बदलते वक़्त का इक सिलसिला सा लगता है कि जब भी देखो उसे दूसरा सा लगता है ~ मंज़र भोपाली

During this trip to Bhopal, a Bhopal Carnival was on. Cultural shows, food festivals, and heritage shows were held at several venues across the lake city. Bhopal Haat on the lines of the delightful Dilli Haat is an ambitious and well-intentioned initiative but it was thanda-thanda.

The handloom and handicrafts exhibition at Gauhar Mahal was enticing as always. But I guess it’s more for its historical, architectural and romantic ambiance than for the shopping that I’m drawn there. When the evening lights come on and the lake in front shines like an endless sheet of glass, reflecting the lights of the city, the green-glassed windows from the turrets of Gauhar Mahal lend the evening a mystical charm.

The other delightful experience was the late-night mushaira held at the Iqbal Maidan surrounded by as much history as any place can hold  – remains of three palaces – Shaukat Mahal, Zeenat Mahal and Sheesh Mahal and two beautiful masjids - Moti Masjid and Heera Masjid. The poetry echoing from the lighted facades created a surreal experience.

This is where the mushairas are held.  Photo courtesy: Gulrez Raza Khan

Now for the heartaches.

The Kamla Park so seeped in my personal memories had grass and weeds growing out of the statue's head. It was unforgivable.

The beautiful new road along the Bada Talaab is incorrigibly called VIP Road! I hoped and prayed all these years that a namkaran would happen but the name has stuck. It is like a slap on the face of the Bhopali ethos. Imagine getting out of the magnificent Gauhar Mahal with the grandiose Bada Taalab in front and then on to the VIP road !! ?? The options are lovely - Gauhar Mahal Road, even Begum’s Necklace or Begum's paajeb, kangan, bajuband... anything.

Then, Hamidia (College) became MLB (College) and MLB became Hamidia much like the Karva Chauth kahani – Rani bani dasi aur dasi bani rani. As if it was that simple! To rip-off an entire living, breathing milieu – identity, aura, history and thrust it on to another bleeding trunk with no concern of whether these will live – take root?

The loss is more MLB’s than Hamidia’s, in my opinion. Generations of girl remember the dipped in, tree-covered haven right in the heart of Ginnori; a world of their own next to the Chota Talaab. Imagine the girls’ hostel across the lake and the girls coming to college by boats. It was a way of life. Now I hear many girls from conservative families will not go to college.

I asked many passionate Bhopalis how they could let this happen? Why was there no public outcry, movement, protest? It seems it happened overnight. The reason given was Hindu girls run off with Muslim boys, it being predominantly a Muslim area. God!

दे और दिल उनको जो न दे मुझको ज़बाँ और

Aam - Behad Khaas!

Wonder why people HAVE to eat mangoes on trains! How long can a train journey be? 30-35 hours? We wait 9 months for the mango to arrive and take over - first the serendipitous sighting of the lemon-colored, melon-sized Safeda or Badam – great for the breakfast mango shake; very slowly the thicker-skinned, darker but better-loved cousins Langda and Dashehri that are saved for after dinner and which soon appear after lunch too…. Then the days become mango-filled. ‘Aam kha lo' – the offer/directive at every hungry un-snacktime. The crispy, crunchy raw kairi presents itself in the form of tangy aam ka panna, pungent pudine ki chutney, syrupy gudamba and the glorious aam ka achar to last the whole year.

But still? What’s with people who cannot forego the pleasure of eating mangoes during train journeys!!

Admit that unless neatly peeled and diced – eating a mango is MESSY. Dinesh never forgets to remind us that angrez used to eat mangoes in the bathroom. And here they are making the whole train compartment a bathroom!

The kid sucking the last dregs of an almost transparent skin has the sticky orange liquid running down his elbows. Inevitable. He looks around and finding everyone’s focus on the fruit in their own hands alone, runs his tongue – from the elbow to the palm – one neat job (one less for the mother if and when she cares). I’m glad its over and no sudden movement of the train can throw him onto me – mush and all. But immediately mummy dearest notices his khaali-haath, clean and empty and supplies him another sun-colored slice filled with holy nectar.

He looks at me through his mango-brightened eyes and I quickly decide to go buy mangoes on the way home from the station.

Remember Mirza Ghalib? Only donkeys do not eat mangoes! :) A lesser known kissa is when asked to comment on the mangoes he was eating, Ghalib pronounced, 'Aam meethey hon aur bahot hon'.

Aameen!

PS: My jaw dropped when Valcal served us aam-ras in Bombay. She did that to the Alphansos!

Monkeying around?

The Bada Bandar (big monkey) controversy makes me smile. Don’t jump to conclusions. Oops! is that racial? I mean, if you suspect I’m hinting at the one that jumps, no, no, I never meant that – I really meant that please don’t walk like a human being to any conclusions. A thousand apologies. I’m against all racial slurs.

But 'Big monkey’? Think about cultural connotations and of the hundreds of times we have been referred to as bandars by our parents alone. In fact, I always thought bandar was a term of endearment. I wonder what Bhajji called out. Bada aaya Bandar kahin ka!? Imagine the Aussies scampering to translate it as – Big monkey? Aha! That’s Racist! Racist!

But what makes me smile is remembering Papa recount this incident from when he was a student in Amreeka. He was being driven around by a fellow American who was swearing profusely. He turned to Papa and asked for an Indian swear word. Mild as he was, Papa told him that he’d call a person ‘Salla’ which literally means brother-in-law. The next time someone cut him in, the American swore loud and clear, ‘That was my brother-in-law!’ Such a harmless word, Salla, but try calling someone that in the bazaar and literally ‘hands will be raised’. When I used it in one of my stories set in Delhi, a friend wondered if the term was foul enough to portray a Delhiite’s tongue! Salla is probably just a prefix up north.

God, is there joy in swearing! Papa would stealthily come up and whisper into our ears. We would call out ‘Mummyeee…' And Papa would say, ‘What did I say?’ ‘He called me lisa!’ Spoken backwards this was Salli –sister-in-law. We waited for Mummy’s decree that whoever said a ‘bad’ word had to clean their tongue with cow dung as was the practice in her Wardha ashram. But technically, Papa could not be punished. Though there was Yatiku too (I’ll let that pass without the translation), spoken backward these were just nonsense words. Many elders in the family were known for their sharp tongues and some of those ‘bad’ words that I can’t spell here are almost legendary.

As children we had to device ways. I hear of cousin Chuniya’s Harpil– a blend of harami and pillay! (literally translated – puppy of a bastard(?) – not quite the same thing :( ) nephew Chotu had ‘Green mango more’ for haraamzada (bastard). I hope the next generation upholds family tradition and creates more such colorful language…. hang on…they’re here to get me…something I said! Color! Noo….

Outta gas!

Except for the great fall at age O - the one and only event that relatives far and wide sparklingly remember and blame every trip in my step to - I have to admit my life has been quite plain and uneventful. When I meet someone new (new as in the first time and not age 0 of the great fall) the conversation only livens up when the topic of my birthplace/hometown comes up. The focus, mind you, is still not me but Bhopal, the gas tragedy town, where I also happened to be born and raised.

So where were you when the gas began to leak? Saucer eyes pin me. Did you have problem breathing? They hold their breath to simulate the effect. Did you fall down and faint? Their faces glow with anticipation now. Did you run out of town at midnight trampling over the dead? The expression takes on a semblance of morbidity. Did you at least know anyone who died? Some friend, relative or acquaintance? Their desperation is pulsating through appropriately solemn. Anyone who was in any way disabled? Contorting their faces here to give my memory a clue, a boost. No one. None at all. The light goes from their faces. How miserable to have missed being part of such an internationally famous tragedy.

I don’t want to dash their hopes completely by telling them upfront that I was peacefully asleep under my 7 kg cotton razai that cold December night. The morning after, I dressed for school and stood waiting at the bus stop. As it happens when school buses are late, our expectations for a holiday were rising. Perhaps the school building had collapsed, of course not hurting anyone; perhaps emergency had been clamped on the country, or maybe some forgotten staff had died – old peon, former teacher.

Instead someone came to tell us that gas had leaked. So what? We asked. How does a cooking gas cylinder leak affect the coming of the school bus, the closure of school? Gas till then was LPG not MIC. No, some poisonous gas that was killing people. Right now as we stood talking on the road, it was spreading in the city, quickly getting to us. They opened up their eyes and raised their claws to help us imagine it coming as a five-fanged dragon spewing hot poisonous gas over us. My God! we scampered home. But that is where the action ended. Any other ‘excitement’ pertaining to that event is only the change in routine, the school holiday and the hourly rumors.

People made themselves happy catching glimpses of the ruddy Prime Minister and other national leaders come hurriedly to see the men dying in hospitals, to visit the ‘affected’ areas with masks on their noses, to have pictures clicked and pasted on morning newspapers, to say how sadness has engulfed their hearts.

The ‘biggest’ industrial disaster. Right in my town and all I get involved in is gossip about a classmate, that too in another section, who has just relocated from the US and whose father worked there – in Union Carbide. The 'Big' official. So he might be jailed? Stoned by the angry mob if he ventured out? Big-eyed, we discussed secretly. He would definitely lose his job. Where will he work and how will he support his family? Sad we became. Poor girl. I never met her gaze again.

We donated old clothes, woolens, food and money. But went no where near hospitals or the affected areas where people were breathing out the deadly gas they had breathed in then; where every living thing was showing signs of dying. The underground water was getting laced with poison, the fruits and vegetables were growing stunted, distorted and sooty, the animals were behaving abnormally.

Soon the government was doling out free rations to all. All included not just those who were ill, had lost family, were unable to work, were coughing out the gas, or watering it out from their eyes and noses, but those who lived hundreds and thousands of kilometers away and were peacefully asleep that night. They stood in arduous queues to get their names registered. The ones with the wasting bodies could not. People became fat from eating free food, not working. Men gambled on the streets all day and drank all night to come home to beat their wives. There was no need to work. People got their relatives living in far off places – Champawat, Munger, Kurukkuchalai, Pimpri, Naukh and Jorhat – to fill in the ‘gas claim’. They were visiting, it said. How very unfortunate that they were in the gas tragedy town that very day! Then on, they had to come to Bhopal regularly to collect their compensation. Poor things! They came on free railway tickets and to lessen their burden they brought family along and holidayed in the beautiful lake city, just so thankful they were to be alive.

Prices of stuff rose. People were growing rich. The Luna rider could buy a Bajaj Vespa and a Bajaj owner a car. Maruti 800s lined up New Market evenings. Real estate became Real Estate. Flats sprang up where nallas were. Bhopal swelled and overflowed. To the other side from Union Carbide factory. New Bhopal. The town spilled over and ran into the countryside, the neighboring villages and nearby towns. People bought land in the outskirts to start residential schools, restaurants, dairy farms.

Every ailment, every malady was attributed to The Gas. Anyone who coughed over food gone into the windpipe was gas affected. Onion tears were due to the gas. A nervous stomachache before exam was surely gas - MIC. Bhopalis of the typical Bhopali-accent who had never said ‘sorry’ in English were spouting words like 'methyl isocyanate', 'MIC', 'Warren Anderson', 'compensation' fluently. For years to come, just this bit ' the full form of MIC is---' came in handy in my general knowledge tests.

Nov 27, 2007: On December 3, 1984 Bhopal woke up to the worst industrial disaster which had overnight killed thousands of people and affected the health and future of several generations. My heart goes out to all those who suffered death of dear ones and those who continue to bear the ill-effects of that day, 23 years later.

June 22, 2010: And suddenly there's a brouhaha again. What happened? The rip van winkles woke up to find that there's a bhopal and an anderson that can keep them in the news still? and loads to milk besides?