That Mumbai is urbs prima indis, or that she is a whore waiting to be taken by the next customer, are oft-repeated images of the city, that brook no repetition. To me, a localised Mumbai-ite as good as any other, the city represents an attitude to life that is hard to come by in any other city. Certainly, living life in the city is hard, harder than in any other metropolis. It wrenches your life, twists your soul, ravages your body, and spits you out. And if more and more keep pouring in, despite this knowledge of what the city does to them, the apocryphal gold that paves the city's streets cannot be the only reason. And, just what is it that makes the city unique, I realised a day after May 8, widely rumoured to be Doomsday. Elsewhere on the western coast, population fled, but not in Mumbai. And certainly not the wretched living in the hovels and jhopadpattis, without whose services the lives of the well-heeled will grind to a halt. And what did the under-privileged do? Fulfill their wildest dreams in anticipation of possible extermination. In one shanty colony near where I live, the residents gorged themselves on dear Alphonso mangoes on May 8, and lived the next day to suffer indigestion and tell the tale. A city that worships Mammon cannot be expected to set great story by honesty, but every time I run into this quality among simple folk, leaves me feeling wonderful about a city that has become 'native place' to my daughter. Years ago, my wallet, with all my trainee journalist savings for a year and ID details, was picked clean in a crowded train, and returned courtesy a telephone call from a woman who 'came across' my purse and took pity on the (then) innocent visage looking at her from the press card. Meeting up with her was a fascinating story: she was paying guest to a Muslim landlady, whose brother-in-law Mehboob plied his trade on the local trains. Entreaties to go legit fell on wax-filled ears, and it was with hope that I was telephoned when she was given my wallet for incineration, a routine with them. 'Saab, you are a journalist, so please report him to the police, I am sure he will be all right once he serves a jail sentence.' Not a hard to comply with request, the only catch being she wanted her name kept out, lest he harm her. But the uniformed cops, to whom I reported the matter the next day, were not so understanding. 'Tell us how you know about Mehboob,' remained their line for the evening, changing slightly to become 'You journalists think you can do our job now?' Caught between their taunts and the lady's plea for confidentiality, I decided to let the matter be, but I sometimes wonder if Mehboob is still active on the Bandra-VT Harbourline service... Contrast that, with an incident two weeks earlier, when, reaching home after an evening of Sarfarosh at one of the new airconditioned suburban splendours I realise with horror that my wallet, containing a wad of notes, my driving licence etc, must have fallen out while I was trying the stretch-back seats. Driving back, the manager is co-operation personified even though the next show is one hour on. The gentlemen sitting where I was seated have not seen the wallet, nor did the cleaners who sanitised the area after the show was over. I drop enough hints that I was willing to let the money go, but that I wanted my licence back and the wallet itself to which I was sentimentally attached. But then, it was plush surroundings in which I was saying all this, entry to which requires a certain kind of morality, which also abounds in Mumbai. When I contrast this, with the autorickshaw driver who found that I had left a book in his vehicle one night, and came back the next day inquiring after the 'pony-tailed gentleman' who lives in the vicinity and leaves it with the local grocer, I wonder, why it is that those with greater needs are the ones to retain basic human traits. Maybe, a little adversity is good for the soul, after all. Without intending any religious slur, Sachin Tendulkar is to Mumbai what the Pope must be to the Vatican. However, when I was new to the city, it was still the other Little Master who represented Mumbai's soul. Sunil Gavaskar. My only interaction with him -- years ago when the newspaper I worked for then decided to feature him on the cover of its special anniversary edition -- was during a photo-shoot. He had no airs about him, and readily accompanied us to South Mumbai, happily getting down from his car and walking through slushy Azad Maidan as the photographer hunted around for just the right locale. It was a time when cricketers were not traffic-stoppers, but Sunny still commanded a fairly sizeable gawks and comments. And there was nothing artificial either about the way he responded to the crowds, talking to the pavement-dweller in Marathi etc. Today, of course, the baton has been handed over to the Boy from Bandra, who cannot step out without causing a melee as a recent chat on Rediff proved, but to me, Sunny will always be the first hero of the cricketing generation. Kannamma is a Mumbaikar from Chennai.
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