The race to cross a road in Mumbai!

By Priya Sheth

I was waiting to cross the road.  It was nearly six in the evening. The scorching afternoon sun had finally hidden behind the clouds. But there was still warmth in the air. I was on my way to the new cupcake bakery that had opened nearby. I looked at the signal, and then glanced at my watch. I was waiting to eat the red velvet cupcake that the bakery had recently introduced. I couldn't wait to get on the other side of the road. The traffic was maddening - honks, screeches, interspersed by a loud abuse or two made it worse.

 It was the worst time of the day to cross the road. Beside me stood three other people – all waiting to accomplish the same mission. Each one was looking out for the slightest opportunity to cross the road. It was a sort of undeclared race between the four of us. Each of us kept trying to step down from the pavement to make an attempt to cross the road – but a speeding car would get us back to the starting line. 

Mumbai's traffic-logged roads

 It was already fifteen minutes since each of us were waiting to cross. It was then that I realised that the signal was jammed. The green light was not turning amber or red. In a plea to outsmart the other three, I walked a little ahead. I took a deep breath, changed the direction of my sling and trotted ahead to take a chance.  In any case the starting line would remain unchanged.

It couldn’t be called a traffic jam nor could it be called free-flowing traffic. Cars of all shapes and sizes zoomed past me.A yellow Beetle rushed past me. A sky-blue Vespa moved carelessly between the gullies of cars. A spray-painted second-hand Accent with blaring music whizzed past. A monstrous Mahindra car passed by. An A-series Audi zoomed by me. Among these fancy cars were of course humble taxis ferrying passengers from one part of the city to another. There were also the red and black buses that were packed with passengers at this peak hour.

I looked at the signal, and then glanced at my watch. It was unfair that Mumbai had so much traffic.  There was only this crossing that was keeping me away from sinking my teeth into the cream-cheese icing on the red velvet cupcake.

Aagey se right!

Suddenly, a school bus passed by and then there was a gap. I took the chance – ran across to the divider and sadistically looked back at the other three competitors.  There were only two waiting - one was on the same stage as I was.  Damn, I thought.

Only half the street remaining to cross and only half the race remained to be won. It was already about half-an-hour.   I was now in the middle of all this traffic – with cars rushing past me in opposite directions. I was praying for that one little clearing that could get me closer to my cupcake.  My other competitor was waiting patiently.  I was getting desperate. I mustered courage and waved out my arm like a policeman.  One car zoomed by, but another considerate driver stopped. I moved towards victory. Waving out again, I stopped another car and there I was safe and sound on the other side of the road.    

I looked at the signal, glanced at my watch, wiped off the beads of sweat on my forehead and walked quickly towards my red velvet cupcake.

A dummies guide on surviving Bambai’s clone culture!

By Priya Sheth

There is something about Bandra that enchants me - The winding lanes, ubiquitous houses, the sea-side hangouts, the Bollywood connection and of course the numerous eateries. It was a Friday evening. The crowd was a mix of hep youngsters, wallet-conscious thirty-something’s and handfuls of fun-loving middle-aged crowd.  

Deepti and I walked down the road leading to the hub of street shopping and street food. Even though it was half past six, the air was heavy with humidity and even a thin white Kurta was too much to wear. The uneven footpath did not allow the two of us to walk on the same level at one time. To add to that, obstacles on the street were slowly increasing - with men hawking their wares on the narrow footpath.

Mumbai's street shopping

  And it’s not the usual chest-prints that were on display- this time around Bandra’s Hill road was filled with animal prints and Neon’s. Flowy Leopard print tops met tiger print clutches. The hawking inventory was full of bright pink shirts, neon tops and fluorescent orange ballerinas. We were mostly pushed aside as we tried peeking into one or two of these roadside arrangements. More than the clothes, it was the cheap bargains and marketing gimmicks that drew the crowd to the stalls.

I think I heard someone wise say somewhere, “If you really want to survive in Bambai, learn the tricks of the trade.” And that’s what these hawkers excelled at. Hand-written boards screamed ‘Anything for Rs 250’ or ‘Buy 3, Get 3.’ A smart hawking gimmick read ‘For those who are just running out of money.’    

And in the middle of this chaos, the pungent aroma of tangy chutneys drew Deepti’s attention. Before I could argue, she grabbed a plate of Sev Puri, Mumbai’s street favourite. I was eyeing a fluorescent yellow top in one of the street-side stalls as she tucked into the spicy chaat. It was difficult to get past the onslaught of haggling teenagers.  

The honks of the passing BEST buses and the screeching brakes of the rickshaws grew louder as the evening progressed and the street got busier. With hawkers mirroring each other’s wares, we decided to check-out the lovely looking yellow top on the other side of the street. It took effort to dodge hawking disturbances and jump over the yellow-black road divider.

Clone culture!

And first-hand experience in Mumbai teaches you to get away when things get too much to handle. We did just that. We hailed an auto before we could get over to the other side.

My eyes followed the yellow top as we drove past the shop. On the next signal I saw two girls wearing the same yellow top. I thanked my stars. And a little further, I saw many more neon clones. I had forgotten that street-shopping in Mumbai was clone culture in the making.   

Of Mutton Dhansaks, Bombay Ducks and Raspberry Soda!

By Priya Sheth

Being a vegetarian is not always the best thing especially when you have friends who wine and dine on carnivorous cuisines. Take my case for instance. The Parsi eatery was abuzz with peals of laughter, the noise of an occasional mobile phone ring and the clamour of utensils in the background. 

The ten by ten tables were covered with checkered tablecloths and a steel tissue holder stood tight in the corner. The Parsi gentleman at the billing counter stood up at  intervals to direct young and old diners to the unoccupied tables. There was something, perhaps about this eatery that brought people from all over the bustling city together. The kind 'welcome, dikra' and 'hope you had a good time, dikra' also did the trick. 

For my friends - it was mostly the 'Mutton Dhansak' and 'Bombay Duck and the 'Chicken Berry Pulav' that lured them to the eatery. For me, it was the Raspberry Soda and Caramel Custard. The ubiquitous 'No Reservations/No Talking/No Smoking/Tender exact change' board standing at the entrance on most days was slyly hidden behind the board mentioning the special 'Ginger lemon soda' board by a group of youngsters 

Parsi food, which has a big fan-following in the city is as difficult to find as Parsis are in Mumbai. As the waiter walked by our table with a bowl of steaming Kheema Berry Pulav on his tray - hunger pangs grew as loud as sirens around me. The Menu which was mostly the chalky hand-written blackboard - had 'Today's Special' written in bold. It was not as if it made any difference to diners because they mostly ordered every item on the menu - which consisted of five or six dishes - so that they don't miss out on regulars as well as the specialities of the Day. 

And while, the waiter quickly scribbled down our order in his tiny pocket notebook -  five voices screamed eight different things across the table, I looked down sheepishly. As the waiter glanced towards me - I quietly asked, "What's your specialty for vegetarians?"

There was some laughter on my table and then silence. Our waiter, scratched his head and then said, "Why not try our Ginger Lemon soda and we could try to give you some Veg Dhansak?" I opted for the safest option on the menu -  Raspberry Soda. I had seen the red drink in the Pepsi-sponsored refrigerator at the entrance. 

As the afternoon progressed, the line at the entrance got longer. The bench near the entrance was already occupied and all eyes were waiting for an empty table. And as a voice in the kitchen shouted, table four - my waiter scrambled to the entrance of the kitchen and soon our table had the "Meal for the Gods," my friends said. 

If you were to ask me, these humble Parsi eateries could give tough competition to the fancy continental cafes mushrooming across the city. The mirrored walls, the tiled floors, peeling boards, humble pricing and the homely decor - gave satisfaction to the diners who licked the Mutton Dhansak off their fingers. A tad different from the fork and spoon culture of the cosmopolitan city.     

These twenty-odd years in the city have taught me two things. One - Vegetarians are an endangered species and Two -a hungry stomach can make you pay your month's salary in just one meal! 

In my case, I spent only fifty rupees on my Raspberry soda