Mumbai Musing
The chawl writes while you sleep. Choose my rendering, it says. Give me a chance to reclaim my land. I am the voice of this city. New blood arrives every day at the Victoria Terminus Station. These are people, from the Hindi heartland, from the Southern tip, and the North Eastern hills; they pay the hafta on the street and the rent in the tenement. I like their hungry eyes.
Decimals move right in Mumbai. Property gains value, and the builders look greedily at the resettlement schemes. Somehow, the tenements remain, looking their age and barely passing muster when the inspectors arrive. When the inspectors leave, the chawl breathes again. It lies low till the next festival.
And then it celebrates, festooning the quadrangle with colour. And the air reverberates to the noise of a monotonous instrument, a simple drum, and a repetitive tune that could well be the house music of zombies.
In between on quiet days, the chawl lays its head at your door. Keep your eyes wide open and beware, because in these curious tenements, ‘Welcome’ is a doormat that lies. Beneath it are strange goodbyes.