Mumbai…
An Indian village is a mirror to the society and people in this country. The societal stratum is divided into various communities. The rich landlords own the lands and farms. The middle-class work for these landlords in administrative capacities. Then there are the poor farm-labourers who are the actual workers for those above them. These classes of people have their own civic systems, policies, and their own religious beliefs.
Bandra-Kurla Complex is the business village of Mumbai. The area is populated by corporate houses that own the jobs the middle class do as administrators, controlling the white-collar working class — glorified labourers.
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| Bandra-Kurla Complex |
Had Bandra Kurla Complex been a dance floor, with the regulars grooving to their heart’s content in the middle, an educational institute building stood over like a bouncer at the entrance to this dance floor cum business village. This particular institute had recently shifted base to Bandra-Kurla Complex, taking up the role of a guard that checks the educational qualification of the people entering the ‘dance floor’.
Hundreds of young boys and girls at the cusp of adulthood stood in the campus of this institute. All of them wanted to get onto the dance floor. But the bouncer, the institute, just wouldn’t allow them. All of them had to clear the test and prove themselves worthy of dancing on the new dance floor.
And I stood there in the campus, with twenty kilograms of books to carry to Ghatkopar. The institute was well connected by transport systems, but there was no bus in sight at that particular moment. I was growing more irritated by the second in the sweltering heat of June. There was a bunch of rickshaw wallahs nearby. I pleaded with them to take me to my destination but they wouldn’t budge. For them, it was basic demand-supply calculation. So many students heading towards the railway station (not my destination), but not enough rickshaws. Finally, I decided to hire an Ola when one of the rickshaw wallahs walked over to me.
“Apka Roza chal raha hai?’ (Are you fasting for Ramzan?)
I suddenly became conscious of my beard.
“Uh… Hann. Ab kya kare, bhai, apne log bhi iss tarah dagaa dene lage hai…” (Yes. What to do, brother, even our own people have begun to backstab us…)
He replied: “Bhai mere, aisa mat bol. Chal, mai le chalta hu tujhe.” (My brother, don’t talk like that, I will take you to your destination.)
It is amazing how even in this business village; pockets of communities stick to each other and help their brethren on the basis of religion.
Mangalore…
A month after this incident, the apartment building where I lived hired a new security guard who moved into the watchman’s quarters on the ground floor with his family. The building was actually owned by the family of an old woman who lived on the fifth floor.
This old woman, right from the day I first saw her, looked like the female version of Peter Pettigrew (wormtail) from Harry Potter.
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| Peter Pettigrew |
Like any pseudo-aristocrat, she would boss around the building all day. Everything was normal for a week since the new guard joined. Then, he was gone.
When I asked the old woman why she had removed that friendly looking chap, her answer was loud and clear.
“He is a Muslim. We cannot trust these people and their habits.”
Mangalore, again…
Today, I walked over to a store to buy paints and hire labourers to clean my rented house which I am vacating. I went to the lady at the counter and asked for the materials I needed. She replied in English, and I gladly continued the conversation in English. Her son, who was sitting nearby, put on a bright smile to his face as he saw me.
“Are you a Christian?”
I almost blurted out, ‘Of course not! I don’t believe in Gods and beings.’ But that would have been uncivil. Then I decided to say that I am a Hindu on paper.
But I just couldn’t say it. My mouth just wouldn’t move!
So, a second or two after he had finished asking the question, I just nodded my head in the affirmative.
At least I will get the job done.
