Sunday, November 22, 2009

Bombay ka Bhiyya ya Bhiyya ka Bombay?

The train journey back home is always optimistic, despite being painstakingly long. 24 hours is a hell of a long time to at a stretch - lie flat, sleep, read, think, ration 'jobs' - or a blend of all of the above.

UP and Bihar bound trains are always visual and auditory treat. Either in the form of a newly married couple who shy away from each other's eyes - letting the occasional exchange of pleasantries or accidental touch define the institution in public gaze or the pan chewing male bragger who air of superiority has an incredible rub off on all the fellow passengers.



I always travel with Bhiyya's - eating, belching, arguing, digressing, staring, smelling, spitting- all in all, its quite endearing. This time, I was seated infront of an elderly couple - could be christened for ease of reference Gopal Ji and Kamala Ji.


They reminded me of the magician and his accomplice. Kamala Ji was ordered "So jao" as soon as we boarded the train (11 a.m) and Gopal Ji stayed guard, doing nothing, occassionally grunting. Every time she moved, he would carefully peek at her and gently mutter "So Jao". It almost seemed like he would cast a spell on her with the two magic words. And strangely enough - whenever the spell seemed to be broken, she would like rummage into the numerous 'potlis' and conjure up an elaborate meal.


The fantastic ends here. Gopal Ji is a station master at Bandra Terminus. Every morning he donns his black coat and little brass badge and lunch box. She on the other hand has never worn anything but synthetic sarees of the brightest possoble hues and the extremely prominent sindoor and mangal sutra for as long as she has known him. He has spent the past 30 years at the station, for the station and of the station. And he is the provider, for dear old Kamala Ji and her seven children - 5 daughters and 2 sons. The eldest daughter is 30 and the youngest son is 15 - which would mean a 1:2 ratio in terms of child birth: years. With pride they say "All born in Bambai".


During meals, they make conversation about the son Dharmendra, who is living up to the looks of the actor himself. The youngest daughter gives them utmost grief, for she is unwilling to get married, wakes up late and doesnt know how to cook. The daughter-in-law is obedient and respectful. All her daughters are blessed with sons, she mildly curses her own luck to have had five. If there were grandaughters - it would be equivalent to a family curse.


They have not had a hard life in Bombay. Courtsey an indian railways job which entitled them to travel all across the country with the seven children - on a railway pass (till they were 21 years old), flipping between gaon and Bombay was not a monetary hassle. They have their own mini UP - with bhiyyas and bhabhis, in the heart of the city. They talk of their land and cattle back home, the ailing aunts and an occassional notorious girl who ran away with someone. Some wishfully think of going back.


Kamala and Gopal Ji speak of relocating too. Their voices suddenly drop and one can sense the solemnness. Gopal Ji is up for retirement. Their girls are settled and the one room home suddenly seems smaller. Age is catching up. And they often get to hear of them being equivalents of infiltrators in forbidden territory.


One can sense the discomfort. After having spent 30 long years in a city which adopted them and which they adapted to, where they as people with families grew - have to suddenly think of the village where they sent money on a monthly basis, as home. Their primary home.


Kamala ji mutters something about how would their kids manage. With a certain amount of calm and finality, Gopal Ji says "Bambai humka sikhai di, unka bhi sikhai degi." (Bombay taught us, will teach them too). They both look at each other, convinced.


In Bombay, one has the chance of meeting many from eastern UP and Bihar. They leave behind families and farms and are armed with dreams and desperation. Most get absorbed as cab drivers, train drivers, milkmen, guards, dhobis. They work very hard, save money and travel to their native lands and in most cases to their wives, or children left behind. However, these long journeys are scant. Once, maybe twice a year. More than that could be potentially hazardous to careers and savings.


Sons of the soil is an elemental concept tying people to their place of birth and confers some benefits, rights, roles and responsibilities on them, which may not apply to others. However, when one is infused in the very DNA - how does one delineate the two?




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