Uske bhagya me likha hoga.

'Don't you worry, kids turn out OK in the end. Why, we were horrible brats too once'.
'Maybe they will, maybe they won't. Maybe. Maybe. Isn't it humbling how little we can control in our lives. Yet we want security and predictability. We want to raise our kids 'right', when we have little or no say in their destinies. It is as if we are trying to hold on to the stars as points of reference as we hurtle through the universe at mind-blowing speeds. Do you believe in Fate? What if you gave up everything you had to wander through Time and Space? Would you trust your guardian angels, your God that much? It is like closing your eyes and falling backwards into your partner's arms. Have I lost you?
'Maybe.'
'One man thought he could give it a try'.

Dear diary,

You know what happened today? Our saamaan-boy died. He fell down from our building's terrace. I even saw him lying downstairs. It was very bad. We were playing hide and seek actually and it was Smriti's den. When she was looking for us, she found him instead and fell down. She was very upset. She cried a lot after that. I was not that scared. I watch many shows where I have seen all this. This was nothing. In one show, they showed someone killed with an axe. That was gross.
I heard Mummy and her sister, my choti masi, talking about it in the taxi. We are in my aunt's place for a while now. They said he wanted to steal something and while trying to run away, he fell down. Rita Aunty, my mother's friend thinks some villain from the basti pushed him down. The basti is a bad place. My mother has told me and Chintu to never cross the road and go there. It is also very dirty there. There is garbage everywhere. My father says he must have taken a loan and not have been able to pay it back. I don't understand what he meant. We have to go to school from Sheela masi's house now. It is more fun here than at home because here they have a swimming pool and a big TV.
I am going to go back and find out what happened to the saamaan boy. It will a good game, like hide and seek. Today I came back alone from school in a taxi. The school bus left early. Tonight we are going to have pizzas for dinner. I want to stay here for a long time and not go home. Ok, I will write more tomorrow.

Itna attitude mat jhaad.

'Isn't this a bit too filmy? What is this, a script-writing exercise?'
'I will vouch for its authenticity. Are we so jaded that we dismiss a story just because it might tug at our heart strings? We are afraid to show that we care. What if someone takes us for a fool and makes a few quick bucks off us in the process? The horror. After all we are sheherwale. Hum yeh sab pikchuron me dekhte hain.'
'Cut it out. What is your point anyway?'
'I just want to show you what we are unknowingly passing on to our children. Our fears. Our insecurities. And most importantly, our superficiality. Take a look at this.'

Honhaar balak.

'My mother, she told me sixty years ago'. Clap clap snap clap. 'There lived an old man knocking at the door'. Clap clap snap clap.
A tight little knot of young girls stood in the shadow of the multi-storeyed apartment that they called home. A security guard yawned in the background. The grocery delivery-boy slipped past and went up the lift. A reluctant breeze rustled a few leaves and passed by the compound.
'Lets play something else'. 'Hide and seek?'. 'Okay okay'. 'Yesterday it was Aarti's den, today it will be Smriti's.' 'Count to hundred, no cheating!'. 'One..........Thirty............Hundred....OK I am coming!'.
Smriti crept up quietly from behind the building's facade and headed towards the bushes. She had spotted a white blob close to the hibicus plants. She moved with the skill of a young panther and jumped out into the open. 'DHAPPA.........AHHHHHHHHhh'. She stood rooted for the next thirty seconds and then collapsed in a heap. And then all hell broke loose.

Suman's family had problems. But so did everyone else. Her husband was soaked in arrack. Her sister-in-law drove her husband away and moved in with a man half her age. Her own brother had suffered from childhood tuberculosis and never recovered fully. Inspite of all the heartaches, there was one happy thought that kept the family together and gave them reason to face tomorrow. Vikas. Her brother's son was the perfect child. He outperformed all his classmates at school. His English was improving with each passing day. Working at the local grocery store, he supplemented his parents' meagre earnings. At seventeen, fair and good-looking, he was the basti's personal Ramavatar.
Vikas frequented a weekend counselling session run by an NGO for slum children. The sessions were eclectic, ranging from sex education to career advice. He was keen to go to college. For him the world was full of things he did not know of and he thanked Ganesha everyday for all the opportunities to learn that had come his way. If only he could make it to St. Paul's. Mrs. Shinde from the NGO had praised their 'education system' and told the class that only the best students made it to its hallowed grounds. His day-dreams were beginning to have some definition.
His fantasies were probably the reason he remained unscathed in the cruel world that he was part of. He dreamt of college, of a better house, of his sister, Reena's wedding, of riding in a big car, of wearing a suit-pant. He endured the grocery trips, dreaming of living a cushy life in one of those apartments with his parents and his sister. Going to St. Paul's was the key to crystallising those dreams and he yearned for that seat with all his strength.
Then suddenly, Baba's condition worsened. He heaved and panted like a beached whale lying on his rickety cot. He was coughing up blood again after twenty years. The doctor saab was clear. Baba needed to go to the hospital as soon as possible. And it was going to cost a lot of money.
His mother took him aside after the doctor left. 'Beta, Baba aur meri ichcha hai ki tum college jao. Agar hamne paise aaspital pe karchch kiye tho tumahari padhai bandh ho jayegi. Baba yahani rehna chaahate hain, tumahare liye.' Vikas felt the ground beneath him spinning. This was not the way it was meant to turn out. 'Baba was giving up his life to send him to college? If we lose the money, I have to stop studying?' His mind was exploding into many painful little fragments and his legs were giving way under him. He was trapped in his worst nightmare.

The next day seemed like any other. School was eventfree. The city, quiet in the afternoon, was taking a much-needed siesta. In the apartment opposite the basti, a couple of school-girls had just decided to switch games. No one paid much attention to a grocery-boy as he walked past the guard to take the lift to the top floor. Everything seemed peaceful till Smriti screamed and collapsed.
All Vikas had wanted was for Baba to come to the award ceremony at St. Paul's where he would take home all the prizes. That's all.

The virtues of the vicious.

'You are fascinated by Ganga bai, aren't you? This reminds me of books such as 'The virtues of the vicious' and 'How the other half lives' that chronicled American slums. The authors took a romantic, bohemian view of what is essentially a social problem and glorified slum behavior.'
'I don't think of slums as a social problem. They address a social problem, that of the lack of low-cost housing for immigrants. But we are digressing a bit here. I am more interested in exploring a culture that places great value on being 'tough'. Have you ever thought what price the 'meek' pay in our world? This reminds me of Vikas. I think you have met his aunt.'

Bai bai ka rishta.

No one tells Ganga bai what to do. She will decide how many bartan she would like to clean for the day and whether the quick hockey-like move of the jhaadu qualified as 'a clean sweep'. If she doesn't approve of your new white shirt, she will imperiously dye it patchy-pink for you.
'Tereko kuch praublem maangta hai kya?'
'Arre arre, nahin Ganga bai, aap ne theek kiya', and you hurriedly tuck your tail between your legs and continue cowering in the corner till she slams the door and leaves. This happens everyday and by now most of your wardrobe is monochromatic.
The city she lives in is cruel and unrelenting. Same city, one million different worlds. She was once a fisherwoman. If you brush past her, her pores still ooze the tantalizing stench of fish. Her words are punctuated with paan and baangda. Eventually, the fish vanished from the ocean and settled in the long-digested memories of the city. Ganga bai was out of work and out of luck. She slowly fell in love with toddy and her long-suffering husband hurriedly packed his remaining self-esteem and stole away into the smoggy night. She promptly moved in with a lout half her age and dared the bastiwale to object. It hardly caused a ripple.
Her sister-in-law was aptly named 'with a good heart'. Suman. She worked in a Sindhi khandan during the day and passed on gossip through the evening. Ganga encouraged it, why she loved it! 'Suman's mistress is a conniving whore', she thought and smiled a wry smile. 'Why we could have been sisters!'. One day,bataon bataon me, Suman unknowingly dropped a gem into Ganga bai's lap. 'Woh aurat shaitaan hai, haan woh Pooja! Aaj woh aur uski amma baitkar uske maradh ko khallas karne ko soche. Woh aadmi aaspital me hai, nikaal dengi yeh chudail, aur paisa bachayegi'. Ganga bai's paan-chewing went ino overdrive. 'Yeh baat uske khandan ko maalum kya?'. Suman laughed. 'Pata hota, tho inko bahar nikal denge'. Ganga nodded sagely. 'Achcha, achcha.'
The following dawn saw a determined Ganga bai threatening a bus conductor to drop her off without a ticket. She marched up six floors, lift-shift kaisa chalate hai, and leaned on the Hirnani doorbell.
'Ae shane, sab jaanta hai apun. Tera bell bajaya apun ne, bhagwan ki puja kar. Mujhe tere ghar me kaam karne ka hai. Pagaar ek hazaar rupaiya lega. Aaj se shuuru.'
Pooja Hirnani stood with her back to the wall with a wild look in her eyes. 'Hey Ram', she whispered. Prey meeting predator. Then she recovered her voice and made a brave attempt. 'Bahar nikal, kaun hai tu? Kya jaanti hai?'
Ganga bai moved in. 'Ae, kal tu aaspital me kya palaan bana rahi thi? Maradh ko maaregi, kuttiya? Tereko tho narak me bhi jhaga nahin milega, samjhi? Terko chaain se jeena hai, apun tere yahan rahega.'
That is how the maid hired a mistress. Long before Pooja aunty ran away, Ganga bai had vanished. After all, a city this size is full of opportunity.

Manimal?

'It is interesting that you compared her to a rodent.'
'Why do you say that?'
'Apparently, the ancient science of purushasuktam gave pointers to the king on how to judge strangers. The central principle of this system was to juxtapose people and animals and derive their base qualities from comparing man and beast.'
'Really? That sounds fascinating'.
'Let me give you some more to chew on. I think of Ganga bai as a piranha. Here is her story.'

Of pests and pesticide.

'Nahin, hamare pati kaam nahin karte'
'Aap ke bachche hain?'
'Haan, nau betiyaan hai'
'Monthly income?'
'Kyon?'


Mrs. Parikh heard a number of strange stories while doing the government census rounds. But this one would surely cause a tiny statistical blip. 'Well', she thought, 'serves them right'. Forcing school teachers to take on the unenviable task of door-to-door data collection in the blistering summer heat topped the list of cruelties the school board routinely doled out to its staff. ' Hope they have twenty years of shani-dasa', she thought viciously and decided to fill in Late B. J. Hirnani particulars from her own imagination.

Pooja Hirnani slammed the door and heaved a tiny sigh of relief. The censuswali didn't even blink at the mention of nine daughters. It was becoming harder to hide 'the girls' from all these prying eyes. People were probably saying something nasty behind her back, after all nine paying guests, all girls, didn't exactly look respectable. But that was the least of her worries.

She sat down to supervise the two workers who were being paid to carve out yet another room from the rapidly shrinking apartment. The house was beginning to resemble a bee-hive with flimsy plywood partitions. A bee-hive populated by strangers, who shared a bathroom and ignored each other's presence with practised finesse. But for the landlady, every extra girl was worth five thousand rupees. Dhanlakshmis indeed. She would bend over backwards to cater to their whims and fancies. 'Beta, aap chai laynge?'. 'Beta, aapki tabiyaat kaisi hai?'. She didn't care two chavannis for their welfare. It was all part of 'you-pay-I-simper' routine she had perfected over the years.

Some of the girls secretly swapped stories about 'that Hirnani rodent'. Of how her kitchen was a playground for cockroaches and how she rummagaged the girls' dustbins for food. Of how she mistreated Suman bai and how Ganga bai mistreated her. Of her obsession with money and how she saved on her husband's medical bills and sent him to 'his heavenly abode'. 'Lying is second nature to her', they whispered, 'lock your cupboards. Count your clothes and measure out your shampoo. You never know with her.' They say gossip is a facet of the truth. The truth, however, always generates the most colorful scandals, don't you think?

Saturday morning ki baat hai.
'Beta, aaj thoda late aana. Maine ghar me pesticide karne ko bulaya hai.'
'Achcha, Pooja aunty. Khidkiyaan kholna mat buliye, aunty.'

One of the girls received a frantic call from a fellow paying guest in the evening. There were police pounding down the door. The girls desperately tried contacting each other. 'Where is that woman?' 'You mean, she has vanished?' ' Yaar, I haven't seen her since ten in the morning'. 'Kya bol rahi hai tu?, pick up your stuff and leave man!'. 'Do you have Sneha's number?' 'Police raid?'. 'Why? Is keeping paying guests illegal?'.'Hey bhagwan, mera exam hai kal!'. 'Woh pesticide ka kya hua?'

The girls vanished as quickly as they came. Dozens of stories floated around after the incident. Apparently Late B J Hirnani had a couple of secrets. He had pledged the property over to his business partners after making huge losses. The property was seized by the High Court to settle the case. Keeping paying guests in such a situation could have triggered the raid. Another version talked of land-grabbing and goonda-gardi.
'They come at night and murder people in their sleep. Land is very valuable, no?'.
'Kaise kaise log hote hai! Yeh tho kuch nahin tha'.
Pooja Hirnani is yet to come back home. If she does, she will be greeted by a massive lock and a court summons. Then again, she probably will never return. The pesticide was quite potent.

Pehle aap, pehle aap.

Achcha, shuruvath apni kahani se hogi.
There is so much to tell but not much to say. I am one of those clutching on to dear life in a rattling bus. I am one of many walking down sidewalks purposefully, ducking lampposts and skipping over potholes, going nowhere. I am not sure of my sex, not physical ambiguity, just that gender has never been of any consequence in my world.
I could care less about someone else's troubles yet I am going to be the medium through which their destinies will be played out. I am home anywhere and as soon as I get there I want to be elsewhere. It is almost like a disease.
I am sure you and I have met.

Kya aap inko jante hai?

'Cities are ugly. Everyday I walk through a bleak, greyish mish-mash of hutments, skyscrapers, garbage, smog and xenophobia. We worship the twin gods of desperation and insecurity. It is strange why so few people commit suicide each day.'
'How callous! Cities are beautiful. Haven't you noticed how every freshly scrubbed and powdered day is buoyed up by a tiny cloud of hope? And how nightfall is greeted by a million soft prayers for a better life? After all, that is the beauty. The belief that tomorrow will be another story.'