...encircled...

Mohan is going to die in four months.

His melting brown eyes smile straight at your heart and the arthritic slow gait tugs somewhere within. The cancer is like a tangled and irreparable short circuit within his being that is sapping his life force away-rapidly- from his life battery. The extra surge from the short circuited life (perhaps) makes him paw insistent at your unmoving hand when you you stop gently stroking his matted chocolate-sauce-on-melted-vanilla-icecream fur. Mohan nudged my arthritic knee with with his head. I patted some more and then scratched his nose some more. His eyes narrowed to a reverie as he enjoyed the attention, even as I coasted from the shared sense of warmth straight into the potholed stretch of the conversation where the news of his impending death jolted the rolling chat with the sepia-halo-of-the-day. "Oh we all take care of him... " wafted into the erstwhile un-jolted conversation, even as I made noises to politely decline the proffered nimbu pani.

Meeting with Chandu was not even remotely etched in my long list of 'things-to-do' when I called him on impulse and took a u-turn towards the green silence which hung thick like a ganja stupor over the FTII campus. This was a more serious-zone Chandu. Seemingly focussed, engine firmly on the 'right' track, chugging away at responding to the bearded Mallu intent on spattering the spent of his fantasies on celluloid. The mid-life not-getting-(enough)-sex impression oozed all over the low stone table with the description of some chick's leg being shorn of hair as a razor glided across the meat on a hook--the bare naked and out stretched leg in the whirring celluloid in his head. The special effects groans and grunts reminded me of a silent movie where some pianist was clanging desperately at his attempt to eke a living. I watched Mohan move on to another clutch of admirers.

Chandu and I walked back towards his hostel and I started smiling, expecting recognition. Somewhere in my head expectations of a incessant giggling swelled, fuelled by those sepia tinged images stuck in there. No recognition and nary a giggle. We kept nearing each other. Questions bubbled like a spicy broth in my head. 'Is she here to meet that Pahari boyfriend of hers?' 'Ah! It's admission time! Another shot at FTII'. The sepia photo broke up into a 'oh-my-god' smile. "You look different now... I almost did not recognize you.... What am I doing here? My first year is started... ".

KutKut does not giggle any more. The strain on here face barely smiles. Like Lewis Carroll's Cheshire cat, the trademark giggles and innocence I remembered had disappeared leaving KutKut behind. As I remarked that life had taken a toll on KutKut, Chandu and Mallu chided my naiveté' for expecting the sepia photo to remain just like I remembered...

'So how is FTII?', 'What happened to you ten shot?', 'What were you doing all this while?', 'Good grief! How did you managed to break a leg!?'. KutKut and my sepia associations of her parried my questions as we waited for Chandu. Mohan sidled up in the mean while.

We finished the Krishna's bhendi pieces sheathed in some arbit gravy and then the Chocolate Avalanche a short walk away at Mocha. Chandu remarked "Abey! Mein Mama ban gaya!". Shit! I did not know that his Didi was pregnant at his engagement! It's been while since I kept track! We walked through the last vestiges of Bhandarkar road's attempt at clinging to the Puneri Marathi ethos. The new trappings had almost completed the circle and conquer move. I never knew or imagined that a by lane hid an entire hospital. More like a baby making factory. All I saw were kids. Largely outside the womb, but a few within as well. Soon I was desperately hoping that I would not be offered their mewling and peeing bundle of happiness. And I was definitely not ask me who the darned creature resembled, since no one would empathize with my observation that all babies look more or less the same. Chandu whistled through his teeth and the baby continued howling and kicking in his grasp.

The evening doubled back on it's tail as I simultaneously remembered that the list still remained un-done and realized that the evening was like a mini "Seven Ages of Man"

Parallels of Struggle

I was waiting on the platform at Dadar to get onto a local, when it struck me how similar it is to living and surviving in Mumbai. Strangely, none of stations where the local train runs witnesses that level of a fight as in Dadar station.

The crowd was electric in communication. We could sense that the train was going to rush in even before we even saw the train. The train was still a blur when these guys ran and merged to become a brief blur themselves as they flung and miraculously attached themselves onto the train. The throng starts fighting like a swarm of blind bees trying to get into the hive. There is plenty of space but there is a stampede as you feel and become part of the woosh of flowing through the bottle neck of the gate. We are in. A pause as everyone savours the victory on a still stationary train. Looking at the platform I see a face who just gave up expecting the next train to be a wee bit more emptier. That's when the similarity seeped into me like warm honey on a edge cindered toast of experience.

Everyone who comes, lives, or aspires in Mumbai gets somewhere. Some fight so hard that they get a eyelash-blink's worth of savage satisfaction. These are the blurs that jump onto a speeding train risking life, limb, and perhaps a great deal more. The great leveler of a city - Mumbai soon scythes them into the sea of 'others' as the rest get on the train. I'm sure the moment of triumph is worth it all. Else no one would do all that. Every three minutes. On every platform. As a train zips through like through the innards of a metronome.

The common denominator like me fights to get through the gate. We all reach where we want. In careers, hopes, and aspirations... And what else not. All in good time.

It's not like the one waiting for the next chance on the platform is left behind. He/she too gets there. Perhaps. By then, however, those who take the tide of opportunity have swept so far ahead, it is quite impossible to catch up. These unreachble specs will have reached the Borivali equivalents in what they seek from the city by the time the bystander takes the plunge.