Aaa : Excuse me
Amount : A figure in negotiation
Bhendi: Generally okra….but also a code for sister fucker
Bhai : In the train means gentleman. On the street means Don
Raap Chick : Supremely well endowed girl.
Champal: Footwear
Dorling: A close friend of the same sex….usually used loudly on a cell phone to prove the coolth of a person
Chondu: Fucker in Guju hindi
Ding dong: Fidgeting in the train. “ Aaa bhai ding dong kaiko karrela hai”
Biddu: Nineties term for buddy. Now slightly out-a-fashion
Motarwala : Brand of cell phone
Leg stump: Male genitals. Usually announced loudly to ward off Hemus (see hemus)
Hemu : Homosexuals
Gud: Jaggery. Also Hemu.
Vasu: A young frustrated man….chasing any kind of girl.
Rakhi brother: Means a rejected proposal from a girl. Now just friends and shopping companions.
Kaakdi: Cucumber. Also means awesome.
Dalda: A cooking medium. Dollars in the bania shop.
Doctor: A contract killer who gives goli to his customber
Customber: Buyers.
Builder: In Kurla a very muscular man. In Malabar hill, the man with two BMWs and one Lexus.
Octomber: The month after September
Gardullah: A substance abuse victim.
Bhabhi: Sister-in-law. Also a woman trapped in a man’s body.
Tips: Breasts. “ aaa kya tips hai…boss!”.
Lip: Elevator.
Line: Career. “ Tu abhi bhi woh advertije ka line mein hai?”.
Outline: A gone case.
HiFi: Show off. Also upper class thing.
Khaliwali: Reference to the dancebar world.
Fielding: In Girgaum it means to stalk a girl. In Bhendi Bazaar deployment of the police force
Dubai: Head Quarters.
Quarter: A govermet accommodation. Also alcohol.
Off: Demise.
Heart: Cardiac arrest “ usko heart ho gaya”.
Rehmani: A high grade of germ in the arse
Sulemani: Another high grade of germ from the same region
Khajoor: Term for a guy acting smart.
Uncle: Sarcastically addressed senior in the local.
Aunty: Hot married woman.
Chagan: The husband of Aunty who is busy making money in the stock market.
Chaap: Making money. “ kitna chaap raha hai”.
Hatke: Unconventional.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Bumbaiya
Bumbaiya
Inspired by the announcement at Borivali station.
Bhari varsha ke kaaran sabhi posts iss blog mein 20 se 25 din tak deri se chal rahe hain. Asuvhidha ke liye khed hai. Vilamb ke liye shamma chahata hoon
This is Uttar Pradesh Hindi…..who will understand this in Amchi Mumbai.
But that’s another story.
Inspired by the announcement at Borivali station.
Bhari varsha ke kaaran sabhi posts iss blog mein 20 se 25 din tak deri se chal rahe hain. Asuvhidha ke liye khed hai. Vilamb ke liye shamma chahata hoon
This is Uttar Pradesh Hindi…..who will understand this in Amchi Mumbai.
But that’s another story.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Bus Karo
Mumbai has a pretty efficient bus system. I took the bus to work on Friday and repeated the experience today.
Being a Monday morning, the buses were slightly crowded, unlike Friday when I got a place to sit from Mahim. I had to miss at least three buses before getting on to one with some breathing space.
AAAGE CHALO yelled the conductor and I dutifully obeyed. He could sense that I am not a regular. I pressed a tenner in his hand and asked him to give me a ticket to anywhere close to Nariman Point. He was now sure that I am an experience seeker and not a commuter. He asked me for another rupee and said that Mantralaya would be the right stop. I moved further down until I was almost behind the driver.
It was about 7 minutes into the commute, when I heard the conductor screaming OO MANTRALAYA OOO MANTRALAYA. I hunched, looked outside and realized we had arrived at the Shiv Sena Bhavan. It suddenly dawned on me that the conductor was probably a loyal foot soldier of the militant Maratha party and he passionately believed that they would be in power soon, making this destination the new mantralaya. The joyous cries of OO MANTRALAYA OOO MANTRALAYA continue and I feel someone tapping my shoulder. I turn around and notice that the yelling conductor has reserved a seat for me somewhere in the middle. He tells the others to let me sit as I am doing a long distance. Surprisingly the people around are ok with this. I look at a lady standing right next to the empty seat and feel a tinge of guilt. She in turn smiles and ushers me to my seat. Wah this is the spirit of Mumbai and not the silly hype which the media propels the morning after every bomb blast capitalizes on the helplessness of Mumbaikars going to work.
SIDHIVINAYAK CHALA SIDHIVINAK UTRA. I see the lady next to me joining her palms in namaste. I almost reciprocate but I stop myself just in time, realizing it’s for the deity. Across the aisle a gentleman has finished his prayer and is getting back into his chappals. AAAE RAMBO AAAE RAMBO screams a young teenager. From his tone you know that he is just getting used to this new manly voice he has got a few days back. Rambo who is waiting at the bus stops responds and asks his friends inside “Which college?”. The boy who was screaming loudly just realizes a loss of voice. The bus moves on, and as Rambo begins fading into the traffic, the boy’s voice miraculously returns. He turns to his friend and whispers, “How was i supposed to tell him that i got into Andrew’s!”. His friend, a studious looking sardar says 78% mila, putting his head down. The other guy who was till this moment an underachiever is now consoling him! There’s always someone worse off than you in this city for whom you will always have sympathy.
CENTURY CHALO BENGAL CENTURY UTRA. I am looking out of the window at the unfortunate millions in their AC cars looking glum. Sounds of someone crying disturb me. It’s two teenagers, this time girls. One of them was laughing. Laughing? What is with these kids and their voices? The girls are not talking about admissions or college. I assume that they are in their second year. “ No he is not dead” “ I bought it that day only” “But that one dies ….he he….not at all” “ I will Finish it today” . I know for sure they are talking about the new Potter book. They are as clued in to the mania as any average teenager in New York or London. There’s a noticeable difference between them. One is very stylish while the other is a student. The stylish girl’s hand bag and wrist watch are coordinated. The other girl has a haversack and till date there’s no wrist watch that you can coordinate with it. I also begin to wonder whether the stylish girl is carrying too little to college or the other one is lugging too much. One has a hair style while the other has hair. At the next stop, the aisle seats next to me and the one in front get empty. The student sits next to me and her friend takes the other seat. Now like synchronized swimmers they reach for their bags unzip it, dig in and take out their headphones and music devices. The girl in front has an ipod and the one next to me, a cell phone that plays music. Now they have shut themselves from Mumbai. I take a look around and see that many in the bus have done the same.
I decide not to dig into my bag and use my ipod. I have no choice but to look at various interesting billboards, but that’s another story.
Being a Monday morning, the buses were slightly crowded, unlike Friday when I got a place to sit from Mahim. I had to miss at least three buses before getting on to one with some breathing space.
AAAGE CHALO yelled the conductor and I dutifully obeyed. He could sense that I am not a regular. I pressed a tenner in his hand and asked him to give me a ticket to anywhere close to Nariman Point. He was now sure that I am an experience seeker and not a commuter. He asked me for another rupee and said that Mantralaya would be the right stop. I moved further down until I was almost behind the driver.
It was about 7 minutes into the commute, when I heard the conductor screaming OO MANTRALAYA OOO MANTRALAYA. I hunched, looked outside and realized we had arrived at the Shiv Sena Bhavan. It suddenly dawned on me that the conductor was probably a loyal foot soldier of the militant Maratha party and he passionately believed that they would be in power soon, making this destination the new mantralaya. The joyous cries of OO MANTRALAYA OOO MANTRALAYA continue and I feel someone tapping my shoulder. I turn around and notice that the yelling conductor has reserved a seat for me somewhere in the middle. He tells the others to let me sit as I am doing a long distance. Surprisingly the people around are ok with this. I look at a lady standing right next to the empty seat and feel a tinge of guilt. She in turn smiles and ushers me to my seat. Wah this is the spirit of Mumbai and not the silly hype which the media propels the morning after every bomb blast capitalizes on the helplessness of Mumbaikars going to work.
SIDHIVINAYAK CHALA SIDHIVINAK UTRA. I see the lady next to me joining her palms in namaste. I almost reciprocate but I stop myself just in time, realizing it’s for the deity. Across the aisle a gentleman has finished his prayer and is getting back into his chappals. AAAE RAMBO AAAE RAMBO screams a young teenager. From his tone you know that he is just getting used to this new manly voice he has got a few days back. Rambo who is waiting at the bus stops responds and asks his friends inside “Which college?”. The boy who was screaming loudly just realizes a loss of voice. The bus moves on, and as Rambo begins fading into the traffic, the boy’s voice miraculously returns. He turns to his friend and whispers, “How was i supposed to tell him that i got into Andrew’s!”. His friend, a studious looking sardar says 78% mila, putting his head down. The other guy who was till this moment an underachiever is now consoling him! There’s always someone worse off than you in this city for whom you will always have sympathy.
CENTURY CHALO BENGAL CENTURY UTRA. I am looking out of the window at the unfortunate millions in their AC cars looking glum. Sounds of someone crying disturb me. It’s two teenagers, this time girls. One of them was laughing. Laughing? What is with these kids and their voices? The girls are not talking about admissions or college. I assume that they are in their second year. “ No he is not dead” “ I bought it that day only” “But that one dies ….he he….not at all” “ I will Finish it today” . I know for sure they are talking about the new Potter book. They are as clued in to the mania as any average teenager in New York or London. There’s a noticeable difference between them. One is very stylish while the other is a student. The stylish girl’s hand bag and wrist watch are coordinated. The other girl has a haversack and till date there’s no wrist watch that you can coordinate with it. I also begin to wonder whether the stylish girl is carrying too little to college or the other one is lugging too much. One has a hair style while the other has hair. At the next stop, the aisle seats next to me and the one in front get empty. The student sits next to me and her friend takes the other seat. Now like synchronized swimmers they reach for their bags unzip it, dig in and take out their headphones and music devices. The girl in front has an ipod and the one next to me, a cell phone that plays music. Now they have shut themselves from Mumbai. I take a look around and see that many in the bus have done the same.
I decide not to dig into my bag and use my ipod. I have no choice but to look at various interesting billboards, but that’s another story.
9.06 Slow
9.06 Slow
8.30: on a Sunday, an easy day to take the local, or so I thought. The sun was out after long. A five minute walk to Bandra station and I am there at the buzzing station.
After twelve years I was doing Bandra to Kandivili. It took me 45 minutes to get there but I don’t think I will get over the journey. Since I am not a writer I will write it like a railway timetable.
8.38: There’s a long queue at the booking office, not much different from the one in 1992. Some people still jump the line and a few meekly protest. The new addition was a red coupon-validating machine, which was ignored like the beggar who sat just below the ticket counter. I could feel my hand involuntarily patting my butt to check for my wallet. A few girls just approached the window confidently breaking the queue, but there were no noises made. The carpenter in front of me was solving a dispute in Begusarai, and he had the same mobile etiquette as the stock broker in the Red lounge. I knew I was second last as I was being tapped by the beggar at a well rehearsed pace. That was also the sign for me to take my wallet out. The last time I traveled, the ticket was a small piece of cardboard which was punched into a machine which looked like a G-Clamp. The new tickets are printouts; cool idea but they should have made them smaller and saved paper. I then ask for the coupon booklet also, and am relieved that they are almost the size of the old card tickets.
8.50: At the entrance of platform no.1 I see a desk and an earnest cop sitting and reading the morning newspaper. He is amongst the chosen few who have to be on the lookout for suspicious characters carrying suspicious objects. But the man in uniform is more interested in knowing whether the Aamdar from Satara has got a cabinet berth which directly effects in a plum posting. I thought the best people to spot suspicious characters were the TC’s. The TC’s also blend in with the whole station and appear out of nowhere. They also do not have to worry about the postings because they have it already.
8.51: I arrive on the footbridge that divides north and south Mumbai. Beginning to get the rhythm of the crowd. If you are in the middle you have to put in no effort, that is if you are going in the same direction as the millions that surround you. I take a side step and move away from the crowd. This is a good time to take a look at the indicators. There’s a Virar fast and an Andheri slow in between two Churchgate locals. I am shoved aside by a stocky tennis player. With his Slazenger slung on his back, he had already started playing the game. He is obviously heading towards the north. Meanwhile another person waiting next to me is talking in UP Hindi. His last price is Rs.1000 and not a paisa less. Diagonally two lovers are doing the goodbye dance. They seem to be in no hurry. The girl is so enamoured by her guy that she actually is seeing the motorcycle, which he is going to buy on EMIs, in his eyes. Vroom. Suddenly I realize that my train is standing on platform four. I run like the tennis player. It’s not that easy, a few strides later I realize that the game is rugby. Eight steps away, the train begins chugging and I begin the race with hope. I lose. 1996 I would have jumped in. Deeply disappointed, I try and make it back to the top of the bridge. Then suddenly, a slow train approaches platform one. The sprinter gains speed and reaches the train only to be disappointed by an Andheri local. I look around to see if people noticed what had just happened. But that’s the best thing about Mumbai. Nobody cares.
9.06 : That’s the train I have been waiting for. It has finally arrived. I realize that I am standing outside the marked area. I have to rush past the ladies and squeeze into the general compartment. I am almost eating the hair of a man from Bihar, till a sweaty arm finds its way under my nose. We have reached Khar and I have inched two and a half feet inside the compartment. A young Gujarati couple enter the train at this station, along with their 10-month old baby girl. The father is wearing a colourful shirt that would have put Salman of hum apke….to shame. He is holding the baby and looks no older than 24. The mother is short, petite and stern faced. She is also in wedding finery. I see her tailing him faithfully as he squeezes his way through, almost like keeping up the promise she had made to the pundit while doing the saath pheras. She suddenly turns her head to the man behind her and gives him a do-not-mess-with-me stare. The allegedly accused is obviously unaware. She has come fully prepared for this journey, a broach holds her pallu firmly in place, and only when she moves ahead does she reveal a sexy laced blouse back. Meanwhile the kid is bawling, the people in the compartment are almost numb to this. It is Ville Parle station now and the family has managed to move inside. Now here I notice the first major difference from the early nineties. Nobody offers them a seat. I remember then people would just sacrifice their well-earned seat to the mother and child, and even fathers got a similar treatment. The child is crying out loud. Those who are seated are just looking blank, one of them is reading a Marathi daily. We then reach Goregaon and the man who was reading the newspaper gets up. So, the Mumbai spirit is still alive, I say to myself. But I am sadly mistaken, for the man heads for the door, his newspaper folded neatly to a size smaller than A4. His station was about to arrive. As he journeys to the exit, he is elbowed by someone which gets him ranting about how Mumbai has now been taken over by the parapranthiyas(outsiders), and so leading to this rush on a Sunday morning local. I am curious which daily he was reading as he is so full of insights. I have also moved into a comfortable place. There are two places which provide comfort in a train. One on a seat, and the other by the wall. I notice SM Lall’s tuition classes poster which talks about quickly clearing the tenth and twelfth exams LEGALLY. Next to this poster is Katrina Kaif selling a soap on three USP’s. 1) No fillers in this soap like others 2) Highest TFM 78% 3) Graded as best in its category. I begin to think which consumer will go and ask the local bania for all these or even any one of these. For him, it’s the soap with a beautiful girl on the poster. If it was Aishwary or Shilpa Shetty, they would have said that it’s the soap with the heroine. I crack the story behind the poster as I am getting ready for my exit. Hey, the manufacturer paid so much to Ms Kaif that they couldn’t afford a marketing team.
9.42 : I am extruded out of the train. I see many people spit on the platform. If it happened back then it’s sure to happen now. Makes me wonder why people don’t get this urge to spit after a flight. A look around the billboards and I know that private classes are the flavour of the season. One of the classes is interestingly named ‘koshish’. It is the same logic with which people name restaurants ‘swaad’. I take the footbridge, which only the meek 10% do, and come face to face with an overwhelming hoarding of a builder . The picture is of a thick rainforest and the promise is of an abode in nature just seven minutes away from the station. Will people believe this? Well, if they buy that soap they will buy this too. I leave the journey behind.
Now I am looking for an auto……but that’s another story.
8.30: on a Sunday, an easy day to take the local, or so I thought. The sun was out after long. A five minute walk to Bandra station and I am there at the buzzing station.
After twelve years I was doing Bandra to Kandivili. It took me 45 minutes to get there but I don’t think I will get over the journey. Since I am not a writer I will write it like a railway timetable.
8.38: There’s a long queue at the booking office, not much different from the one in 1992. Some people still jump the line and a few meekly protest. The new addition was a red coupon-validating machine, which was ignored like the beggar who sat just below the ticket counter. I could feel my hand involuntarily patting my butt to check for my wallet. A few girls just approached the window confidently breaking the queue, but there were no noises made. The carpenter in front of me was solving a dispute in Begusarai, and he had the same mobile etiquette as the stock broker in the Red lounge. I knew I was second last as I was being tapped by the beggar at a well rehearsed pace. That was also the sign for me to take my wallet out. The last time I traveled, the ticket was a small piece of cardboard which was punched into a machine which looked like a G-Clamp. The new tickets are printouts; cool idea but they should have made them smaller and saved paper. I then ask for the coupon booklet also, and am relieved that they are almost the size of the old card tickets.
8.50: At the entrance of platform no.1 I see a desk and an earnest cop sitting and reading the morning newspaper. He is amongst the chosen few who have to be on the lookout for suspicious characters carrying suspicious objects. But the man in uniform is more interested in knowing whether the Aamdar from Satara has got a cabinet berth which directly effects in a plum posting. I thought the best people to spot suspicious characters were the TC’s. The TC’s also blend in with the whole station and appear out of nowhere. They also do not have to worry about the postings because they have it already.
8.51: I arrive on the footbridge that divides north and south Mumbai. Beginning to get the rhythm of the crowd. If you are in the middle you have to put in no effort, that is if you are going in the same direction as the millions that surround you. I take a side step and move away from the crowd. This is a good time to take a look at the indicators. There’s a Virar fast and an Andheri slow in between two Churchgate locals. I am shoved aside by a stocky tennis player. With his Slazenger slung on his back, he had already started playing the game. He is obviously heading towards the north. Meanwhile another person waiting next to me is talking in UP Hindi. His last price is Rs.1000 and not a paisa less. Diagonally two lovers are doing the goodbye dance. They seem to be in no hurry. The girl is so enamoured by her guy that she actually is seeing the motorcycle, which he is going to buy on EMIs, in his eyes. Vroom. Suddenly I realize that my train is standing on platform four. I run like the tennis player. It’s not that easy, a few strides later I realize that the game is rugby. Eight steps away, the train begins chugging and I begin the race with hope. I lose. 1996 I would have jumped in. Deeply disappointed, I try and make it back to the top of the bridge. Then suddenly, a slow train approaches platform one. The sprinter gains speed and reaches the train only to be disappointed by an Andheri local. I look around to see if people noticed what had just happened. But that’s the best thing about Mumbai. Nobody cares.
9.06 : That’s the train I have been waiting for. It has finally arrived. I realize that I am standing outside the marked area. I have to rush past the ladies and squeeze into the general compartment. I am almost eating the hair of a man from Bihar, till a sweaty arm finds its way under my nose. We have reached Khar and I have inched two and a half feet inside the compartment. A young Gujarati couple enter the train at this station, along with their 10-month old baby girl. The father is wearing a colourful shirt that would have put Salman of hum apke….to shame. He is holding the baby and looks no older than 24. The mother is short, petite and stern faced. She is also in wedding finery. I see her tailing him faithfully as he squeezes his way through, almost like keeping up the promise she had made to the pundit while doing the saath pheras. She suddenly turns her head to the man behind her and gives him a do-not-mess-with-me stare. The allegedly accused is obviously unaware. She has come fully prepared for this journey, a broach holds her pallu firmly in place, and only when she moves ahead does she reveal a sexy laced blouse back. Meanwhile the kid is bawling, the people in the compartment are almost numb to this. It is Ville Parle station now and the family has managed to move inside. Now here I notice the first major difference from the early nineties. Nobody offers them a seat. I remember then people would just sacrifice their well-earned seat to the mother and child, and even fathers got a similar treatment. The child is crying out loud. Those who are seated are just looking blank, one of them is reading a Marathi daily. We then reach Goregaon and the man who was reading the newspaper gets up. So, the Mumbai spirit is still alive, I say to myself. But I am sadly mistaken, for the man heads for the door, his newspaper folded neatly to a size smaller than A4. His station was about to arrive. As he journeys to the exit, he is elbowed by someone which gets him ranting about how Mumbai has now been taken over by the parapranthiyas(outsiders), and so leading to this rush on a Sunday morning local. I am curious which daily he was reading as he is so full of insights. I have also moved into a comfortable place. There are two places which provide comfort in a train. One on a seat, and the other by the wall. I notice SM Lall’s tuition classes poster which talks about quickly clearing the tenth and twelfth exams LEGALLY. Next to this poster is Katrina Kaif selling a soap on three USP’s. 1) No fillers in this soap like others 2) Highest TFM 78% 3) Graded as best in its category. I begin to think which consumer will go and ask the local bania for all these or even any one of these. For him, it’s the soap with a beautiful girl on the poster. If it was Aishwary or Shilpa Shetty, they would have said that it’s the soap with the heroine. I crack the story behind the poster as I am getting ready for my exit. Hey, the manufacturer paid so much to Ms Kaif that they couldn’t afford a marketing team.
9.42 : I am extruded out of the train. I see many people spit on the platform. If it happened back then it’s sure to happen now. Makes me wonder why people don’t get this urge to spit after a flight. A look around the billboards and I know that private classes are the flavour of the season. One of the classes is interestingly named ‘koshish’. It is the same logic with which people name restaurants ‘swaad’. I take the footbridge, which only the meek 10% do, and come face to face with an overwhelming hoarding of a builder . The picture is of a thick rainforest and the promise is of an abode in nature just seven minutes away from the station. Will people believe this? Well, if they buy that soap they will buy this too. I leave the journey behind.
Now I am looking for an auto……but that’s another story.
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