Terror At Radio Club

A couple of days ago, all members of the Bombay Presidency Radio Club at Colaba were surprised, shocked and petrified (in that order) after seeing two notices up on the notice board.

Apparently, our intelligence agencies and the police have evidence of a credible terror threat against Radio Club.

The most obvious reason would be the Club’s most famous (and most disputed) landmark – the Pier. Which would offer visiting terrorists an easy landing point, and quick access to posh Colaba and the Taj Mahal Hotel.

But we at FITM believe that there are deeper reasons for terrorists to strike at the Club. So, we did some digging, and the facts we unearthed are rather extraordinary.

• The terrorists seek revenge for the bad service they got at the bar on a crowded Saturday night. They actually had to wait 20 minutes for a gin-and-tonic, despite waving their AK47s threateningly at the waiters.
• The terrorists seek revenge for the food poisoning their glorious leader experienced from an undercooked, over-spiced chicken tikka. The resultant vomiting and diarrhoea seriously cramped his style, occurring when he was visiting his Mumbai girlfriend while her parents were away.
• The terrorists feel they were cheated out of the Bumper Housie Jackpot. They argue that the result was fixed, and the winners’ cue was the announcer calling out, “Two fat ladies…!”
• The terrorists were outraged when they were overcharged for a shuttlecock at the Badminton Court. A 125% mark-up is just too much for God-fearing, gun-toting bandits to swallow.
• The terrorists’ mission is to exterminate the Club decorator, a Mr. Mashru. Apparently he’s a liar and a cheat and didn’t provide clean carpets for the leader’s sister’s wedding.
• The terrorists believe they were cheated out of victory at the Club elections. The election loss put paid to their plans to convert the Club into a local base for terror activities. Complete with an obstacle course for new recruits.
• The terrorists are angry at the blatant accusations of corruption and embezzlement levelled at the Club Committee. They believe that all perks and benefits should accrue only to them. Free food and drink for the rest of their lives.
• Pakistani authorities have cut off the terrorists’ water supply in a move to gain additional terror funding from the US of A. The terrorists simply want to have a bath, and perhaps a leisurely Sunday morning swim after.
• The terrorist weren’t able to procure passes for the Club’s New Year programme, and this is an elaborate gate-crashing exercise. Their planned entertainment includes a fireworks display with real grenades.

As patriotic, civic-minded persons, we at FITM have passed on this information to the authorities, who have promised to investigate further. Commandos have been posted all around the Club for security.

And, of course, the terrifying notices have been pulled down from the notice board – because people were getting too scared reading them!

The Lost City

The Lost City
21st March 2006

I’ve just started reading the book Maximum City by Suketu Mehta. And it’s helped me crystallise what I’ve been thinking and feeling for a long time now.

Maximum City is, as the cover describes it, “an account of a love story with a city”. It tells the author’s own story, as he returns to the city he loves. Only to find that it has changed irreparably.

Mehta goes deep into the heart, soul, belly and, sometimes, armpits of Bombay – he seems to refuse to call it Mumbai, at least in the first few chapters. Meeting rioters, criminals, gangsters, slum lords, politicians, cops – what have you.

And, along the way, exposing the true nature of what our great city has become.

Read it. It’s a must for all those who use the name Mumbai only in official correspondence.

I’m only into the third chapter, so I can’t give you a full review. But I can finally say what I’ve wanted to for ages.

The city I was born in, the city I’m so proud of being in, no longer exists.

I was born in Bombay. Where I live right now is Mumbai.

It may seem like a simple name change on paper. But what has changed are the attitudes towards this city. There are so many examples – let me start with the ones that are foremost in my mind.

When the police turn moral(?), and ban a rock concert at the Gateway of India, despite issuing permits before the event. Or imprison couples, and rape the girl, just for holding hands or kissing in public.

When the authorities shut down our dance bars. And impose heavy licenses on pubs, discotheques and bars, shutting down many in the process. This, after making sure every nightclub in the city downs shutters post 1 AM.

Where do I party now? Where can I unwind, let my hair loose, dance (even on my two left feet)? Where is the choice and freedom I’m supposed to have?

Why do the ubiquitous “they” interfere in the cultural events I love? Why is the Jazz Yatra shifted out of its decades-old home? Why?

Why do self-styled social activists keep us from seeing porn or adult movies or even rated-18 movies in the privacy of our own homes? What can we not see on TV that we do not do in our beds and elsewhere? Are they concerned about what our kids may see? Hell, they’re our kids – let us bring them up the way we want. Let us decide if they’re mature enough to handle sex as a topic. My parents did. They debated, but eventually took me to see Sharon Stone make love with Sylvester Stallone in The Specialist themselves. Did I grow up wanting to rape every woman I see? No.

Ten gets you a million that these very activists get themselves off at night watching exactly the same titillation they don’t want us to see.

Why is our city more corrupt than most? Why does the money I earn go into pockets of the men in power? Why are the electricity and water I’m paying for not getting delivered to me? Where are the roads that are promised us?

Where the hell is our greenery? Our lungs?

Why are those bloody villagers who rule us turning my city into another bloody village? They talk about making Bombay another Shanghai. When they should be talking about keeping it from becoming another Jhoomritalaiya in the armpits of the back of beyond.

Why do more and more people come here for jobs? Why can’t they be taken care of in their own states or cities? True, Bombay is for everyone. The Constitution declares it. But why does this influx need to choke the life out of the city?

Why did our city get paralysed by one flood? Where was that villager of a Chief Minister? Or the assholes in the BMC who claim to be doing their jobs?

After the floods, it seemed like the public’s voice was going to be heard. Today, I strain for the sound. Where has our ire gone? Why don’t we realise the power we have? Why can’t we gather in a flash mob to peacefully express our protests? Why is that more dangerous than the men in power? Who watches the watchers?

Why can’t I show my patriotism on my sleeve? Or in my t-shirt pattern? Why can’t I sing my national anthem in rock, the way I love it?

Why do we pay more in taxes than any other city – including our rich capital – and get so much less in return? Why is the State Government’s bank account empty, despite taxes, taxes on taxes, cesses on taxes on taxes…?

Where has my city gone?

Most of this sounds like the rebellious cant it is. The stuff you’ve heard a million times before, or even felt and expressed.

The thing is, you read a book about your city by someone who loves it as much as you do. And you can’t help getting affected.

I know I did.

I Told You So!

I Told You So!
3rd August 2005

Once again, we go back to the future, for a topical update. Blasts from the past resume next time.

After I wrote my last FITM (Monsoon Madness) and posted it on my blog, I was deluged by hateful comments. As friends (???) tossed up sarcastic comments like, "How could you hate the monsoon?" and "You’re mad!"

Well, shortly after, my fair city of Bombay was deluged too. By rainfall of the quantity that hasn’t been seen for 100 years or so.

Prompting me to write – with utmost gloating and gleefulness – this rejoinder to those comments.

Why I hate the monsoon – an addendum.

• It floods my city. Hugely. Shutting down commerce and other forms of life completely. Stranding thousands of people. Killing hundreds others.
• It crashes mobile phone networks. Making us wonder why we pay all those bills for a service we can’t use when we most need it.
• It strands Sis between Andheri and Jogeshwari stations. Panicking her almost as much as it panicked us at home. And forcing her to wade to a cousin’s place and stay there without power for nearly two days.
• It gets gloomy. And I’ve already mentioned what gloomy does to me.
• It reminds us (once again) that politicians are inept, corrupt and highly useless in a crisis. That our tax money is going down the drain (read, into their pockets.) That we’d be better off migrating to Jhoomritalaiya.
• It gives me a cold. And fever and the chills.
• Worse, it gives Slappy a cold. And a very bad fever and very bad chills. And makes me worried about her.
• Shortages. No milk, cheese, butter and bread. No medicines, no drinking water, no electricity. One would assume that this shortage extends to condoms as well, but this remains an assumption. FITM encourages frantic, hormone-maddened, angry lovers to launch a protest.
• Boredom. How much Monopoly can you play? (Quite a bit, actually.) Or PlayStation? (Same answer.) How much TV can you watch? (A hell of a lot, it turns out.) How many episodes of FITM can you write? (None, actually. Sorry.)
• Driving is even more difficult. Especially at night, when you have to pick up stranded women while trying to weave your way through 5000 people looking for a lift to New Bombay.
• And the last, but the most important reason for me to say, "I told you so!" The rain gets me wet.

Slappy and I have argued over this. We both agree that one good thing came out of this monsoon. She was stranded – with Minty – at my place. For two whole days and two whole nights! Goody, goody.

Before any naughty thoughts happen, let me assure you that I was a thorough gentleman. At least in front of my folks...who, by the way, really seem to like her. It’s not the ideal way to introduce her to my family, but hey...all’s well that ends well.

So, like I said, we argued. And came to the conclusion that we hate the rain...but wholeheartedly love at least one of its consequences.

Two days, two nights...completely blissful, completely amazing. I thought I’d save it for another story...but then I remembered that a gentleman never kisses and tells.

So, back to the rains.

And back to my detractors.

A pox on all ye unbelievers. Or worse, a monsoon on ye. Admit it. I was right. As always.
I really don’t hate to say this. In fact, I’m enjoying this.

"I told you so!"

Monsoon Madness

Monsoon Madness
29th June 2005
We interrupt the blast from the past for a special, topical update from the current season. We will go back in time from next post.


The monsoon’s here.

And since every columnist – from Mark Manuel to Shobha De to Busybee’s rehashes – is talking about the monsoon, it’s time for me to add my two bits.

Only, instead of talking about how much I love the monsoon, I’m going to talk about how much I hate it.

Yes. It’s true. I hate monsoons. The only columnist in the world who hates it enough to write a hate-filled piece about it.

Following are the reasons why I hate the monsoon (in proper logical, rational science textbook style):
The rain gets me wet.

• Days are dark and gloomy and depressing. I don’t want to work properly. All I want to do is laze around, reading books or comics, or playing Super Mario, drinking beer with music playing.
• The rain gets me wet.
• Gloomy and depressing-looking days have a tendency to make me gloomy and depressing.
• The rain gets me wet.
• It always rains when I’m out. Why can’t the rain be convenient enough and not rain when I’m in the firing line of the raindrops?
• The rain gets me wet.
• Colds. Really bad colds. Really bad infectious colds. Really bad infectious debilitating colds. Enough said.
• The rain gets me wet.
• Driving is impossible. Can’t see in front of me, the rear glass is too fogged up for me to see what’s behind me. The roads are slick, so I can’t even enjoy the drive. I have forgotten what fourth gear looks like, and what it feels like to cut lanes at high speed. Doc’s driving lessons are going down the drain.
• The rain gets me wet.
• It’s so gloomy and depressing that there’s not enough sunshine for me to wear my sexy new Fastrack sunglasses. Ask me about them sometime. Ask me to pose for you wearing them.
• The rain gets me wet.
• On the public service front, the monsoon is a breeding ground for disease. I hate disease. It means I need to call Doc for help, and we all know that I’m one of the four people Doc has sworn to kill during his medical career.
• The rain gets me wet.
• The emergence of so-called romantic notions of sipping roadside tea looking deeply into your sweetheart’s eyes. Yuck! Get a room!
• The rain gets me wet.
  

If this hasn’t deflated the sickeningly beautiful bubble of monsoon madness that those over-poetic wannabe journos have created, nothing will.

Except perhaps the sour look on my face.