Mumbai through my ‘chinky’ eyes…

This was the article I wrote for Outlook City Limits in April or May, I think. My good friend Ornella asked me for a 750-word piece but I just had to give her a 917-word vocabulary fiasco. Anyway this is the original, un-castrated article. So, enjoy...

The time is 19:26 hrs IST. My day has just begun. As I stand at the bus stop with my earphones plugged in, listening to songs on my MP3 phone, I have but to raise my head to look at the curious eyes staring at me. They are desperate to figure me out – What business do I have here? Why am I even standing here? A passing cyclist yells, “Aye Nepali!” A group of dishevelled teenagers, huddled together, look over their shoulder and suppress a snicker. Finally the bus arrives and like cattle, that are being rescued, everyone shoves and pushes their way into it.

It’s moments like these that strengthen my resolve to get a plastic surgery done the moment I have saved enough money. But then I guess the average Indian-Chinaman would have to face these racial atrocities time and time again. I do not wish to confuse you by the term ‘Average Indian-Chinaman’. Let me simplify it thus – He/She is the third generation of biologically Chinese people who have been born and brought up in India. His/Her parents can speak Chinese, accented Hindi and not-so-fluent-English, whereas he/she can speak broken Chinese, pretty good Hindi and polished English. In short: In India he/she is too Chinese while in China he/she’d be too Indian.

So it comes to my utter dismay when I have people staring at me and concocting ways to fleece me of my hard earned money. Something that a brown skinned person (forgive the term) would get for say Rs. 10, would be sold to me at the price of Rs. 50. Perhaps they expect me to pay in Yuan or Dollars or fear that I might flash my Amex card and they’d be charged some-or-the-other ridiculous tax or processing fee but, as always, I disappoint them by using the humble rupee for all my payments. I hate bargaining and rebuke my mum from doing so as well. However, as I reflect at all the triumphant purchases that my mum has made, I realize that were it not for her skills at slashing the quoted price, we’d have been made paupers a very long time ago.

Speaking specifically in the ‘Mumbai’ context, I’d like to consider myself as a pukka mumbaikar (if certain political parties allow it). I believe in the ‘Clean Mumbai. Green Mumbai’ dream. Well, to be quite honest it’s a dream and will always be one. I’ve discerned that it is practically impossible for Mumbai to be clean. Not that we don’t have enough people cleaning everyday. Not that we do not have enough messages going out in the welfare of society on the print and broadcast media. It’s just that we have more people littering than cleaning and those cleaning are, let’s face it, not really doing a remarkable job! Case in point – My house is on Marve Road, Malad (West); and for a fishing village like Kharodi, that houses more than 200 families, we have four dustbins to bear the brunt of all the dry and wet waste spewed from each house everyday. Naturally, they are way past their threshold so at the very entrance of your residence, you have your own personal Waste Wonderland.

Then we have our transportation to reckon. I’ve forgotten the last time I spoke with a courteous bus conductor. Hmmm… Maybe courtesy was not part of the job profile. Every time I board a bus, I whisper a silent prayer that I have enough change to not be asked to get off the bus or that the conductor be in a good enough mood to return the change without a frown. Maybe that isn’t the BEST way to travel (pun intended). Then the next available suburban mode of transport would be our ubiquitous auto rickshaws. We only wish they were as helpful and reliable. Ever wondered why when you really need one of those yellow and black vehicles, you can’t really get one to take you where you want to go. I’m still waiting for someone to break my record of being rejected, 11 consecutive times, by Rickshaw drivers. And if you do get one, you’d better pray that you do finally reach your desired destination. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve had to walk to office because the rickshaw couldn’t go on the bad roads or the engine was not starting.

Given my Chinese biology, I do find it awkward to eat on the roadside all by myself. On numerous occasions, I’m approached by complete strangers who want to know if I’m from Manipur or Japan. They look in utter astonishment as I relish my vada pav and pani puri and wait with bated breath to see if I’ll pull out a pair of chopsticks from my bag. Also I’m like a beggar magnet. I seem to be able to attract beggars from miles away, but with the middle class Indian upbringing that I have, all they get is disappointment instead of alms. It took one of my friends to verbally disillusion a hopeful with the words, “Yeh China se nahin, India se hai!”

Lastly, I can’t wait for Mumbai to be transformed to Shanghai. That’s about as close as to China as I can hope to be. Then I’d be the one who’d do all the staring and make all the derogatory remarks. I’d possibly even campaign for Chief Minister, as the entire majority would be in my favour. Ah! The joys of aimless dreaming!