English- “Why you are worrying so much rey? No school tomorrow rey! I am going to Five Gardens rey! You are coming rey?”

The convent educated have a unique style- sprinkling their talk with the word “man”! “What man? Tomorrow picnic man! Aksa beach will be fun man! You have to come man!” As in Mumbai, so in West-Indies- “man” undergoes a slight modification. The Caribbean usage would go as follows, coupled with the deep baritone in the voice, “Maan! How you’re doing maan?”

Sometimes, a dollop of affection is added, by punctuating each sentence with “ya”. “The exam was so difficult ya! I did so badly ya! I hope I will pass ya!” “Ya” is dangerously close to the Hindi “yaar”, used to bump up the dearness quotient. “Ya” can occasionally get you into a spot of bother. So I learnt the hard way. Way back in school, I told the security guard, “I came to check if the class is going on ya!” He shot back curtly, “Mein tera yaar nahi hoon! Theek hai?” Oops! “ya” can be a little too close for comfort! What is “ya” in India, is “la” in Singapore, having undergone a slight transformation, but retaining the same intent.

In Chennai, a close relationship is expressed through the terms “machaan” and “machi”. It finds its way into English too. “Machaan! Yesterday, Dhoni’s innings was too much machaan! “Thala” hit so many sixes machaan! Out of the stadium, the ball went…machaan! Machi! You are coming for Jailer machi? Night show machi!”

Bengaluru has its special lingo peppered with “Da” and “bro” in the conversation. “Bro, it took me forever to clear Silk Board junction, bro! My stop was just not coming da!”

Sometimes, you add an element of both respect and closeness through the manner of address. It needn’t be a blood relation. Anyone older can be safely addressed as “uncle ji” and “aunty ji” in North India. That way, you enter their good books instantly. “Uncle ji, how is your health ji? And aunty ji, the rasmalai you made last time was delicious!” Through that initial conversation, you are now an inseparable part of uncle ji and aunty ji’s extended family!

The British bequeathed us with the English language. Bred in the British Isles and fanned in the windswept meadows of the English countryside, English has a certain aloofness, a stiff upper-lipped quality about it. For the Indian tastebuds, it is too bland. We have garnished it with our own spices and tempered it with homegrown masala, so much so, it is now flavorful and distinctly Indian!

As the aroma of Indian English wafts in the air, perhaps the Englishman can scarcely believe, this is the language he left behind!