A Traveler’s Guide from VT to Nariman Point-Part 2

Towards Nariman Point

I pass by the bus depot surrounded by more people, but this time sober than they were in the trains. As if suddenly the unruly beasts have changed into serene beings. At times the queue to get in the bus is so long that it reaches the VT Station itself. This serpentine line grows by the second. So even if the double deckers reach the depot after a trip with remarkable regularity, it doesn’t really help. Indicating that no matter how efficient our systems are going to be, Bombay will finally burst, that is if it hasn’t yet.
What amazes me more is the patience shown by the office goers who don’t mind waiting for another 10 minutes for their chance to get in these gentle buses.
I really don’t have the patience for the bus.Infact after the terrible torment I go through everyday I think I deserve a ride in the taxi.
Hence I move towards the unofficial taxi stand ahead of the depot.
So the crowd which has come out from the latest train gets divided into two, the patient go for the buses and the impatient go for the taxis. To reach that unofficial stand where you can see the taxiwalas calling “point, point, point”, one has to pass through a road which connects the Ballard estate and VT.
No other road can give you a proof of what mob mentality is. I mean a second earlier people were waiting obediently for the traffic lights to turn green and suddenly they start walking showing absolute disregard to the traffic norms. Speeding cars, giant buses or gigantic trucks…. all be damned! When the crowd marches, the driver has to take the weight off his feet from the accelerator, exhaling in exasperation.
These Taxis are made for 4 but they push in 5 people for that extra 10 ruppees.And no, it doesn’t come for free. These Taxi walas have to pay the “Maamas” 200 every day collectively.Infact what’s amusing is that they know every Maamaa and where he is posted for the week.
But one should see them driving. They are our very own Micheal Schumacher’s. One lap means leaving the commuters to Nariman Point and be back to VT for another round. Well they can’t afford a pit stop. Even though they really need one, most of the cars are in pretty bad shape. At times one has to hold the door as it can’t be closed.
But they rule the roads there. No one messes with them. Red is just a color, doesn’t mean anything more. Maamaas have been paid to look the other way. They also treat the passengers as if they are doing a favour on them. They demand their ten rupees and frown at you if you ask them to stop midway.
And when u start going regularly with them they know u by face, some ask you why dint you come on a certain Thursday. If you see them most look from the underworld, shabbily dressed, chest hair dirtier than that of Anil Kapoor, chewing paan ,their beetle stained teeth can be seen when they growl “Kya Hai Be?” to the one who stares at their boldness. Zero chivalry to the opposite sex and more affection to their kind and there is a reason behind it.
Aashik, one I befriended says “Nakhra Karti Hai, Yeh Officewali”.

The taxi passes through D.N. Road, a very important arterial road of the city. This one road has so many beautiful buildings that you sense an architectural rhythm in them, the beats given by the hawkers and the cadence provided by the honking cars. And it’s the Flora Fountain which acts as the Chief Conductor. For you it may only be a work of art but for me it’s a symphony being created everyday.
At D.N. road one can find everything, right from books to cd’s to belts to toys to umbrellas to cameras to sophisticated electronic goods ….trust me EVERYTHING.
It’s like a small treasure hunt you are having in those ground floor alleys and the stalls lining them.
Usually on a Saturday afternoon I take a walk through this street to check on some books and DVD’s.
The DVD guy takes a look at me and whispers “Do u want this?”, flaunting a Dvd of scantily dress women. “There is more to it” he chuckles. A smile from me tells him that my theory is over. So we get down to business, searching for some meaningful movies packed in three.Dont expect all the movies to work. They won’t. But it’s still worth the money (50 rupees) u r paying. And never never buy games from them. They never work. These guys are paid 200 everyday and a bonus if the selling is good. Moreover they have to pay to the Policemen, the BMC and surprisingly even to some NGOs for the blatant piracy.
The books are definitely a better bargain. But again some pages would be missing. Your bad luck if they are at the end of the book. If you are tired of the walk, have the sugarcane juice there. Trust me it’s the best I have had in whole of Bombay.

The car whizzes past a no of banks and a lot of shopping stores like Globus (check the ties there, good for less), Fab India (the only problem with Fab India is that everyone knows it’s a Fab India Kurta you are wearing) .What I don’t want you to miss is an Agiary on the way where they have two bearded men carved on the stone having the lower body of a horse with wings and facing each other. And for a date in Town, buy fresh flowers from Prakash Florist.
Now we finally reach Flora Fountain which I told you about.
It’s a Stone Fountain erected in 1964 for the then Governor of Bombay. Made at a princely sum of 47000 rupees. What is disheartening is the state of this beautiful structure. The pretty ladies carved on the marble are smiling unaware of the stains on their white fabric and oblivious of the fact that the fountain doesn’t work.

Now the Taxi takes a road between the incompetent High court and inept University of Bombay.
One can see the Rajabai tower, at a height of 280 feet, located in the confines of the university. Do you know that the entire cost of Rajabai Tower was paid by Premchand Roychand, a prosperous broker who also founded the Bombay Stock Exchange, on the condition that the tower is named after his mother Rajabai? Rajabai was blind and a staunch follower of Jain religion. She was supposed to consume her dinner before evening. The evening bell of the tower helped her to know the time without anyone’s help.

About the High Court, well its 562 feet long and 189 feet wide so it’s real huge with 60 sanctioned judges and a record of 3-4 lakhs cases judged every year and more than that pending.

Right opposite is the Oval ground where one can see budding youngsters vying for a place in the Indian cricket team. Till 1997, Oval ground was poorly maintained and visited by drug peddlers, prostitutes and beggars. Then a group called ORCA (Oval Residents Cooperage Association) won the case against the government, took over the charge, build a fence, a jogging course along the periphery and most importantly a concrete lane through the ground for smooth thoroughfare.
On the far end of the Oval Ground once stood The Vengsarkar Elf Club. I still remember I had come back disappointed after not being selected. You know in Bombay at one point in time there are 50000 cricketers who dream of playing in the national team. (I heard my coach saying that figure after a net practice session).
Then some turn to B.Com.Some to B.SC.Some realize they aren’t really that good. Finally left are a few boys who study cricket.
Every year even their hope diminishes a little, their bones creak a little, the girlfriends who shared the dream of being there till the end leave them, their friends pat the backs but also shrug their own shoulders while smoking, the families who had pushed them into cricket beg them to leave the bats at home and finally they themselves raise their finger to indicate they are Out. In the process they kill their dreams and live another life.
But now when one sees the Dhoni and his boys winning the T20….the feeling of “what-could-it-have-been” does play in their mind, the dream still runs in their sleeps.I again look at those innocent beings practising so religiously and ponder over their future.

The Taxi has reached the intersection where we see a huge line of people waiting for the UAE embassy to open. I see the frustration in the eyes of every Indian as he shields himself from the sun with a newspaper or a plastic bag. I mean to be treated that way in your own country is sad but maybe its just a foretell as to what will happen to them in Gulf .This is the closest you can feel to what Indians felt in British Rule. So if you want to undergo that.”Saala, Mere Desh Mein Mujhe Khada Rakha Hai”feeling, please join the queue.
Some are waiting from 8 am for the embassy to open. One can see two policemen trying to keep this line in order and also looking for someone who would be eager to grease their palms to go ahead .I see one fair Arab watchman holding an umbrella, watching each and every Indian in the line with disdain.
At exactly 9, a tiny window opens of the embassy to accept the certificates and charge the to-be-rich-in dirham-public 1500 per certificate for endorsement. Some have to go back for another round of attestation which they missed. First the ladies would get a chance even if they just happened to know where the embassy is (how unfair!) and then maybe the poorer sex would be lucky.
The taxi takes a jerk as the signal turns green. I pass by Mantralaya.The less said about this place the better. I have walked through the corridors of Mantralaya and it reeks of power but also mixed with it is the stench of corruption. The security is real tight and again poor people are harassed who may want to visit the various departments for help. To enter it first you have to stand in a long line with a chit mentioning your name and whom you want to meet. After that you join another long line where you are checked briskly by some gruff hands before you go in. so it may take almost an hour before you actually enter the gates.
The Peons and Staff Members are real Bastards.They stare at you for a while, and then leisurely come to you, take you to a corner ,their dirty hands on your back, tell you the deal like a good salesman also mentioning that’s the only way it can be done, smile at you waiting for your response. If you show no interest, they may make your life difficult but then that’s a price to pay for being honest. Infact most of the systems are such that you have to end up shelling out something because you just can’t afford to abide by the rules.
When you come out of the Mantralaya robbed not only of money but also a little self respect for having ended up bribing (when you really did not want to ),don’t forget to look at our Flag fluttering on the Building to complete the irony of the situation.
My taxi passes through the Shipping Corporation of India indicating we have reached the first lane of the place I love the most. I heave a sigh of relief. I can breathe the fresh corporate air. I can see the ties flowing in the soft wind,i can see the Merc’s and the Bmw’s and the powerful men inside it with a folded Economic times by thier arms.
Nariman Point is Here, Folks…..
(To be Continued).....