Monthly Archives: April 2019

Love on the beach

Life lessons from a dog…

 

© 2019 Marlon de Souza. All rights reserved.

Advertisements

Business is bad today, but I can’t give it all away to the dogs

His roadside stand is outside a tourist shop in McLeod Ganj, a half hour above Dharamshala in Himachal Pradesh, northern India. He’s alone on this side of a busy tourist street with no other vendors next to him. A general store to his left is shuttered for the night. The painted letters on the front of the stand says Momo – chicken and vegetable dumplings popular in towns across the lower Himalayas. Almost every restaurant and street stand in McLeod Ganj sells momos. The chicken or the vegetable is mixed into a batter in small batches a couple of times a day and then steamed or fried to order. I’ve already eaten dinner, but I wouldn’t mind a small bite.

IMG_6087.JPG

He’s got a grown out buzz cut, fullish face concentrating on the potato fries in his iron karahi – a circular pot similar to a wok. The wind from the Dhauladhar range of the Himalayas is particularly fierce on this wintry night in March. I’m wearing layers under a heavy jacket, thermals and boots to keep me warm. He’s wearing a t-shirt and old trousers, a light North Face jacket and a pair of worn sneakers.

Any momos?” I ask him in Hindi.

“All gone, sir, it’s late now, but you can have soup and fries,” he replies.

I’ll pass on the fries, but the man intrigues me. All by his lonesome self at nine o’clock at night on this busy street in McLeod Ganj. Across from him is a Buddhist temple, its prayer wheels silent for the night, absent worshippers. A few meters away, on the other side of the street is a musician, wailing into the night, accompanied by generous amounts of hash and dancing puppet dolls.

Tanzin Thapa is the momo man’s name. From Dharamshala, he says. He’s been making momos in Dharamshala and McLeod Ganj for the past fifteen years.

Before that, “Bahut kuch kiya, labor kaam kiya, khetibadi mein kaam kiya, bahut kuch kiya — I did many different things, I was a laborer, I worked on farms, many different things.”

He’s worked in numerous places, he says, including Mumbai. At Grant Road station in South-Central Mumbai. Three months managing a small restaurant, two months with his own pav bhaji stand at the train station. Pav bhaji is a roadside snack for those on the go – a thick curry of mashed vegetables served with toasted, buttered bread. Light on the pocket, heavy on some stomachs.

Tanzin has also worked as a laborer in the famous Haji Ali mosque off the coast of Worli in South Mumbai.

He’s forty-eight years old. Of Nepalese origin, and a Pentecostal Christian. His family lives in Dharamshala, a wife and two children – an eleven-year old daughter and a fourteen-year old son. He works around five to six hours a day.

“Seven days a week?” I ask.

“No, I work six days. On the seventh day, I take a rest, like the Lord,” he says with a smile.

Five to six hours of work each day is enough to get by, Tanzin tells me. Some days are better than others. Some days are tough. “Today I made only a hundred rupees. What to do?” He laughs. A hundred rupees is the equivalent of a dollar and a half.

A stray dog comes up, familiar to Tanzin. It gets a couple of fries and goes on its way. A couple more dogs come by, but they’re shooed away.

“Business is bad today, but I can’t give it all away to the dogs,” he says as he chases them away. “Tomorrow it could be a busy day and I need to have fries ready for customers.”

He waves at me, head tilted to the side with satisfaction, even with a hundred rupees from a full day’s work. I take his leave and wander off to the wailing musician with the dancing puppet dolls.

© 2019 Marlon de Souza. All rights reserved.

Lessons from an unnamed dog in Mumbai

Happiness is making the most of what’s presented to you.

 

©2019 Marlon de Souza. All rights reserved.

If you go there, you’ll sit on your ass and you won’t come back

It’s a grocery store not far from where I live in Juhu, a suburb of Mumbai. I’m there for a short afternoon trip, just eggplant and lettuce. Oh, cashewnuts, and almonds. Yes, please. By the vegetable section, two store employees, stocking the shelves. One perched on a ladder, stocking the upper shelves, the other hands him stuff from a big cardboard box below. Yogurt is on sale, sir. Two for the price of one, he tells me. I’m all set, though, and head to the checkout register.

A short, older man is behind the counter. Slim built, in his late fifties, glasses, a slender salt and pepper mustache, salt and pepper hair combed to the side. He’s in a back and forth with an employee who calls him mama (uncle – mother’s brother) out of respect, deference, salary. Maybe he’s one of the store owners.

Mama, I’ll just go fifteen minutes on my bicycle, just fifteen minutes, the employee says in Hindi. A taller man, in his early to mid forties, average built with a belly, longish, wavy, black hair, thick black mustache, stubble, tired eyes. Here only I’m going to see my uncle. I just need to talk to him for a few minutes.

No, you’ll stay here. No deliveries for you today. You work till 8 pm and then you can leave. 

But, mama, I won’t take that long. Please understand. My uncle needs to talk to me.

No means no, beta (son). If you go there, you’ll sit on your ass and you won’t come back. Why don’t you tell your uncle to come here to see you? I want to see who this mysterious man is, for whom you have to leave in the middle of the day everyday. Bring him here. 

But, mama, you know how it is.

Yes, I know all of how it is. I know everything about your afternoon trips to your uncle. You go and god knows what happens. No, you stay here. Now step aside, I need to ring this man up.

The employee moves away from the counter, a bewildered look on his face. I’m rung up. As I leave the store, the attempted negotiation resumes.

© 2019 Marlon de Souza. All rights reserved.

Abhi, sab theek hai – everything is fine now

IMG_7728.JPG It’s a quiet ride in the rickshaw this morning, relatively quiet on the way from Juhu to Bandra, my daily routine for a week now. Suddenly, horns blaring all over. A red Mercedes is causing a traffic jam on this one way road, going in the opposite direction. I’m reminded of the words of a rickshaw driver from a few days ago – For the rich people, they can do anything and nothing happens. I make one wrong turn and I’ll have to pay a policeman.

Looking forward, I notice my current driver has agarbattis – incense sticks lit at the front of his rickshaw. And an arm-sized fire extinguisher behind him. I wonder if the one has ever had to meet the other. It’s a very brief ride, not much traffic outside of the traffic jam earlier. As I pay the man, I notice his right hand has two thumbs fused together. I ask him if it’s an inconvenience, and how was it as a child. He says he’s right-handed, it’s not a problem. As a child, he would be upset, but now this is normal.

Abhi, sab theek hai – everything is fine now,he says with a smile.

As I take a picture of him, I learn his name is Saroj Nair, from Bihar in eastern India. His  next fare arrives before I can learn more.

© 2019 Marlon de Souza. All rights reserved.

Old places, new memories

img_7650-e1554568974654.jpgI’m done with the yoga class in Bandra, Mumbai. I’m hungry now, even though I ate breakfast not two hours ago. I walk a few minutes down Perry Cross Road, in the direction of a bakery, past St. Paul’s Road where my long dead grandfather used to live in his big bungalow. In front of a low-rise building is a man in a security guard’s uniform, with a big red tikka on his forehead, the marking Hindu men wear after a puja. In his right hand is a bright red handkerchief. He’s mumbling something, it seems, until I realize he’s chanting prayers as he stands outside the gate of the building where he’s employed. I smile at him, he smiles back, eyes twinkling, hands folded in a namaste. I keep smiling and I keep walking. India is a land of colorful people with fascinating sights everywhere. I keep walking but I’m riveted by this man, his colors, his smile, his kind eyes. I’m compelled to turn back.

I walk back to where the man is standing. We begin talking and I extend my hand in a handshake. He shakes my hand, then takes it in both his hands and bows down slightly, touching his forehead to the back of my hand. I, in turn, take his hand in mine, bow down slightly and touch my forehead to the back of his hand. Then he folds his hands in a second namaste, which I return, while he’s looking kindly at me all this time. Harihar Prasad Borthiya. From Lucknow, Uttar Pradesh, a northern Indian state, the most populous, a state from where millions of villagers arrive in Mumbai every year in search of work. Most of them find work as laborers, rickshaw drivers, watchmen – security guards, and often, as jacks of all trades.

Harihar Prasad Borthiya has been coming to Mumbai for almost thirty years now, since 1990, a few months, a few years at a time.

“I come, I go, I come for a few months, then I go for a month to the Ganga river. Now, in this building now, I am working for three years,” he says. “I just came back again two months ago. Then I’ll leave next January to go to the Ganga river.”

He’s seventy-two years, he tells me in Hindi. Seven two, he repeats in English to make sure I got it right.

He has two sons in Mumbai, both drive cars, chauffeurs for well-to-do people. One lives and works on Mount Mary Road, near Bandra Bandstand, the other works near Bandra talab, the big pond near Bandra train station.

He has a small room at Bazaar Road, the road that goes through Bandra’s main food market, winding its way through the fruit, vegetable, meat, poultry and fish markets. The room at Bazaar Road has a small stove to cook food. So you live on Bazaar Road, I ask, to confirm.

“Yes, that’s where I do my night duty.”

Aren’t you working here during the day, sir? Day shift here and night shift there?

Yes, I go there in the evenings, do night duty there. There’s a young man who brings food there. 8 am to 8 pm here, 8 pm to 8 am at Bazaar Road.”

I enjoy my sleep and don’t function well without a good night’s rest. I wonder aloud how and when he manages to sleep.

“Well, the night duty is not so stressful, I can take it a little easy, everyone’s asleep, not many visitors to that building, so I get some rest.”

No home in Mumbai, then?

Home? No home in Mumbai. Day shift here, night shift at Bazaar Road. A working man works all the time. The small room I have there is enough.”

Shower? Toilets?

Oh, there’s one there, there’s one here. I can go anywhere. I spend the night there, I take a shower at 5 in the morning, I give thanks to God, do my morning puja and I leave there around 7:30 am. That way, I’m here for my day duty by 8 am. I eat lunch here, dinner there. Lunch is daal chawal (rice and lentils), night is rotis (whole wheat flat bread) and vegetables.”

“But I have a home in Lucknow,” he adds, coming back to my earlier query. “I go to the Ganga river every few months. My wife is there, I have three daughters-in-law there. Two sons are here, one son is in the village. One daughter-in-law came here to take care of her husband, my son. But she left after three months,” he says with a laugh.

“It wasn’t working out for her. Dehaat ke rehne waale log shahar ko kam pasand karte hai – country people don’t care for city living that much. That’s why even my own wife came here and after two, three months, she said, chalo, main ghar ja raha hoon – okay then, I’m going home to the village.”

He tells me that when he goes to the village, he stays there for at least a month, sometimes two. Job security is not an issue, he’s been coming to Mumbai for thirty years, and even in this place, when he comes back after two months, they remove the temporary watchman and he’s back at his job.

I ask him if I can click his photo.

“My photo? Saab, I’m not a movie star, sir. I’m just a working man. Who will want to see my photo?” he says with a laugh.

Photos clicked, selfies done, we part ways with another namaste, another taking each other’s hand to our foreheads with regard.

Further down, on the road to the bakery, I pass Theresa, the Catholic woman from my erstwhile parish who used to talk to herself on the street, back when I was a little boy. I remember the words of my aunt back then, stay away from the mad people, who knows what trouble they’ll bring. Theresa is older now, gray-haired and several wrinkles, still talking to herself and cursing out anyone who dares to make eye contact. I look at Theresa and I don’t see anyone bad, just a person muttering to herself out loud, while many of us mutter to ourselves in the apparent privacy of our minds.

© 2019 Marlon de Souza. All rights reserved.

Good morning, Juhu

IMG_7658

Tree-lined streets, people in wind-blown auto-rickshaws, people in air-conditioned run of the mill and high-end cars, pedestrian traffic, banks and ATMs every few minutes, restaurants catering to the appetites of the middle-class, a well-worn road and a laborer pushing his well-worn handcart to his next job.

© 2019 Marlon de Souza. All rights reserved.