The Mumbai Daredevils

The IPL season and well to repeat a clichéd phrase, the cricket fever is on. But as the true aficionados would have found out by now, there is no such team as Mumbai Daredevils. It’s either Delhi Daredevils or the Mumbai Indians.

As it happens, I am very much a devout Cricket-ian and follow this religion fanatically. Further it is a mortal sin not to know Cricket in India, so unless I have my scriptures (facts) wrong, this is not about IPL, is it?

No, nope nopa nope. This is about the true daredevils of Mumbai, the Auto-Rickshaw Wallahs (henceforth referred to as ‘Daredevils’). Dressed in sleek white or Khakhi uniforms, these modern day warriors deliver the always in hurry Mumbaikars to their destinations. And like our all time favourite spy, Bond, James Bond who goes from one messy fight sequence to another with his tuxedo coming out cleaner every time , these warriors don’t lose their sheen either throughout their crusade.

Fighting the Mumbai traffic every day, the Metro rail construction at Andheri Kurla Road, the flyovers at Western Express Highway, the submerged Milan Subway, the burst water pipes at Juhu, name it and they have braved it. Not to mention the smooth dealings with the Maamu at the crossing when he has caught them jumping the traffic signal.

True Gentlemen these Daredevils are, maintaining a well oiled machine, following the fare meter to the T, returning the balance to the last Rupee and being extra kind to the old and the pregnant (mutually exclusive terms). Never to relent from earning their fare, if stuck in a jam of any sort (not fruit jam, silly) Daredevils will get you out of it. They know each No-entry, No U-turn, No parking signs by heart and make full-use of them; after seeking your approval of course.

Talking of Daredevils one must acknowledge the machine that gives them their identity. The Auto-ricksaw. Bearing the colours of a bumble bee (yellow and black), it has the same mighty buzz and the same mighty sting. Carrying the Mumbaikars, the ordinary and poor, the rich and the famous, the in-power and the out-of power politicos to their destinations, they carry the eternal spirit of Mumbai on their cushioned seats

One doesn’t need despair if one doesn’t spot an auto-rickshaw on the road. Just yell “Rickshaw” and lo and behold, one will materialise out of nowhere. Such are their magical powers. The magic is bound to be so, as they are so near to God. The interiors of each Auto-rickshaw are a mini-temple/mosque /church/gurudwara depending upon the orientation of the Daredevil. And they have the power to convert the most stringent atheists into believers. Just ask an atheist to hail an Auto-Rickshaw one day and in no time will the Daredevil’s driving skills have them praying for their lives.

I read somewhere that there is a very thin line between being Brave and being Foolish. I propose an amendment, suggesting that the ‘thin line’ be replaced by ‘iron-grill partition’. My proposed amendment is based on the fact that the brave Daredevils don’t care for their lives as long as you reach the destination and we are foolish for hiring the Auto-Rickshaw despite knowing the same. It goes Vice-versa too. But whichever way it goes, there is no ‘thin line’, there’s an iron grill partition between the two.

Whatever be the case, every morning when I am getting late for office, my very own Daredevil come to the rescue and makes me reach the office, always on time, though with my hands clutched for prayers.

Of books, chants and red bicycle

Every day at 7 p.m., I go to the gym, dressed in tee and shorts and hop on to my electronic bicycle. Adjusting its various controls, with the ear phones plugged in and loud music numbing my brain, I pedal along for 30 minutes. But this cycle is going nowhere (just like my weight loss program). Oh how I hate this cycle and recall the time when I was not a slave to this and actually had fun riding it.

*instrumental music and flashback*

That was an unusually pleasant summer, though a pleasant summer was what Dehradun had specialised in over the years. Ask the children of Dehradun how they have spent the most exotic summers tormented by their visiting cousins from the Delhi, Gwalior, Kanpur, Lucknow, Chennai for whom it has been a haven with their Grand-dads and Grannies having chosen to reside there .

But for me, well I was fifteen that year and nothing is pleasant during teen age. More over the summer holidays were on and I had been struck down by the most lethal virus the teenagers are prone to. And no, it was not L O V E; it was B O R E D O M.

I had no patience for my elder sister who spent her time being divinely beautiful, being aware of it and thus making life miserable for the chap across the street who was trying to woo her. My elder brother (number one) had no time for me, having been dragged into apprenticeship in my fathers’ construction business. And my elder brother (number two) also had no time for anyone or anything besides worshipping his cricket bat.

Before the holidays began I had been given the choice to spend the summer either at my Daadi’s home at Saha, a village in Haryana or my Naani’s home at Ambala, a small city in Haryana. That was like being given the choice of either being baked in an oven or being poached in a frying pan. And belying my teenage vocabulary, I POLITELY declined both.

‘I am bored’ had become my daily chant. No Buddhist monk is as devout with his chanting like a teenager is with the boredom chant. And the deity at whom the chant is directed at is of course the Mother. Now my mother having borne four kids is a pro at Crisis Management and imparts her pearls of wisdom to all the bejewelled ears at her numerous kitty parties.

However this was not what she had expected to hear from meeee. My teen years so far had passed quietly and uneventfully and my mother had assumed that God had finally listened to her prayers and she had been blessed with a child who would grow straight from childhood to adulthood with no pimples to deal with, no tempers thrown at her, and no crazy ideas of eating her young ones. But little did she know that having four kids is not a sin that can be atoned.

So my chants shocked her into silence (imagine that!) and it took her a while to heed to me and one lazy afternoon nap to come up with the solution. She woke up yelling “Books Books” “Library Library” as if Rudyard Kipling himself had materialised before her eyes.

Not a bad idea at all I thought. So the following morning, riding my shiny red bicycle (named Pony) I landed at Khushiram Memorial Charitable Pustakalaya and Vachanalaya (that’s library and reading room for the uninitiated). Looked more like a haunted mansion to me but the moment I entered it, I fell in love with the place. It was so cool in there, I guess because of the high ceiling. I wish I could go on and describe the architecture, but I think I summed it up when I said haunted mansion. I enquired about the fees, the system of checking out books, magazines and imagine my joy when told that I could take two magazines or comic books for the day and the books were issued for a fortnight.

I told my Mother that the Annual Fee was Rs.150 (yes digest that, Rs 150 annually) and she dished it out of her purse in a blink with kootchie coos and “ O mera padhaku bachcha ” thrown in for good measure. So began my tryst with Archie’s Comics, Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew, the wonderful world of Ruskin Bond, Kipling, the Bronte sisters, Dumas, Chekov et al.

But the daily rides to the Library were a joy on its own. Didn’t have ears plugged as it was not a time of I-pods. Few had those things called Walkman. My elder brother had one, but it was certainly not meant for me, any ways the batteries had to be funded from the pocket money so was used only on special occasions e.g. saving grace in front of richer cousins from Dilli and Chandigarh.

Hence I listened to the sound that came out of Sharda Sangeet Vidhyalaya (music school) on my way. Bunch of kids banging their instruments in hope of striking at least one right chord during the lesson. The yellow flowers of Amaltas along the road, the aroma coming out of Ellora’s Bakery ( pastry treat at the end of the week) , the Lychee trees weighed down with ripe bunches, their orchards being guarded by sleepy gardeners, were all a part of the ride. Not to mention the young army cadets with their crew cuts, out for the day from NDA making the heads turn of each and every girl in town and the young Buddhist monks in their orange-maroon robes looking so serene.

But the summer ended and so did my rides. Never touched Pony again. By next summer we had moved to a new residence, I had turned 16 and my father gifted me a brand new mini-scooter Bajaj Sunny. This scooter was my first ride into the rat race. It took me from school to tuition and another tuition and another till I landed up here today.

*twang and back to present*

Armed with a professional degree, spending hours after hours in the office I have piled on weight. To shed it , I am here in a gym riding this bicycle, which as I said earlier, goes nowhere. Its grey black colour makes me sad. Maybe tomorrow I’ll tie a red ribbon on it. Just to remind me of my little Pony.

P.S. In case you were wondering what happened to the chap across the street, well he did manage to woo my sister. They are married and have a 15 year old boy now, who’s spending the summer wooing the girl next door. Life does go around in circles. Yes it does.