Mumbai Meri Jaan

What does one say about a city that is guilty of the worst kind of inequity but where even inequity is not without irony?

The rich may own the world’s most expensive real estate and the fanciest wheels money can buy. The poor may live in squalor that reduces them to vermin. But the fetid smells of this city enter the fancy homes and slums just the same. The shiny cars ferrying industry bigwigs run on the same potholed roads and get stuck in the same soul crushing traffic as the modest Bajaj scooter precariously holding a family of four. I am not for a second saying that these make up for the disparity in wealth and standard of living. But the fact remains, no matter who you are, sooner or later this city will stand tall and slap you in the face.

Even disease spreading mosquitoes are shockingly democratic. They bring down the high and mighty with the same nonchalance as they do the invisible multitude.

The World Is My Oyster

I finished reading Leon Uris’s ‘The Haj’ last night.

The novel is based on the circumstances that led to the creation of the State of Israel and the human tragedy that followed this historic event.

It revolves around a few central characters-

Haj Ibrahim, leader of his clan

His youngest son, Ishmael (the story is from his perspective)

and Gideon Asch, the sensitive and humane leader of the Palestinian Jews.

Most of us are aware of the long standing Israeli-Palestinian conflict. As a kid I remember the world news segment of DD news being dominated by the strife in that region. So I knew the brass tacks but never really understood why both sides were engaged in a never ending war that ruined the chances of a normal life for generations of their people.

This book is a human story about the people whose lives changed irreversibly owing to a battle fueled by false pride, hatred and vengeance.

It is one thing to learn about an event through history books and quite another thing to experience the pain, hopelessness, helplessness and destitution of a people even if it is only through words.

I got involved in the story and felt devastated by the human catastrophe that struck the Arabs and Jews of Palestine. Almost overnight the Arabs were forced to flee from the land that was their home for thousands of years and were reduced to penniless beggars in refugee homes where they were shunned by fellow Arabs and lived lives that stripped them of their human dignity.

I felt the anguish of Haj Ibrahim who could not save his people from themselves. I sensed his overwhelming feeling of impotency when he allowed tradition and dogma to stop him from doing what he knew was right for his people.

I felt the despair of Ishmael, a bright young boy, mature beyond his age, with a yearning to learn and a willingness to work hard who had to give up on his dream of a better life for himself and his family.

Most of all I felt Nada’s pain (Haj’s youngest daughter). Her character gave me a sense of what it means to be born a girl in the home of a tribal Arab. How feeling imprisoned in your own body can drive one to actions that extract a price too heavy to pay.   

When I put the book down last night, I realized yet again, that books are an incredible boon in my life.

We are all imprisoned in our lives in a way. We are defined by where and when we are born. We are shaped by our limited experiences. We are influenced by the people we encounter. But books open up the world for us and expose us to experiences that otherwise we would never have.

Jane Austen’s novels gave me a taste of the life of a lady of leisure in Regency England. ‘Sophie’s Choice’ was a glimpse into the trauma of being a Jew imprisoned in Auschwitz during the holocaust. ‘Nectar in a Sieve’ made me feel petty, sulking about the recession because it gave me a sense of the utter poverty that agricultural tenants in this country faced in the first half of the 20^th century. There is a part in the book where the central characters in the novel scrounge in the soil for a few grains of rice. ‘The Notebook’  brought me close to the plight of hundreds of innocent little girls that  are sold into prostitution in this country.

I could go on and on. But the point is, the books I have read have helped me break the shackles of my life.  They have bestowed on me the privilege of seeing many worlds, living many lives and entering many brilliant minds.

Life is a Circle

My dad has always been a very busy man. My brother and I would watch him from the sidelines with awe and reverence as he kept pace with his hectic schedule and countless work commitments. Dad was not to be bothered with mundane daily updates about our lives and consequently almost never knew what the kids were up to.

I was 13 when he found out that I was fond of reading books. The discovery was made thanks to a complaint from my mother. It was the summer holidays of ’94 and Amma was worried about my latest obsession. As is the way of children, every summer holiday I was in the throes of a new craze . This time round it was books. I had enrolled with a nearby library and had challenged myself with the task of reading a book a day. So every 24 hours I would be back at the library to check out a new book. Even the gentleman who manned the desk there was mildly concerned.

The task was not easily accomplished as one can imagine. I did nothing but read. I would wake up in the morning and start reading and would continue to do so late into the night. Amma was livid and was hell bent on ending the madness. When all her attempts to do so failed, she took the drastic step of complaining to Dad.

He responded to the complaint with a content smile much to Amma’s chagrin. His daughter loved books just as he did. It was a reaffirmation that I was a chip off the old block.

One day I was summoned to his room on his return from work and he handed me a package and said, “I hope you like it”. It was a copy of ‘Midnight’s Children’ by Salman Rushdie. It was the first of many books my Dad gifted me over the next few years.

He was obviously under the misconception that I was a child prodigy of some sort, if he thought I could read and comprehend ‘Midnight’s Children’  at age 13.

I read the book twice before I was 16. I did not know the meaning of many words. A lot of the subtext escaped me. But the story made an indelible impression on my young mind. I knew that it was a story of a lifetime. This book played an important part in transforming a passing fancy for reading into an eternal love.

I have forgotten most of the details of the plot. But I will never forget Saleem Sinai. And with all the buzz surrounding the release of the movie, ‘Midnight’s Children’ has been on my mind a lot.

Just the other day I was telling Ninad that I plan on reading the book again before I watch the movie (let’s hope it releases here). I also mentioned that my copy was a bad print and most of the pages had faded.

This morning before I left for work, I received a surprise delivery. A vintage copy of ‘Midnight’s Children’. It is a gift from Ninad. 

Treasure Hunting

I am half way through ‘The Haj’ by Leon Uris. It is an interesting read and I will post my thoughts on it when I am finished.

So this book has been part of Ninad's book collection for years. I was always intrigued but never got around to reading it. I finally picked it up as part of my ongoing 'retro books' fever.

And if old is what I was looking for, old is what I got. This one is an absolute treasure. It is battered and bruised as a testimony to its age. Infact it fell apart in my hands when I began to read and Ninad had to duck tape its spine before I could continue.

One day I was sprawled on the couch delicately turning the pages of the book, When I turned to N and asked "Where did you find this book?" ,

“At this small second hand books stall in Mahim about 7 years ago.”, he replied.

I smiled warmly. You see, I have a special place in my heart for hole in the wall second hand book shops. The smile disappeared when he added, “ I went back a couple of years ago when I was in the vicinity . It’s not there anymore.”

I looked ruefully at the book in my hands. I was just reminded of what I already knew. I might never own another one like it. The only old books I’ll have are ones that will age in my possession.  

I am not being dramatic. The culture of second hand books is dying fast, if not dead already. Atleast in my experience it is.

The few that are still functional are nothing like the ones that were around earlier. I’ve been to quite a few in the past couple of years hoping to find a decent book to buy.

The only second hand books that I found were either pirated versions of popular books or trashy reads that are bought by the dozen at a small price and then thrown out once read. No thank you.

This is not the only problem. Once I went into a store in Pune that looked like it stocked second hand books. The rear end of the premises was used to pile old news papers and other throwaways, while the front had shelves with old books. Most of it was the usual rubbish. I picked out one and asked a very cocky and disinterested shop attendant the price. He wanted 90% of the cover price of the book and it was non-negotiable. I pointed out that it was a second hand book and pirated at that, the cover price would not apply even if it was new. He responded in what I think is his trademark nonchalance , “Lena hain tho lo, Koi zabardasti nahin hain”.

He softened slightly on seeing the hurt expression on my face and explained, “Library chalane main zyada fayda hain. Sirf tabhi bechte hain jab bahut accha daam mile”.

I think the blame for the death of second hand books can be squarely placed on our new found prosperity. Back in the day, people didn’t have money to fund such luxuries as non academic books. So book lovers kept their passion alive by buying second hand books and promptly selling them back in the market when they were done. The money thus made was used to buy more second hand books. People found pleasure in reading and not in owning books. A small amount of money could keep you well read.

We now live in times of plenty, never mind the recession. People who like to read walk into a swanky book store or log on to their favourite online portal and buy books by the dozen. Many of these books remain unread for months if not years as they are bought at a pace faster than they can be read. People who have no interest in reading buy books too, for their decorative value.

These books remain forever with the first owner or some irresponsible person who has borrowed the book and never returned it. Only the really lucky ones will be opened and read again. These books live out their lives as show pieces on a shelf.

I am guilty of this as well. I have never sold a book in my life. Infact if someone asks to borrow one of my books, I am physically pained.

The pleasure I find in losing myself in an old copy of ‘The Haj’ has given me food for thought. I don’t think I’ll be ready to part with my books any time soon. But I’ve decided to re-read all of them before I go crazy on flipkart again. Maybe someday I’ll be ready to let go of some of them. Someday.

My Cousin Rachel.

I love old books. The brown crisp pages and the intoxicating fragrance fill me with nostalgia. I hold the book in my hands with tenderness reserved for newborns and I can’t stop myself from burying my nose between the pages and taking a strong whiff every few minutes. An old book definitely adds another dimension to my reading pleasure.

So I am currently knee deep in an 'old books' phase. I finished one a couple of days ago and I am already half way through the second one. 

The first one, 'My Cousin Rachel' by Daphne du Maurier holds a special significance for me. Two of my closest childhood friends gifted it to me on my 20th birthday, the turn of a new decade in my life. I remember the three of us were heavily into du Maurier at the time, having just devoured 'Rebecca', we were craving for more  Victorian style romantic mysteries that were the author's forte. 

We were still in college and were understandably hard up for money. So we came up with an ingenious plan. We got our folks to approve a special 'birthday gifts' allowance and used the money to gift each other books that all three of us wanted to read. The 'birthday girl' would enjoy the privilege of reading the books first and then it would circulate. 

D, V and I enjoyed 'My Cousin Rachel' as much as we did 'Rebecca' and the book came back to me, its rightful owner. 

Years went by and we got busy with the business of growing up. I finished college in Mumbai, moved to Pune for my post graduate course, moved back to Mumbai two years later to work. With work, came money and with money came an avalanche of books. 'My Cousin Rachel' was forgotten.

A month before I entered the 3rd decade of my life, Ninad and I were visiting an old friend from my Pune days. As we sat in her drawing room, catching up, my eyes were drawn to a shelf with a couple of rows devoted to books. I went up to take a closer look at her collection. She had an old copy of 'My Cousin Rachel '. When I held the book in my hands, I knew it was mine. I turned the first page and there was that dedication written a decade ago-" To Shiril on her 20th birthday. May all your hopes and dreams come true". I felt many emotions in that moment but one emotion overwhelmed all else. Guilt. I had forgotten about the book. I didn’t even know that someone had borrowed it, let alone that the person had kept it for years.

So years later, as I was about to turn 30 I stumbled upon  the book that in a way ushered in my 20s. In someone else’s home, no less. Providence? Maybe. I can’t convince myself that it is simply a coincidence. Like Master Uguay said, “There are no accidents” :)

I read the book again recently and enjoyed it  much. It’s an old book now and is just as an old book should be. But this one is so much more. As I turned its musty pages I was reminded of the decade gone by, the journey from being a confused, unsure, wide eyed girl to the woman I am today. In my head I could see myself as I was then and I wished for a moment that I could go back in time and tell the young me, ‘Girl, you are going to be fine.’ :)