The sea of -- Humanity

Let me start with the sparse and go up to the time where all i can see is people. I mean the beach, the sand and the sea which is supposed to be Water and not Humanity. The weekends are packed, and from as far back as I can remember, we would never go to the beach on a Sunday. "its a sunday!!" we would exclaim and panic if our guests wanted to "see the sea" on that day.
I have never been able to figure out, why women don their finest while visiting the beach, Sarees of the colour, which could put the sun god to shame. Why? when u know your enamoured spouse is going to drag a screaming you into the water, and splash it all over you, and then proceed to take pictures of you, wringing your saree dry, and ask another unfortunate soul to stop his jogging and take one with his arm around your drooping sodden shoulders. Why would you wear the saree you wore for your own wedding???
Then one level worst is the summer vacations, for which mercifully we were out for 2 weeks and the remaining went along, waiting for high tide days, when people would refrain from majorly long picnics. Then is Ganpati visarjan. Those days are filled with men and women dancing with abandon. Now if it was a dance of joy and godly love i would sincerly surrender the beach to them without a single angry word. But these nuts, they dance to film songs, in stupor, drunk on alcohol and high on drugs. These are the elements which leave behind headless trunks of the elephant god, only to be sweeped away by the garbage van the next day. Forgive them Lord, for they know not what they do!
The worst day is the day of the CHATPOOJA. That day , the entire UP and BIHARI population surface and fill the beach.. that day is the day which i call the SEA OF HUMANITY.
This is THE festival. About 15 days after Diwali. And I am ready to swear on my cycles, one cannot see sand. All you can see is - red , orange, yellow, red, and another shade of red. and dazzling gold. AND the green is huge stumps of banana leaf, stuck on the poor sand. The only black one can see is the heads of the men. Women are covered from head to toe in red, orange, yellow......
Women light diyas, helpless flapping their hands in supersticious agony when the wind blows it out. But obviously, on Chat Pooja even the wind is supposed to desist this silly behavious of blowing out diyas! Ridiculoulsy careless, this wind!
On all high tide days, the water thrashes on the sand and the sand starts piling up and one can see a complete demarkation between two areas of the beach, one about 3 feet higher than the other. But on Chat pooja, the sea of humanity does the work of nature. The sheer number of people trampling the beach on that day, level the sands for the next full year.
For the rape of the beach on this day, I have a immense dislike towards Shatrughan Sinha. The Bihari actor, who did this Karmic deed for his brethren.
Last Chatpooja's fashion was the "Phataphat" saree. !!!
If you have grown up in a non posh school in Mumbai, you have definately eaten phataphat. It is jerragoli (yum !) in a packet the color of muddied Shiv Sena flag, hanging limply outisde a mill, closed for the past 12 years.: and black round balls (representing the jeeragoli) printed on the muddy orange.
Atleast 25 of the 40 women I caught sight at first glimpse had gone for this latest trend. At that time i admired them, for they carried on without any grudge towards the other woman copying her fashion statement. Had this same thing happend with some of our upper class women, .. some would have running sobbing into loos, some shreiking back home in anger, and few would have got down to the nasties and torn each others' clothes off!

Wind in my hair, and a saddle under my bums..

Some time back Madhur and I went to see a horse show.  The school is more than a 100 years old and have a specialized training program for horses and riders, and they barely use the whip. The whip is just used to touch the horse in the flank or the stomach to give them a signal on what they need to do next. The immaculate control, the arrogant snorting of these superior beasts, took me back to the days I used to ride on the beach.
Those days every possible animal was allowed on the beach. Camels, camel tongas, horses and  horse tongas.  The ‘ghodawalas” with their “retired race horses” were my favorite. They were not really “retired RACE horses” Some were no doubt, but they would never give their beloved steeds to non riders for 10 bucks a few paces. It would most definitely, ruin the “horse’s chaal (stance)”
Neverthless I took to riding like, well ...like a rider does to a saddle! Every evening before it would get too crowded I would jump on my favourite horse, and because I was “baby” I would get more than  I paid for. A ride from one end of the beach to another. Soon I was known as a rider and many owners with good and Ahem! genuine retired race horses would give me their horse for an hour, just so that I could ride the horse and exercise it.
Those are moments I hold so close to my heart. The rein in my hand, the wind in my hair, making my eyes water, my heart thumping, the sea crashing on the shore, the sun glaring from the crest of the waves, making the sweating horse gleam even more, the hooves skimming over the water's edge, my thighs in agony from holding on tight on  to the saddle, the horse leaping ahead, refusing to slow down, for they know when the person on the saddle can ride or bump around on the saddle causing the horse distress and disgust. I would be barefoot, my ankles resting on rusted stirrups, holding them with my toes, the way the ghodawalas did.
I was fearless, a rebel and ready to die for the glory of it, on horseback! The times I would be on the saddle  was the time it was only me and the horse speeding under me, his mane rustling the air, the tail whipping the wind, and many times I was sure of near certain death, but the smile on my face would remain intact, while riding, while preparing to die and for the rest of the evening.
And one day I fell.  I FELL??  I fell? I admit to a healthy dose of ego!
Off came the glory and up crept anger. Deep dark anger which coated a red film on my eyes and I went marching up to Shibuddin, who till then had refused to give me his horse to ride. He must have seen me whipping up a good old temper, or maybe it was the moment he was waiting for. But he offered to train me bare back. No saddle, no stirrup. Only the reins and my own thighs. It was excrutiating, painful and I was ready to give up end number of times, had my ego and Shibuddin’s “I knew u would give up”eyes, not stood guard.  Once trained to ride bare back you simply cannot fall off the horse, unless the horse himself collapses into a heap. But you have to be fit as a, AAh…. well ….horse!

And then I got married which yet did not deter me. If I die Madhur can remarry, right? But kids,, they stuck up in me a fear of handicapped life and death itself. And once fear sets in, it can eat you up in one mouthful, if, you let it.
So to keep fear at bay I time and again get on the  horse, time and again take off at a speed intended to fly, but the heart thumps harder and after each ride I look up to the sky and thank God for letting me get off in one piece. 
And ….my ego does not permit me to say this, but my conscience demands it,….. my thighs sing in pain, the knees creak in disgust and the bum!! OMG!!!

For the people who brought me up

My friend started a topic which took me back many many years into my childhood. I have grown up with the most wonderful staff: loyal, dedicated and deadly honest. I know for a fact that if an armed robber was to attack us, they would without doubt act as our human sheilds.
There was Baijnathji, my dad's munim. He was the shopper, the bank and the man who lifted his eyebrows at us if we spent more of dad's money than required. On a rickshaw ride he would keep glaring at the metre, daring it to rise beyond his expectations. He would buy almost second hand fruits (to dad's distress) just so that he did not have to pay extra. The old man, would carry me double seat, duly cushioned for my young bums, all the way back from school, and my school being Andheri (e) and we lived in Juhu, A good 20 km ride to and fro.
His brother Bishambharjee was our driver. The car was his baby and we were driven everywhere without overtime. The finest memory i have of him was him, weeping, standing under his clothes hanging high in a rod... "arre Bimshamber's clothes are here, but where is Bishamber??" I am not being mean, he was high on Bhaang!!
Saraswati who took care of me for 9 years and had to retire because she was ill, whom I to date think of fondly. I unearthed a photo of her's and It made me supremely happy.
The one who I love the most, my surrogate dadi, my beloved Mania bai.
She came as my dadi's midwife and stayed on as her companion. And what a companion. They fought with each other like scalded cats blaming each other for getting burnt. The bad words that echoed would have had most people turning purple on the face. But underneath all that was a far greater love than a mother has for her child.
Maniabai was entrusted the house silver, spices, dry fruits, herbs, linen et al. Damn, she near had the entire house under her control. Maniabai had 3 huge Godrej cupboards, which she would clean with her discerning eye. Every sheet was as white as fresh snow, each sheet was darned and i think they were scared to rip. They were lined in a stack so perfect, one look could tell you how many double and single sheets existed in her inventory.

No chef trained for 10 years and armed with the most special knife could cut fruits like her.
I just spoke with her and at 87+ she is still lucid, and demanded I send her the photos taken with her and nephew, and since I have always had a healthy fear of her, I shall do so right away..


PS: She is so dedicated i know she will pass on only after my grand mother does!!