Zainab Bawa’s Blog

5 ^th October 2005

 

Interesting day today – two people assumed I am Parsi.

 

I was at Cadell Road . I asked a cabbie to take me to Mahim station

 

Soonawala Agiary side jana hai.

 

The cabbie was a very old Sardarji. He looked very dazed. He had a squint. Seemed like he had been drinking all night or that he was awake all night – his eyes were completely red. He agreed to take me there.

 

Lekin beta, aapko meri madad karni hogi. Thoda sa bata dena kahan jaana hai.

 

It was an interesting situation. We were two blind men (err … gender ghotala). I was dependent on him to take me where I wanted to go. He was dependent on me for directions – a very bad option because I am terrible with directions!

 

We approached the traffic signal.

 

I have to take a left from here nah? This is where Mahim is.

Uh, hmmm, uh-uh, okay. Whatever is closer!

  Oh, did you say Soonawala Agiary? Is that the Parsi temple place?

Yes, that’s exactly it!

I know where that is, vaguely. We can ask around. Are you Parsi?

Um, uh, um, yes!

Oh! So beta, why are there so few Parsis left in the city? I don’t see many around these days? Have they all gone to America ? What has happened?

Oh, chacha, the deal is that a lot of Parsis are marrying outside the community now. If you marry outside the community, you are disowned from the community – jaat bahar.

So then beta, what happens to property and all? What do parents do with their money and house?

(I fibbed) That becomes a legal matter then.

Oh! Like that!

 

I was enjoying this. We went in the wrong lane once, but a man on the street helped us out with the directions. We were not far away/awry.

 

So beta, are you married?

No.

Jaat mein hi shaadi karna. Jaat mein hi mazaa hai.

Haan ji.

 

I paid him the fare.

You know, I like Parsis a lot. That is because the man issued me my first license to drive was a Parsi. Since then, I have an affinity towards Parsis.

 

I was struggling to open the door.

Wait, wait. This is my taxi and let me let you out!

 

We said bye to each other.

 

[End of Journey]

 

zainab xanga

4 ^th October 2005

 

Someone commented yesterday about imaginations apart from noise in the urban. Quite an interesting thought! This evening, I decided to try out the experience of reality vis-à-vis imagination. I was doing an interview with someone at Crepe Station at Carter Road . After the interview, I decided to walk backwards to Khar station. This would mean passing through Danda village.

 

I started walking (thanks to R who says that people in Mumbai don’t walk at all – they simply take transport to get from one point to another!). It was amazing to see how the space of the Carter Road promenade ahead and this space starting from Sirley Village to Danda was such a boundary. Carter Road promenade is a plush space, what you and I would fashionably call ‘public space’. Its character is different. Its feel and experience is different. Now consider walking back on the same promenade from Shirley Village to Danda. There is no damn promenade. It becomes an all together different feel, space and experience. Everything changes – the crowd, the nature of the crowd, the activity/activities and the space. Seems like these are two separate spatial entities in one single space.

 

[Is space contiguous even in its physical form / demarcation?]

 

I am walking through the little stretch of Danda Village , lost in my own thoughts. I am walking with my head down. I don’t want to know whether people are looking at me, watching me, staring at me. I want to avoid discomfort. Actually, when I look up, there isn’t any discomfort. Everyone is busy doing their own stuff. Discomfort is inside me.

 

Here and there, now and then, I look up and see. I see a chicken shop and an Querishi Mia, bearded, wearing his skull cap, holding one of those koitas in his hands, ready to slaughter. There is a saloon around as well. The photo outside the saloon is of a gay looking gora , quite unlike the usual phillum stars who lace these saloons. I start to think of metrosexuality, locality, looks, appearances, styles and trends.

 

As I am moving out of the stretch, I notice a mandir on the opposite side of the road. Clearly, we have territories defined within spaces. Spaces acquire territorial characters. Borders, boundaries, walls … I am fascinated by continuum of human existence.

 

Somewhere within the space

Before I am lost

I need to find

A sense of place

 

Somewhere within the mass

The crowds

I need to find

A sense of place

 

What place?

(Crowds)

With whom?

Anonymity

Synonymity, Companionship (Yikes!)

Belongingness (that is it!)!

Sense of Place

 

Somewhere within the place

Somewhere within the mass

I have carved out space

I am found

 

(Insecurity …)

 

[End of Journey]

zainab xanga

4 ^th October 2005

 

Space is an all pervading aspect of our lives.

 

This evening, I was traveling from Dadar to Khar in the ladies compartment of the Borivali bound local train. It was a mad rush getting inside the train at Dadar. I followed the simple law of existence in local trains – stand in the middle of the crowds; you will get pushed in anyways! I jostled my way through to the door on the other end so that I am well-prepared (well in advance!!!) to get off at Khar station.

 

As is customary (urban conventions and practices of everyday), women started asking around with other women standing at the door whether the latter were getting off at the next station. If they weren’t, then the former would ask them to move aside so that they can get off. Today, standing firm, right in the middle was a burkha clad woman from Northern India , perhaps UP (her accent revealed so). She was irritated with women constantly pushing her. There was literally no space to move and shuffle around. She shouted back, “Why are you pushing me?” Nobody could care for her because the rule in the train appears to be ‘care for yourself and the rest will take care of itself!’ A woman asked the burkha clad woman, “(getting off at) Khar?” The burkha clad woman replied that she is getting off at Borivali. The woman wanting to get off at Khar asked her to move aside at which the burkha clad woman lost her temper, “Where is the space to move? I want to get off at Borivali. I am not moving from here. Just because I am an outsider you females are treating me this way.” She made a remark about her being Muslim and being treated this way. Other women said to her, “Borivali is the destination of this train. It therefore makes sense that you get inside and stand. And if you don’t of your own will, you will get pushed inside irrespective because this is the modus operandi in trains.” The women gave genuine advice to her. But she was not one to listen. She tried hard to stick to her place (space and place?!?!?!). Ultimately, she had to move in. She started muttering, “Ah! I should have gotten inside the next train. Wahan par aaraam ho jata (it would have been relief there)!” The other women standing at the door started laughing, “Sure, you would have experienced interesting aaraam in the next train. They would have flattened you out. Stand near the window, right inside – hava paani milega .”

The women began discussing her. “Her husband must have gotten in the general compartment and instructed her to get into the ladies and get off at Borivali.”

The pushing and nudging had become severe. I had ear phones in my ears, listening to GO 92.5 FM. But more than the music, I could hear the multiple noises around me – women talking, cell phones ringing, shouts at women pushing. Some noise is futile nah? Or should I say useless?

 

The pushing became severe. I thought we would throw out the woman standing right at the door at this rate. Seems like there is some kind of harrowing insecurity about getting off at the station which gets women to push harder and harder – I don’t know how this helps anyone!

 

As Khar station arrived, I parked myself right in between. I got thrown out – just what I needed!!!!

 

In the evening, I was returning back from Kalina. I stood at the bus stop, waiting for a bus to take me to Kurla station. The bus arrived. There were several passengers getting off. And there were passengers eager to get in quickly. A young girl besides me started to push me in order to get in. I naturally retorted back to her, “Can you wait for people to empty out before we can all get in?” She did not respond.

 

I find this practice interesting. Even in our trains, we want to get in first before we let people get out. There is this drastic insecurity of missing the ‘train or bus’, therefore let’s hurry in. When I started traveling in the trains in Netherlands , the first time around my instinct was also to get in before I could let people get out. That is when I had to stop myself and ask, “Is this what I should be doing here?” I discovered that if I don’t let people get out, I can be beaten and slapped for being rude and inconsiderate! (Urban instincts!)

 

Ending on a philosophical note today, I find this process of emptying out before filling in an important one. I read Eileen Caddy’s ‘Opening the Doors Within’ everyday. The thought for the month of October is a metaphor of Autumn causing trees to shed leaves and that is when the Divine speaks, “you have to empty out the old before the new can fill in.” I have to let people get out (of the bus/train) before I can get in – else I cause a jam / a deadlock. Does not help me or anyone else …

 

 

 

zainab xanga

4 ^th October 2005

 

I returned back a while ago to write these words …

 

In bus number 69, a lady was sitting besides me. She tapped on the shoulder of woman sitting ahead of us. I assumed that both of them are known to each other. She tapped the shoulder and said to the woman, “Up the zip.” It was then that I noticed. The woman sitting in front of us was wearing a kurta which had a back zip. The zip had slid down a bit and was showing the woman’s bra. Promptly, the woman upped her zip and said ‘thank you’ to the lady sitting next to me.

 

I wonder about these practices among women. What is it about tradition, past, customs, limits, cultural boundaries, that does to us what it does in a city? What does it do to us?

 

zainab xanga

4 ^th October 2005

 

Walking through the city

Traveling through skin, sweat, touch, intentions

Walking across the city

By people, through people, besides people

 

I am walking past Gloria Convent School , wading through the hordes of commuters coming out of Byculla station and going to their places of work. We rub past each other. We touch, but accidentally, incidentally, intentionally …

 

Walking through the city …

 

I boarded bus number 126 from Jijamata Udyaan. Number 126 took me past Rustom Baug, Mustafa Bazaar, Hasnabaad, Dockyard and Mazagaon.

 

Walking through the city,

Traveling through memories, nostalgia, past/s

Walking through the city

Reminiscing old times – living in the present

 

I love these interior areas of Byculla and Mazagaon. They give a very rustic feeling to me. I am reminded of my childhood. I am reminded of scents, smells, sights, scenes and vivid family histories. I recollect stories of the various mazaars and dargahs of the area.

 

Walking through the city

Wish list of the past – travails, trials and tribulations of the present

Walking through the city

Anxieties, hopes, expectations, images, imaginations, dreams – of the future

 

I am awestruck with the old built structures of these areas. Some of them are worn out. But they have a feel to them which the glass and steel structures don’t. The glass and steel structures symbolize speed which characterizes the contemporary city. In contrast, these rustic roofed structures are a symbol of space, of pace – pace which is diverse in the diverse city – not everyone need be rushed.

 

Urbanity – depravity, corruption, vice

Walking through the city

Ugly, immoral – each of these are but device.

 

Walking through the city

Dirty, unclean, unkempt, unclear,

Webs, hydras, complications, confusions

Nothing is clear.

 

As the bus moves out to Clare Road area and beyond, it seems like I have come out of a village and am onto the streets. There are noises, sounds, blares from the cars and persistent honking to get through the traffic. Some men are wearing the tikka on their foreheads. I know their religion. Some men are wearing uniforms and standing outside shops, selling luck with products. I know their professional loyalties and employments.

 

Trying to make sense of the mass

I look for signs and symbols

Walking through the city

I live by guesstimates

 

Finally Grant Road has come. It seems like a rich start to the day. I think of noise which is everywhere. Just as I step into the BMC school building where my workplace (partly) is, I see a boy walking in front of me with his mother besides him. He is wearing hearing aid. I wonder what noise means to him …

 

[End of Journey]

 

 

zainab xanga

27 ^th September 2005

 

I am back at Marine Drive today. I am quite well-dressed today. I was supposed to go out, but that programme was cancelled. I decided to wear the same outfit and accessories and walk at Marine Drive .

 

My Cell Phone and I: Earlier, when I used to sit and observe people jogging and walking at Marine Drive , I would notice the marked use of cell phones. Joggers and walkers would either be listening to music through their cell phones or they would be talking with someone through their cell phones.

These days, when I walk back and forth at Marine Drive , I use my cell phone constantly. I am chatting with someone or the other on my phone. And I find that I am not much removed from the publics and practices.

If joggers are not talking on their cell phones, they are walking with partners / friends they have developed in the course of jogging.

I wonder then, whether it is difficult to walk alone, in silence. Is noise a very essential part of our existence in the city? Are silences very tormenting? Is quiet disquieting? What happens in cities?

 

Myself and Others: I was walking towards the Lands’ End at Marine Drive . Suddenly someone tapped me on my shoulder. I turned around. It was S. S was my senior in college. He jogs frequently at Marine Drive . You could say he is more of a runner with his own periods of regularity and irregularity. About three to four months, I initiated a conversation with him in an effort to interview him and to understand his experience of space at the promenade.

Today he tapped my shoulder while running and indicated that he wants to talk to me after he has finished running upto Lands’ End. He returned back and started chatting with me. “I noticed you from behind and thought it was you. I said to myself – here is someone who has been missing from Marine Drive for sometime. Where were you?” I told him about my illness and therefore my inability to be at the promenade. We started talking about work – what he was doing and my new job and my intention to quit it.

He expressed concerns for my health as if he were truly concerned – pretensions that we wear in the city. “Yeah, you have lost a lot of weight and you are looking different,” he remarked. “We should catch up,” he said to me. I assumed that ‘catch up’ meant the promise to do the interview which has not yet happened. But S had a different idea in mind. “Let’s go to a Lounge Bar this Saturday.” In my own mind, I laughed aloud. I was reading his attraction towards me. I agreed to go to the Lounge Bar with him, knowing fully well that I would cancel the programme at the last minute because I am not interested in going to a Lounge Bar or for that matter anywhere else with him.

We departed. He kept running along the promenade. Then he began exercising on the sea wall. But I was not interested in pretensions and impressions.

As I walked along the promenade that evening, I questioned the very notions of community that I have been fantasizing and romanticizing about all this while. I questioned class – what is the difference between S and Manoj Kumar? I questioned gender and gender discrimination / reservations / equality in the city? I questioned myself and my research practices. I questioned insecurities, loneliness and the self as each exist in the city – entwined, enmeshed, side by side, besides, insides, inside each other. What happens in cities?

 

Santosh Yadav and I: I was chatting with my sister on the cell phone and walking. Just at the promenade, opposite Hilton Towers , I saw Manoj Kumar with his sing-chana peti . He was about to cross the road. It seemed to me like he was packing his bags for the evening and shutting shop. I decided to stop talking on the phone and ‘catch up’ with him. “I am wrapping up business for the evening. Now I will go to the other side to help my brother who has set up a bhel-puri stall,” he said to me. “Life is very difficult now at the promenade. The police does not let you do business here after 8 PM. I am thinking of wrapping up my business and going back to the village. I will set up a shop there with two and a half lakh rupees and I will be well off.”

“ Chaliye , have some peanuts today,” he said, starting to fill up a packet for me. I started to offer him money. “Let there at least be one day when you don’t pay me for the peanuts,” he insisted. I refused, more out of the fear that I wanted to maintain boundaries with him. “If you insist on paying, just give me one rupee,” he said finally. I ultimately gave him two rupees. Then he remarked, “What you are wearing in your neck is beautiful.” He was talking about the little necklace I had adorned. I became conscious and said to him, “Oh yes, thanks. I have made this myself.” I was lying. And I was lying because I did not want to reveal my monetary riches – I wanted to be at his level and interact with him through that level. But I realized that there will always be a difference, not so much in a monetary sense but in a cultural sense. He could be richer than me in terms of monetary possessions, but in terms of culture, I will always be ‘high class’! What happens in cities?

 

Myself and My Vulnerabilities: Perhaps after the Manoj Kumar incident, my vulnerabilities as a woman will be there for a while. I don’t know whether I should call them vulnerabilities or fears. There are times when I feel I should be dressed as plain Jane when I go about with field work because people’s perceptions and impressions of me would be different then. And then there are those times when I ask myself why should I not be myself and dress the way I like when I am doing field work. Would things be different if I was male? What happens in cities?

zainab xanga