Desicritics Author: Akshay

Photo Essay: Glistening Pomfret and Smoldering Beedis at Ferry Wharf, Mazgaon

Akshay — Tue, 23 Jan 2007 02:09:07 EST

Ferry Warf, Mazgaon, is a daring mix of the bright colours of the machiwalli's (fisherwoman) saris, dried salted fish, and the flowing melt of sea-scented blocks of ice. It smells of diesel exhaust and fish guts. The visuals are of glistening pomfret and smoldering beedis; drying bombils and piles of prawns; of turbulence in the Arabian Sea, and the squid-ink backwaters. The air fills with crude fish-talk Marathi that end with profanities chewed up and spat into the mucky sea like the red gutka (chewing tobacco) that stains the city walls.

The flags and colours of an Armada of Fishing boats docked at Ferry Wharf. The place hums with exhilarating energy.

Dawn is imminent and the air is brisk and saturated with the unsavory fragrance of fish. The Wharf, each morning, witnesses an unimaginable buzz of activity, seething with buyers, sellers and fiery machiwallis in their signature saris, weaving through a crowd, balancing baskets laden with iced down fish, shouting or whistling warnings, shoving and pushing those they are overtaking. An entire fleet of fishing boats lines the pier, as fish is slowly unloaded, only to be sold to the highest bidder a few minutes later.

Good place to hunt for fresh ravas, pomfret and bombil.

A basket of prawns changes hands at Ferry Wharf.

The wholesale fish market at Ferry Warf may not be as large and organized as the Tsukiji fish market in Tokyo or well known as the Fulton Market in New York but what it lacks in size and notoriety it makes up in colour and uniqueness. One difference is that almost all the fish at the market is fresh sourced directly from line of fishing boats docked at the wharf.

With a few exceptions, women, for various social reasons, do not actively participate in the process of commerce in India. Fish retail is one of the welcome exceptions to this rule - the machiwallis constitute a large portion of the buyers at the wholesale market.

Fresh fish being unloaded

A rose tinted sky hangs over the Arabian Sea as sun rises over a very busy Ferry Wharf

A torrent of transactions wrings sweat from the auctioneers at Ferry Wharf, who provide Mumbai almost all of its supply of fresh fish. A single supplier sells almost two hundred fish an hour, or about one every three minutes. The muqabla begins with loud shouting accompanied by swift movement of hands as the players in this mercantile theatre decide their price.

At the low points they talk politely haggling over the price till they are consumed with emotion and they pout and shout at each other clutching their dhotis; the fish are waved and thrown up in the air to prove quality and freshness - yet the shouting match continues, up a notch to a new level of aggression. Sometimes it gives way to gentle shoving and pushing accompanied by more shouting and at times loud abuse from the buyer, "Have you gone crazy, six hundred rupees for such a small pomfret? How do you expect me to sell at such prices?" But just as you feel they are going to be at each others throats a compromise is reached, a price is agreed and there are smiles all around. The porters load the fish and it's time for the next muqabla.

A young fisherwoman carries her purchases for the day back to her transport.

A fisherwoman hawks her catch of crabs. You have got to love her colour sense.

Not all the fish at Ferry Wharf is fresh as you can see. Women sell dried and salted bombil (Bombay Duck) and shrimp

Fish being loaded on to a cab - which will probably find itself on the counters of a fish market somewhere in Bombay

More pictures from Ferry Wharf.

Tollygunge: Breakfast at Tolly

Akshay — Thu, 30 Nov 2006 05:23:19 EST

Strangers in search of Old Calcutta, rarely get beyond the monumental British town, with its abundant Victoriana, or the temples and tiny alley ways of ancient Kali Ghat or where Mother Teresa ministered the poor. This limitation is not the visitor's fault for he/she hasn't yet discovered that the best way to discover old Calcutta is over breakfast. Breakfast at the Tolly to be more exact.

[How can someone visit and not take a picture of the Howrah Bridge.]

The Tollygunge club is pretty much an establishment in Calcutta and is over a century old. Members tell me it has stayed pretty much the same except for the fact that the Calcutta Metro ate up some of its land. Tollygunge Club was a place where British planters and merchant princes once relaxed, talking about the price of indigo or Miss Wrangham's engagement or the shocking case of William Hunter and the three mutilated maidens, among other things.

The British planters and merchant princes have long gone, leaving behind mostly rich Indians who can be found loitering around the grounds in their polo t-shirts playing golf. The club-house is a former indigo plantation house whose plush refurbishment owes more to globalized corporations than the Raj. The fact that club stands pretty much unchanged since the end of the 19th century is thanks to one eccentric Englishman by the name of Robert Hamilton Wright, who managed the club since the 1950s.

The Club is a glorious oasis of golf runs and bridle paths, away from the chattering masses of Kolkata.

To be honest with you it is the tales of the breakfast menu that brings me to the Tolly this clear morning in July, the colonial remnants I described earlier act merely as a setting for what should be a most satisfying breakfast. A crisp copy of The Statesmen arrives along with a pot of Darjeeling. I pour myself a cup as a pair of Japanese golfers tee-off "fore" and the ball is hit some distance away. They walk forward enthusiastically as the caddy waddles behind with a smile, hunched under the weight of a large load of golf equipment.

Everybody knows about the Bengalis love for talk, especially about exalted topics. It usually a careless chatter about anything from Dostoevsky to the vagaries of Indian cricket selectors. It usually involves some amount of talk about cricket, football, Calcutta, food and always a footnote about the songs of Tagore. Conversation permeates over the breakfast table, something about how the Jews of Calcutta were the first to introduce rickshaws from the far east to Calcutta and hence India.

Interesting but since I have nothing to add I nod enthusiastically as I steal a spoon of cornflakes into my mouth. The crowning moment of morning has arrived on a porcelain plate - scrambled eggs, hash browns, sausages, fried tomatoes- and my knife and fork are put to work.

Conversation is replaced by the clatter of cutlery as toasts are devoured whole. That is what you call a breakfast - an English breakfast for sure - but breakfast at Tolly is somewhat special, it is a Calcuttan breakfast if there was such a thing. Not to mention all that cost me a mere Rs 55.

Photo Essay: Ram Lila - Backstage with the Gods - The Anthropology of Theatre

Akshay — Sun, 8 Oct 2006 13:15:32 EDT

[Ravana sans the most important face]

At every moment in our lives, perhaps, we are to some extent actors or performers, as well as spectators. When performers and spectators "connect" it creates a very special quality of theatre that both transports and transforms all those involved. In India we cherish this strong link between reality and fantasy first through theatre and now through film. All this age-old mimicry of life somehow affects us and in return this mimicry is in itself a self-definition of the society we live in. This is the anthropology of theatre.

I think Ram Lila or the enactment of Ramayana every Dassera stands as an example of this link between society and theatre. "Lila" or "Leela" roughly translated means "wonders by his grace" so RamLila should mean the creations/magic/wonders that Ram created with his abilities or the creative interpretation of the same by the actors of the Ram Lila itself. In other words the Ram Lila is a self-critique of Ram's life mirrored by the life of the actors that express it. The Ram Lila affects an entire population and has a dramatic and enduring effect on the lives of the poorest and the richest.

Since I was already fascinated by the socio-cultural importance of the tradition of Ram Lila I decided to visit Ram Lila Sabha at Cross Maidan. I spent the greater part of yesterday with the theatre artists of this Ramlila to get an idea of the training and production they go through, so that people like me outside theater come to a much deeper knowledge of the physical, emotional and intellectual demands made on such actors playing characters respected by the general public as gods no less.

[The stage is yet to unfold]

[Hanuman's many sidekicks]

There's music in every corner of the back tent in Cross Maidan. While a stray beat of the tabla distracts me, I can hear the collective sounds of "ghungroos" in the vicinity as the small group rehearses to the sounds of the Hanuman Chalisa. A group of men in their vests sit crosslegged in the foreground applying a rich array of face paints, while costumes, masks and a trunk full of props litter the tubelight lit hall of the tent. Now the soft murmurs of actors engaged in serious discussion can be heard. Sitting in the corner watching them prepare is in itself filled with degrees of drama. The picture of chaos is evident but then again it is a relaxed chaos slowly building up tempo to its crescendo when the curtains rise to hundred or so spectators to be dazzled by the story they know so well but still wish to see in technicolor reality for the umpteen time. Thirty minutes to "curtain rise" and Hanuman is still to attach his eyebrows and his tail has gone missing since the last performance; Ram can't find his right jhumka, Sita is straightening her [his actually as all Ramlila artists are men] blouse; Laxman is fiddling with Ram's bow and Ravana still not ready can be seen alternating between sips of a cup of chai and a beedi he borrowed from Sita. In other words it was all a messed up surreal dream exactly like the one I had about Jesus riding a Harley.

Many Stages of Hanuman

Stage 1

Stage 2

Stage 3

Stage 4

[and that is only the face]

While shooting Ram Lila artists, I was faced with several dilemma, or let me rephrase that, there were several Laxmanrekhas I had to cross and be done with during the shoot, besides the slowly deteriorating light in early evening. First, you cannot shoot Ram or Laxman or Sita in the same frame as Ravana as it's ungodly, second if Hanuman is to be shot with Ram or Laxman he has to be on his knees and the list goes on. What was more disappointing was the fact that they wouldn't let me a take a picture of myself in the Ravana mask. That would possibly have been the best ever blogger profile pic but alas it wasn't to be. It is all about getting into the character I guess.

[20 minutes to curtain rise]

[Ram himself]

[Brother in Arms, Ram and Laxman are messing around with me]

All in all it was one of those rich Indian experiences that you only find by looking. It made me understand the essence of Ramleela and hence theatre and film. They implicitly ask us to re-evaluate our performances in our daily life, and discover for better or worse the social reality it reveals.

Youc can see rest of the photographs in series here - all images can be seen large clicking

[with inputs by Lavanya on flickr]

Foaming Tides in Orissa

Akshay — Sun, 3 Sep 2006 13:26:45 EDT

[Wooden Catamarans at Puri, Beach of C.T Road]

I am left counting the stars on my ceiling, the sound of the ocean soaks in, as the sand riddles the sole of my feet. The sky in its burnt dusk slowly burns a light pink till it gives away to an almost neon blue. A full moon night in June on the cleaner side of the beach in Orissa - bliss. A light drizzle and the clumsy trudging of feet wake me from my momentary calmness. This is Puri, for in its dysfunction lies its beauty. A few hours earlier, we had arrived here on a crowded bus, the kind that will stop anywhere for anyone as long as they can pay the fare of a few rupees and are willing to ride on the top of the bus if they have to.

[Crowded Bus to Puri from Bhubaneshwar]

Even if Puri was not a temple town steeped in history it would have survived for its stretches of golden sand, crusty waves lashing the shore and an unblemished skyline that greets you warmly. The beach, which is lined with local women selling an array of crystal and shell jewellery and fishermen displaying their catch of shiny fish and glistening prawns, is a whirl of activity.

The conical hatted local young men, who double as lifeguards, are as much a part of the beach as the surf and the sand and are a safe bet against the treacherous undercurrent.

[An old man greets the Bay of Bengal with as much enthusiasm as the children to his left]

Puri was once the weekend resort of maharajahs and wealthy Bengalis from Calcutta. When the British came to the coast to bathe away some of the dust, they built or rented large beach villas; many retained them after Independence some well into the 60s. Today these properties are owned by the not-so-wealthy Bengalis and are leased as company guest houses. I was told that till about five years ago they were the only buildings facing the bay, and it was rare, indeed an imposition, to share that glorious beach with anyone except the fishermen and occasional shrimp peddlers.

[Fisherman hauling in the nets at Pentakota near Puri.]

Anyway, we stayed at an LP recommended, strangely named Z Hotel, which - excuse the falsely futuristic name - was once owned by the Raja of Serampore, and had managed to keep its bougainvillea filled old world charm. Our stay there was pleasant even though our auto-rickshawallah on arrival at Puri had given us the impression that it was raided and closed down by the police permanently - he quickly backtracked when I proceeded to remove my cell phone and call them.

What else is there to do after a 14 hour journey but to sit back, relax and watch the Bay of Bengal change her tides.

Travelogue: Relax ! Have A Char Minar

Akshay — Sat, 2 Sep 2006 16:31:37 EDT

The ceiling fan rattles, clicks and sways as it cools the chai in the chipped porcelain cups that lie below. A boy, barely 15, in a torn banyan and lungi walks up to our table and slides two glasses of water across the marble top. He then heaves out a sigh as he walks away to the next the table - the occupants of which have called out to him with a sharp hissing sound and swift movement of their hands. The Cafe is a L-shaped institution with chipping walls, rotting sets of table and chairs and checkered flooring tiles hidden under at least a few centimeters of dirt. It is filled mostly with men, they slurp greedily at their cups of chai, munching aggressively at their meat filled khari. Another boy sneaks in from the back entrance walks up to our table and helps himself to the glass of water on our table before he is hastily shooed away by the head waiter, who then flashes us an apologetic smile and walks away in a hurry. These are the musty, yet strangely comfortable confines of one of the many Irani establishments among pearl shops, jewelers, hawkers, panshops, temples, dargahs and mosques that line the roads that ingress the Hyderabad's Old City.

[Josh drinks his tea in the " The Desisive Moment"]

[Hastily shooed away after a glass of water - see post]

I had arrived in Hyderabad a few hours earlier on the morning flight from Mumbai and like many visitors arriving at Hyderabad airport I was immediately drawn into the ambiance of the city. The crowd gathered at the airport is per fervid, like a large extended family. Meeting people or seeing them off is a ceremony laced with tears, fragrant with red roses. A woman, old and bent, waits to welcome a grand-daughter with a garland of jasmine. One man embraces another, unabashedly wiping away his tears with his white head scarf. For tears are part of the ritual, and rituals of caring and sharing are so common in India and why should Hyderabad be any different. This is my first trip to Hyderabad and it's a short one at that, a mere 12 hours before my train, The Konark Express leads me on to Bhubaneshwar.

[Hyderabad Street]

[Mindspace]

As our auto-rickshaw speeds across Hyderabad encountering only scanty Sunday morning traffic, the skyline changes slowly from ugly rectangular concrete blocks to that of white domes and minarets. The city sprawls among the smoothly sculptured rocks of the deccan plateau and straddles the Musi River. The change is only complete when you cross the Musi and you find yourself in one of the best bazaars in Asia, Hyderabad's ancient commercial center. At its heart is the Char Minar, a magnificent 400-year-old granite arch with four soaring minarets and wide arches opening out on all four directions.

["Life is often a up hill journey" Hyderabad street reminds me]

Cities, like people, have souls and as in many an Indian city, Hyderabad's soul is caught between two worlds - one old and one new. The new may be shiny, bright yet is concrete, ugly and plain where as the old may seem tired and beaten yet it has a hidden shine. The inscription on the old bridge that spans the River Musi linking the old to the burgeoning new city says, ''as safe as a pearl in its oyster,'' referring to old Hyderabad; yet sadly how long will the oyster protect this pearl. Beyond the frayed images of the past is the beauty of the forgotten, where the spirit of this place is still visible. You find it's old spirit walking down the glimmering Lad Bazaar, famous for its colorful bangles studded with semi-precious stones, the bangle-wallahs smile cheerfully and bow their heads as you pass by . Or as you sit at the steps of the Mekkah Masjid and observe kind elderly men playing chess keeping one eye on the chess board and the other on their grandchildren as they play cheerfully among the pigeons.

[ChuddiWallah at Lad Bazaar and below are his wares]

[A Family shares a light moment at the Mekkah Masjid]

[Blind Man's treasures at Hyderabad's Chor (thieves) market]

I'm a little tired now, may be some chai and khari will soothe my nerves and help me "relax and have a Char Minar" or at least help me construct one in my head where the old and new meet and live in harmony and where I can feel safe as a pearl does in the confines of its oyster.

[Click on the any of the images to view them larger]

Saira Likes To Draw

Akshay — Thu, 10 Aug 2006 12:25:00 EDT

It is getting to the end of the monsoons here in Alwar, which means the temperature of the air is just right, the sky a bright shimmering pale blue with giant cumulus clouds floating about. There is a slight smell of wood-smoke in the air, a smell that will probably stick with me and remind me of my time here. Alwar distict is not distinctly Rajasthan. Its proximity to Delhi, Haryana,and Uttar Pradhesh has shaped a Mevati identity which seemsto have absorbed several regional identities into one. Probably a little more time here and I could possibly make sense of this identity but for now I'm here in the village of Chandolli taking notes in my note pad.

I am sitting under under a khejri tree (Prosopis Cineraria)- revered for its shade and fodder in this region. Perched on its branches, in the early afternoon one might see a common hoopie, or rather hear it. And beyond the shade of the khejari, over the dusty road, the thatched roofs of the village are visible under a cover of trees, surrounded by fields of bajra and scrub bush; on the horizon, in a blue shimmer of heat lies the Aravallis like improbable overgrown termite mounds.

Behind me I hear the sounds of school girls as they recite their 6 times multiplication table. "Che gune ek che, che gune doh bara ......" and so on in a sing song rhyme. The school building on first appearance may appear merely to be a modest one room yellow building but in the last four days I have found it to be the staging post for an amazing transformation where village girls are given the opportunity to do something more than their long list of daily chores.

Take Saira for example. Saira likes to draw, an activity which her teacher encourages. Give Saira a sketching pad and a set of crayons and her talent will soon become apparent to you. She fills up the virgin pages of her note book with scenes of everyday Chandolli life. Here is a pencil drawing of a buffalo soaking itself in a pond in front of the school - it was all very recognizable - and here is a picture of turbaned man chasing off a donkey (or a dog I'm not quite sure). And on this page is a picture of a shop, a small baniya ki dukaan, with things in front of it which could have been a sack of spices or perhaps people sitting down one could not tell - but as I said before they are excellent sketches and deserved their status of being pinned up on the walls of the classroom.

When I said the situation here is grim it was more a reaction to the
statistics on female literacy - but children like Saira and her classmates make you see that change is at hand. This process needs to be encouraged and sustained so that we can reach out and touch more Sairas.

Valley on Fire

Akshay — Mon, 8 May 2006 05:49:32 EDT

Azure tipped mountains reflect a thousands hues of blue into the waters of the tranquil shadowy weed-ridden Dal lake. Morning prayers from the white domed single minaretted mosque, the Hazaratbal, resound through the till then silent confines of the valley. Darker tones give way to gentle blues as our boatman, Lasa, surges the shikara forward with his spade shaped oar. Dawn awakens to the music of a thousand birds and ducks swim by, as a fisherman waits patiently to catch his breakfast. A brown cheeked kingfisher swoops into the air and then maneuvers itself skimming the water for gnats as dapchicks make morning dives into the water in pairs disappearing and reappearing with tiny tadpoles in their beaks.

A curious Bulbull

This is what our driver Shakeel must have meant when he told us, "Kal dekhna, aap Jannat mai uthen gai" (tomorrow morning you will wake up in paradise). This was not the Srinagar we read about in the papers or see on the news channels. This is not the Srinagar of curfews and bandhs, of grenade attacks, of bomb blasts, of shoot outs, of encounters, of security checkpoints and bunkers, of armed men in uniform, of abandoned buildings, of sniffer dogs, of military convoys, of lurking fear and of 6000 missing young men. Sadly natural beauty is indifferent to the human suffering.

Generations at a Threshold

Frozen in a fifteen-year conflict between separatists, armed foreign insurgents and a stretched security force, Srinagar looks like a place in the middle of a war zone. In many ways it is a city under siege, a city that has almost lost its spirit. The victim, the ordinary Kashmiri, is left alienated by his own country and an army that was sent there for his protection. As a guide in the Kashmiri mountain resort of Gulmarg told me, "Hum kya boll sakte hai Bhaisaab, hamare awaz cheen lai gai hai. Humare mathe par ek calank chap gaya hai" (we have can't say anything brother, our voice has been taken away from us. Our foreheads have been branded).

Kashmir in the days I spent there struck me as a paradoxical paradise - a place of outstanding natural beauty and a beautiful people and a place of visible sadness. 1989 is the year that is entrenched in the minds of the older Kashmiris. It is the year that everything changed for them and so they bring up comparisons of the situation before militancy and after militancy.

The situation in the valley is getting better. For one, the tourists are returning and the once empty decaying houseboats in the Nageen and Dal lakes are once again brimming and mostly "sold out". Tourist buses are back ferrying, at this time of the year, mostly Gujarati tourists on to their next destination. There are good signs when the smiling man at the reservation desk tells you that it is the first time in nearly two decades that all the hotels in Gulmarg are fully booked for the month of May and June. I am also told that there has been a steady reduction in the army and paramilitary forces in the last few years. There is sporadic violence by militants but is mostly targeted at the army. The Kashmiris nonchalantly are quick to remind me that this is a global phenomenon with similar incidents in Mumbai, Delhi, London, Lisbon, etc.

Dig deeper into the historic consciousness of Kashmir and you will find a rich and intelligent heritage often forgotten by its troubled present.

The Kashmiri poet Azad wrote against religious fanaticism:

"Pray, announce to all the Kashmiri the
secrets thou hast confided to Azad,

After casting away childish frivolities of Kufir and Deen

The light from the candle is for all;

Hindus and Musalman

In this vast expanse of Oneness

Who is my kin, and who a stranger to me?

A Musalman is to me as good as a Hindu;

My deen is fraternity, my dharma is oneness.

My light is meant for one and all...."

The Chinar Tree is the symbol of Kashmir and it's known to take a thousand years to reach its full size; my only hope is that it takes less time to heal the wounds of Kashmir.

In the words of Shair-e-Kashmir, the poet Mehjoor:

"Arise, O Gardener!
Let there be glory in the garden. Once again!

Let the rose bloom again

Let Bulbuls sing of their love again!

The garden in ruins,

The dew in tears,

The roses in tattered leaf-

Let roses and Bulbuls be kindled anew with life!"

Bombay Wanderings in Mahim

Akshay — Mon, 27 Mar 2006 13:44:12 EST

Traffic on Mumbai streets does not ebb and flow like the tides of the Arabian Sea. There is always a constant torrent of vehicles travelling the citys' many thoroughfares and when things stop it is usually bad news or traffic jams, which to many is one and the same. Many a time I find myself a pedestrian in Mumbai, in a world full of pedestrians dominated by a minority of fast moving cars and buses. The object of my attention lies patiently on the other side of road and I wait impatiently on this - waiting for a small gap in the traffic to sprint across the warm concrete road. What is in my sight you ask ? In one of the oldest parts of Bombay on what was once Mahim the island - the dargah of Makhdoom Ali Mahimi.

[Chaddars, blanket of flowers and sweet incense rising]

[Photograph me if you wish this man told me, but on one condition. No not money but a bar of soap. Why? you ask because I want to wast my face, hands and feets so that I can pray. I have my photograph he has his soap.]

[A shopkeeper and his Mecca]

It is a green and cr�me single domed mausoleum to this Suffi saint that surrounds itself with a chaotic mix of devotees, beggars, people, the arbit taxi and a line of shops selling the most peculiar coterie of colourful chaddars [shawls], incense and flowers. The chaddars [shawls] are placed on the tomb to pay respect to the saint and gain his blessing. This dargah like its more famous city counter-part, Haji Ali is steeped in urban legend. For Makhdoom Ali Mahimi is the respected patron sufi saint of the Mumbai Police.

Wikipedia tells me,

During the annual ten day Urs festival celebrated on the 13th day of Shaval,[sometime in December] the Muslim calendar, millions of devotees visit his dargah. The highlight of this is a procession of around eight thousand begins at the Mahim Police Station, believed to be the site of his residence. Two policemen from each of the eighty four city police stations represent the police whose association with the saint dates back to the saint's era. A representative of the Mumbai police who is the first to offer the "chaddar" (shawl) at the tomb on the first day of the festival. Legend has it that it was a police constable who gave water to the dying saint from his cap. Another story points to some miraculous assistance policemen once received from an old man, whom they believed was the saint, in fighting smugglers.

A room adjacent to the office of the senior inspector of police station contains a steel cupboard that houses the saint's preserved belongings such as his chair, a pair of sandals and his hand-written Quran which is considered to be a calligraphic work of art. The room is opened once every year to the public. In 1920 the cupboard was purchased by a senior British police inspector, Raymond Esquire as a tribute to the saint he revered.

[If I were the copywriter on the Hutch account :Orange (Hutch) ka chota re-charge for RS 2.]

[A large Sunday Brunch on a lazy evening - the small pleasures of like]

[Biriyani is cooking]

What lead me here wasn't the green lights of the dargah but the slow rising glint of smoke from the charcoal that lit the kebabs red. Yes food is my first concern and on Sunday evenings just like the lanes that surround the dargah play host to a khao gulli [food lane] of sorts. A food lane that answers your every gastronomic prayers from baida rotis to kebabs to rich ghee filled rava halwas [sweet] served with crispy parathas and sweet faloodas.

In India food and spirituality are never far apart..... and I'm not complaining.

Shadow City - A Look at Dharavi

Akshay — Thu, 23 Mar 2006 08:49:16 EST

Ramshackle corrugated tin, plywood, plastic, pukkah bricks, sheets of asbestos, sweat, toil, people and garbage make Dharavi, just like piles of earth, sand, clay and other materials make ant hills. Dharavi and many other slums like it are nothing but human ant colonies built by legions of our urban poor. They are places which are at the same time sombre, moving, joyful and interesting.

Push and pull factors bring people from our villages here everyday in search for something better. They settle here right under our apathetic eyes. But under the squalor is great spirit and ingenuity. I went looking for this spirit in this place most people refer to as 'Asia's largest slum' but I would prefer to call it the 'Heart of Mumbai'.

The business laws of this land are not applicable in Dharavi. How can they be applicable to a place that for all legal reasons does not exist? Dharavi is beyond our traditional India babudom of red tape, licenses, duties, municipal permissions, paperwork and taxes. Dharavi is therefore in a sense a 'Free Economic Zone'. The Economist in an article suggested that 'Dharavi, one of Asia's largest slums, covering 220 hectares (530 acres) near the airport, has some 100,000 people producing goods worth over $500 million a year.'

Other figures suggest a figure twice that amount. The real figure is anybody's guess but this just confirms one thing - Dharavi is less a slum and more an unorganised, unregulated industrial estate, a showcase of Indian entrepreneurship.

The Thirteenth Compound

(The 13th Compound)

Sunbeams stream down through the tiny holes in the red asbestos roof of the ticket counter at Mahim Junction East. The overhead walkway lies deserted in the afternoon sun, as people prefer to use the shorter more dangerous alternative of crossing the tracks. The shoe-polishwallah, dressed in a dark navy blue uniform, looks up at me hopefully. He then focuses on my open sandals and looks away with a feeling of monetary loss.

A short walk away from the Mahim crossing lies the place in Dharavi called the 13th Compound. This is a place unlike any other probably in the world. On entering you see neatly parked Hero bicycles in a pile to your left and large industrial sized used paint cans stocked up to the sky on your right. You look up and wires criss-cross intersecting the cloudless sky. Hammer on metal is a distinct sound, a sound that reverberates in the stuffy lanes of the compound, as ragged men dressed in shirt and lungis set the environ alight with this metallic jazz, as they bash with heavy metal rods 10 litre tin cans that were once filled with cooking oil.

The "knic-nackety" sound continues as I walk ahead, getting first louder and then softer as I pass more sheds. The polishing, beating, cleaning, melting and burning continues, for the 13th Compound is where Mumbai's scrap is given a new life and recycled. A man with a huge stack of cardboard, precariously placed on his head, whistles from behind me; it was a polite way of telling me to move out of his way. Little boys carting wheelbarrows filled with small bits of plastic runs by me. The 13th Compound recycles everything: cotton scrap, metal scrap, tins, paper, glass bottles and plastic drums.

This brings me to an observation I made during my trip to Byculla a few months ago.

In a city that wastes nothing, everything has a market as long as you are willing to pay something for it. Junk is a word that does not exist. If it has a use it will be used to its maximum.

Tin cans for recycling

Plastic is being recycled and remoulded. Obviously melting plastic will emmit its share of carcogenic gases.

The Raadiwallah on a short bidi break.

The raadiwallahs and kabadiwallahs bring all the scrap they have collected to the 13th compound and sell it by the kilo. It is strenuous work bringing kilos of scrap to Dharavi from different parts of Bombay.

Cooking oil tins being cleaned and recycled. I asked her how much she gets paid and she told me fifty rupees for a 12 hour day.

Walk across a foot bridge, over a sludge filled canal flowing into the Mithi river, and you are in another part of Dharavi. I decided to visit the section of Dharavi along the Mahim-Sion Link Road. The passages here are narrow and not more than 4 feet wide for the most part of the way and at some places a mere 2 feet.

The Soap Factory

Large metal troughs lie on the floor filled with a solid bluish green brittle solid. Light skids through the tin roof onto the face of a middle-aged man perched on his haunches as he bends down with his hands coming down on what appears to be an agglomerate of used soap. He notices the stranger in his midst and smiles, his face glowing with sweat but yet he continues with his work with a degree of automation.

Behind me boils an industrial sized vat of molten soap as another worker stirs the giant cauldron with a stick. What is being made here is soap; no not the face moisturising variety but the coarse 'kapda-dhone walla' (detergent soap) variety. Interestingly this soap factory in Dharavi was started by former workers from the Hindustan Lever Ltd (HLL) soap factory in Sewri which closed down due to labour issues. They started making soap (very similar to the HLL Soap) to protest the lockout. It sells for about 4 rupees a bar which is less than half of what a branded soap costs, giving the soap an assured market among the poorer classes.

Whenever I think of soap I am reminded of this man I met on the streets of Mahim who approached me with a strange request,

Photograph me if you wish but on one condition. No not money but a bar of soap.

Why you ask?

I want to wash my face, hands and feet so that I can pray.

I have my photograph and he has his soap.

Tie, Dye & Tailor.

Walking in one of the shopping districts of an Italian city I came across a leather boutique with the most unusual sign outside its door. The sign read "Genuine 100% Italian Leather Not Made In India". That was just an anecdotal introduction for the 2 billion dollar Indian leather industry which employs over 2 million people. If you ask any knowledgeable shopper in Mumbai where you get the cheapest and best quality leather products they are not going say the Oberoi Arcade but Dharavi.

If you have ever driven down Mahim-Sion Link Road I am sure you would have noticed the gleaming leather showrooms on either side of the road, with names like Quality, Step-In, Ideal leather, etc. In their confines you can buy jackets, wallets, bags, belts and a variety of leather products. These products are mostly export rejects or surplus products, produced by the leather manufacturers of Dharavi. Though officially all the leather tanneries have supposedly been shifted to Deonar, smaller tanneries still persist in Dharavi. I found one of these tanneries during my visit.

Inamullah

Inamullah, is a stumpy man in his late fifties, with a jovial face, crooked teeth and a receding silver hair line. He is one of the many daily wage earners, employed in Dharavi for the processing of raw hide. The ground is covered with woolly, bloody hides sprinkled with a crystalline white substance which appears to be salt. Inamullah picks up one of the leather hides and tells me,

Each week we get hides from the slaughter house in Deonar. We first salt then and treat them to remove all the blood and make them smooth.

The pungent smell which disseminates from the open yard reminds me of formaldehyde at my school bio lab or the ammonia in crowded public urinals. For the first few seconds the odour grabs you by the throat and it is only a minute or so later that you can somewhat bear it. My aversion to the smell causes Inamullah to stop and he continues only when I make eye contact with him again.

We then send them to Chennai where they are processed to become leather. The processed leather is then sent back to Dharavi for finishing.

Finished hides being loaded on to a truck to Chennai

Finished leather being dyed

Garment factories are also quite common in Dharavi; they supply everyone from Walmart to your local kapdamarket

Cottan yarn being sorted

Blouses at a makeshift garment factroy

Another view of the garment factory.

It is hard to find an idle soul in Dharavi, it is a cesspool of activity, buzzing with energy and ingenuity, always fighting, always dreaming and looking to the future. It is then that I realised that the only idle soul in Dharavi was me.

This is the first post in a series of post on Dharavi.

Britannia & Co, Bombay - Berry Pulao and Good Parsi Food

Akshay — Thu, 16 Mar 2006 13:16:17 EST

"Mildew-covered strange old buildings", are the words that come to mind each time I'm in Ballard Estate. The reason for today's visit - food, more specifically a type of food , even more specifically a restaurant and to be honest one particular dish - Berry Pulao . What am I talking about you say ? - good ole' Britannia of course. At the corner of this hugely commanding wonder of oxidation, the War Memorial and opposite New Customs House, where "new" is a tag the building has long grown out of is "Britannia & Co - ." A restaurant whose philosophy is "There is no love greater than the love of eating," puts everything into perspective for me, another self affirming moment in my short life.

Even though you count the Parsi joints in Bombay[well in India] on your fingers, Edward VIII, Ideal Corner, Jimmy Boy, Paradise, Piccolo just to name a few, but out of all these places Britannia & Co is pretty special. I'm not taking about their fabulous Dhansak which I would count as the best dhansak I've ever eaten after Dorabjee's Poona of course - it's their Berry Pulao. A dish that makes them unique. As BusyBee famously said, "If it's Berry Pulao, it must be Britannia."

Equally popular is the restaurant's berry pulao, Rs.60 [NOW 160 RS] for mutton and chicken, Rs.45 for veg [NOW 90]. They are the Barberry Berries, at least, I think so. They grow wild in the Middle East, on spindly shrubs, a red berry. In Iran, they are used with rice, in restaurants and in homes, and Britannia's berry pulao comes from Iran. The late Mrs. Kohinoor, though a Parsi, meaning not an Iranian, spent seven years in Teheran as legal assistant to Iran Airways, and brought back with her the berry pulao.
In Iran, the berries are known as zereshk, and the pulao as zereshk pulao. The berries are dry, like raisins, but sour and with a sweet aftertaste. Mr. Kohinoor compares them to dry pomegranate. I would not know, I have not seen a dry pomegranate.

In any case, the berries are cooked with the best quality of basmati rice, then the marinated and masalaed meat placed between layers of the rice. And there is a garnish of cashewnuts and fried onions. Plus, a few kababs. Note: This is the only place in India that you get berry pulao.

- Eating out with Busy Bee

So if you're looking for some great Parsi food - Salli Boti, Dhansak & daily specials and not to mention their famous Berry Pulao, Britannia is the place to be.

What did we Order ?

My family lives by this simple moto when we're at a Restaurant - It's better to over order than under eat. We are not afraid to carry doggy bags back home.

1 Mutton Dhansak [Comes with rice]

1 Chicken Dhansak [Comes with rice]

1 Berry Pulao

1 Bombil [Bombay Duck] Fry

1 Salli Boti

Desserts

2 Caramel Custards

Note: Everything was Brilliant.

Address in Full : Britannia and Company Restaurant, Wakefield House, 11 Sprott Road, 16, Ballar Estate (Pier); (91-22) 22615264. Open for lunch, snacks and drinks Monday through Saturday 11:30 a.m. to 3:30 p.m., but lunch only 12:30 to 2:30 p.m. Closed Sunday. No reservations or credit cards.