Jai Shri *burps* Ram

With two nights to go in Navaratri 2013, as garba enthusiasts across the state of Gujarat wistfully wish that time comes to a halt and that the following two nights be the longest ever, there is a small community of Gujarati’s who are desperate for the exact opposite. They just can’t wait for Navaratri to end. They are rubbing their hands together and smiling in anticipation. Two nights later from now, as the sun rises, it is going to be the brightest sunshine of the year for them.   

And they need to be prepared.

 Wash vessels and frying pans. Stock up on flour, oil, vegetables. Gather old newspapers. Buy a new spool of thread, polythene bags in bulk. 

The orders might start pouring in as early as tomorrow morning.

For every man and woman in Gujarat who makes and sells fafda-jalebi for a living, it’s time for business. 

Jai Shri Ram!

Dusshera is here.

Some inestimable period of time ago, after overcoming  great odds – that included mobilizing an army of monkeys, building a bridge to Sri Lanka, uprooting a mountain in the Himalayas and fighting sleepy giants angry at being woken up – Lord Rama finally killed evil king Ravan to emerge victorious.

Ever since, Indians in India and indeed across the world celebrate the day every year to mark the triumph of good over evil, of satya over asatya, of love over hatred, and of course rejoice India’s first victory on Sri Lankan soil.

In Gujarat, as the extra-indulgent revelry of the ninth and final day of Navaratri makes way for the quiet dawn of Dusshera, 6 crore Gujarati’s wake up and think -

 “Dusshera. Must.gorge.on.fafda-jalebi.today”

And thus every fafda-jalebi seller, from a modest thela owner to a farsan powerhouse, right from the early hours of the morning, finds an endless queue of people jostling for their share of “fresh” fafda-jalebi’s, waiting with an almost religious devotion.

The farsan powerhouses by virtue of their financial might are better prepared to meet the massive demand. They prepare huge quantities of fafda and jalebi’s on preceding night and have them packed in 1kg, 2kg, 5kg, 10kg plastic packets and boxes, complete with little packets of chutney and fried chilies. And this, they sell from temporary counters made outside their shops specifically for Dusherra  to prevent customers from crowding inside.

On the other hand, the modest thela owner feverishly juggles between frying, preparing dough for the next batch, packing the stuff, handing it over, receiving money, counting money, handing over change, taking order, frying as he struggles to contain the queue of waiting customers. He brings bigger frying pans, engages a couple of helpers of the day.

It would be safe to assert fafda-jalebi registers its highest sales in Gujarat on Dusshera day.

It would be safe to assert eating fafda-jalebi on Dusshera morning is a ritual.

Is unprecedented fafda-jalebi consumption our way of paying a tribute to Lord Rama’s glorious exploits in Sri Lanka?

It would certainly seem so.

How is it relevant to Dusshera?

But then, how relevant is spending two days flying kites with sharp glass-shredded threads, killing and terrorizing birds, screwing up electricity and telephone cables, to the yearly phenomenon of wind changing its direction?

So, never mind. 

 

In Gujarat, Jai Shri Ram is Jai Shri *burps* Ram.

Vadodara: A City in Transition

The other day, at a railway station, I read a quote, in red capital letters on a yellow-colored t-shirt losing color due to repeated washing - "Life is like a bicycle. In order to keep balance, you must keep moving", with "Life", "Bicycle" and "Moving" in bigger font for effect.

This holds true not just in the life of men, but in the life of a city as well.

Vadodara, succinctly described as "big city in a small package" in a branding campaign, too is a city on the move.

The changes that I observed on my recent trip to Vadodara are not the changes that can happen in the span of a few months that I have been away. The changes have been gradual and were very much in process when I lived here. But, the nature of change is its nature cannot be identified by the one witnessing it every single day, by one who is a part of it. And therefore, the changes, and their significance, dawned on me only after being away for a considerable period.

At the exit of Vadodara railway station, lied the first telltale sign of growing economic prosperity of the city - auto rickshaw guys quoting astronomical rates, auto rickshaw guys behaving as if they are doing you a favor by ferrying you at unearthly hours, and that you are morally and legally bound to pay a premium for his services at 6 am in the morning.

The new eateries coming up in the city are indicators of an increasing diversity and cosmopolitan culture. In a city where a large part of the population would shudder at the prospect of eating at a place that isn't strictly "pure veg"  for the fear that cooks might be using the same spoons and vessels for Veg and Non-Veg dishes, it is great to see an eatery called "The Great Chicken Hub".  In a city where sev usal has traditionally been the staple food, challenging the might of farsan and gaathiya heavyweights, there has come up a "Soups, Salads and Subs only" eatery called Quiznos.

And the growing urbanization is underscored by the growing physical infrastructure. Tall, modern-looking, glass-paneled buildings are shooting up at numerous places. Residential colonies and apartments are being constructed in areas that not long ago were considered to be outskirts. Their names too have changed. Disowning that vast source of names for apartments and societies - the Hindu mythology - builders are giving their projects names like "Pacifica" and "Madrid County", names that are meant signify modernity and luxury  by the sole virtue of being in English. The area where I live, in the neighborhood of Nand, Pitambar, Kailash and Mathuranagri have come up "Orchid Bungalows" and "Venus apartments".

From sev usal to subs, from mathuranagri to madrid county, Vadodara is changing. I like to think for the better.

A Day In His Life

At half past 3 in the morning, he woke up with a start, waking up from a vague nightmare; the kind that subtly haunts the fragile consciousness of a sleepy mind, and yet refuses to unfold, and reach completion. He sat up, bending low to avoid hitting the berth above, and looked out of the window. It was pitch dark outside. With great difficulty, he could make out the time on his tattered watch.

3:35, at 3:35, the Avadh Express should be anywhere between Shikohabad and Firozabad, he thought to himself.

His fellow workers were fast asleep, some snoring loud enough to drown the train’s noise in the night.  

He smiled. Their berths were hard and narrow, the heat from adjoining pantry car intense, and the air thick with the smoke of cooking, frying, heating and reheating: a cycle that goes on for 18 hours every day. But the sheer exhaustion of a long day’s toil lulled them to sound sleep, the harsh heat and lack of comfort notwithstanding.  

He lied down on his berth. An hour remained before they would have to wake up and start preparing for breakfast. Trying hard to recall the images of the bad dream, somewhere between arranging them in order and making sense of them, he fell asleep…

04:30 AM

The day had begun in the pantry car. Stocks for the day were loaded at Agra Fort station, and all men got down to their respective tasks. He sat down to begin his, with a huge vessel in front of him. The vessel had 10 kgs of boiled potatoes. He had an hour to peel the skin off each one of them. Taking a potato in his left hand, he dug nails of his right hand, left unkempt to facilitate this task, into the potato skin, and peeled it off in one stroke. A part of the potato skin still remained. He didn't bother.  

Sharp at 5:30, one of the cooks came over to him. Many potatoes were yet to be peeled. The cook didn't bother. Lifting the vessel with potato skins, he got up, walked up the window, opened it and emptied the vessel outside.

The early morning sky was beautiful and cool, soothing wind came gushing in. He forced the window shut.

At around 6, he received a basket full of piping hot batata vadas and samosas, with cut green chillies wrapped in paper, and chutney in a plastic bag. With the basket supported on a round bun of cloth on his head, he left for the eleven sleeper coaches – his assigned territory.

“Naashta,Naashta, Naashta, Naashta.. Batata Vada,Samosa.. Boliye garma garam naashta naashta naashta naashta”

Just like every day, the sleeper coaches were an explosion of people. There were many more passengers than the number of berths. On most side upper and side lower berths, two people slept with their head and feet in opposite directions. Many were sleeping on a thin sheet of cloth, or one engineered from newspapers, on the floor in between the berths.

There’s always space in the sleeper and general class: space to stand, space to crouch, space to sit, space to sleep… there’s always space for one more.  

“Naashta,Naashta, Naashta, Naashta.. Batata Vada,Samosa.. Boliye garma garam naashta naashta naashta naashta”

23 years of working in the catering services of Indian Railways, 23 years of continuously walking to and fro  between coaches on a moving train, and 23 years of shouting out the contents of a hot basket on his head,  day in and day out, had rendered his speech utterly listless and indifferent. So when he spoke, his voice sounded empty and mechanical. There were no modulations, and yet it boomed in the coach.  He could be nearby, but it seemed his words were coming from a distance – almost as if his throat had become one of those old sound players.

Woken up by his voice, one of the passengers sleeping on the upper berth stretched his legs, hitting him on the face. The passenger went back to sleep. He kept walking ahead at his usual speed.

“Naashta,Naashta, Naashta, Naashta.. Batata Vada,Samosa.. Boliye garma garam naashta naashta naashta naashta”

8:30 AM

The train was up and awake. He continued on his rounds through the coaches and back to the pantry car. Each time, the basket would be taken for reheating and a reheated one returned. Like it always did at this time of the morning, passengers haggled with him, accusing the batata wadas and samosas were not “garam” enough.

There were different people on every journey and on a given journey, 11 coaches of different people. Yet the same exchange repeated again and again.

A passenger would stop him.

He stopped.

The passenger would ask for a plate of samosas or batata wadas – “garam hai?”

He nodded.

Samosas and batata wadas were handed over, money taken.

The passenger would touch the vada and accuse “garam nai hai!”

“Waapas kar dijiye”

Depending upon just how hungry the passenger would be, batata wadas and samosas would be consumed or returned to their place in the basket.

No “aap kha kar toh dekhiye” or “ekdum fresh hai”. No cajoling or prodding. No giving a sorry smile. He walked towards the next coach.

“Naashta,Naashta, Naashta, Naashta.. Batata Vada,Samosa.. Boliye garma garam naashta naashta naashta naashta”

The day progressed. In the pantry car, preparation for breakfast mode changed to preparation for lunch mode. For him, the peeling of boiled potatoes changed to wrapping rotis and sabzi in plastic packets. In his basket, the batata wadas and samosas were replaced by roti and sabzi packets.

12 pm onwards, he started his rounds of the eleven sleeper coaches, with the basket supported on a round bun of cloth on his head. His quirky voice booming through the coach – “kha lo sabzi roti ka garam khana… kha lo sabzi roti ka garam khana” – his monotone pausing only while handing over the lunch packs to and receiving money from the passengers.

He continued his rounds till 2 pm.                                                                        

The preparation for lunch mode gave way to preparation of evening snacks mode. He was again given a huge vessel full of boiled potatoes to peel, and again he walked through the coaches with batata wadas and samosas on his head. The morning monotone “Naashta,Naashta, Naashta, Naashta.. Batata Vada,Samosa.. Boliye garma garam naashta naashta naashta naashta” switched back on.

The dusk hour approached, and pantry car started making its preparations for the final meal of the day. For him, yet again, as if the day was set on repeat mode, the peeling of potatoes changed to wrapping rotis and sabzi in plastic packets. Like a robot, he set for the coaches, holding the basket over his head with one hand, the other in shirt pocket specially stitched near the lower half of his shirt to hold money.

He kept walking from one coach to another, voice still the same, gait still the same.  The words too repeated again and again.

“kha lo sabzi roti ka garam khana… kha lo sabzi roti ka garam khana”

11 PM

The train had gone back to sleep. In the pantry car too, men hurriedly cleaned up, eager to go their berths, eager to end the day.

He silently walked to the kitchen window, opened it and threw out the left over batata vadas, samosas, roti and sabzi packets on to the railway tracks.  

It was time to sleep.

If only I could sleep. 

Steel City: Jamshedpur Found and Lost

The time is 1000 hours on a Sunday morning. The place is a cramped barber shop in a nondescript corner of what is essentially a cluster of small shops but called a "market" nonetheless. Like all barber shops on a Sunday morning, it is crowded and men await their turn, sitting on a wooden bench, watching a couple of decades old Ajay Devgan film on FILMY on a tiny television balanced precariously on a wall shelf.

A customer walks in to find a familiar face among the waiting men.

"Hey! Kaafi dino baad?! Kya haal-chaal hai?"   

"Badhiya hai. Tu bata, kahaan hai aaj kal?"

"Rear me hoon abhi. Aur tu?" 

"Gear box" 

A rather peculiar conversation, isn't it?
Not quite in Telco Colony, Jamshedpur; given that it predominantly comprises people working for one huge organization, two distant friends from its rear axle shop and gear box shop bumping into each other in a barber shop is commonplace.

Telco Colony

On days when its residents are not paying ostentatious obiesances to Goddess Kali, Goddess
Durga or Babulal Marandi, Telco Colony cuts a most pretty picture: one that is starkly different from a conventional city area. The roads are wide and clean, lined with trees instead of hawkers. The public buildings are all marked by similar boards in one simple font instead of loud, colorful boards and banners. The shops haven't sprouted out in every nook and corner, but they are all clustered together in one area, at walking distances from the residential colonies. The traffic too has a pattern, swelling only at "shift change" hours at the plants, as men and women in uniforms travel to and from work.

Telco Colony's tree-lined, traffic-free roads

There are gardens, a most picturesque park, temple, gurudwara, church, mosque and two proper sports stadiums in the colony. The stadiums are packed in the mornings and evenings with kids practicing cricket, boys playing football, and athletes stretching and sprinting. 

Hudco Lake, Moolgaonkar Park, Telco Colony

Moolgaonkar Park, Telco Colo

And then there's Telco Club; with a gym, library, indoor games, restaurant and a bar called 'Paradise', it is truly a place to be for recreation and rest after a hard day at work.

Heart of the City

The most beautiful part of Jamshedpur, however, is its heart: The Iron and Steel Works. Perpetually shrouded in the mist of smoke and vapour spewed out in large plumes by its many chimneys and cooling towers, the gargantuan plant wraps itself in a mythical aura, right at the centre of the city. Visible from several kilometres afar are its towering chimneys, blue and orange hued flames licking furiously at the Jamshedpur
sky at all times.

Tata Steel Plant

Birth and Evolution

The city was born with the establishment of an iron and steel making factory, and has evolved with the evolution of industry. Thus, while traditionally, the manufacturing units are pushed to the outskirts of a town or city, things are different in Jamshedpur. Factories are very much a part of the city's landscape, scattered across its length and breadth.

Just another day at the office

 Rickshaw-wallahs bellow to the people: "Telco!" Telco!" "Tinplate!" "Tinplate!" - and someone inquires "Steel Wire tak jaane ke liye kitna?" referring to Indian Steel and Wire Products unit that falls between Tinplate factory and Tata Motors premises.

Not Rajiv Gandhi

Former prime ministers, politicians and freedom fighters have been relieved of their duties on boards and planks here. Parks, buildings, skill-training institutes and sports stadiums have been named after the chairmen and general managers of TISCO or TELCO, their contribution for long years kept alive in public memory.

   

Erstwhile Kalimati Station. Now Tatanagar Junction.

Sports as a Way of Life

Yet another aspect worth raving about is the awesome sports infrastructure in the city. World-class facilities such as JRD Sports complex, Tata Archery Academy, Tata Football Academy and numerous sports stadiums have led to a thriving sports culture in the city. Further, professional management and industry-sponsored programmes ensure that the best of sporting talent is scouted and nurtured to contribute to Indian sport.

Concluding Thoughts

A row of huts a century ago with the good fortune of close proximity to a railway station (Kalimati station; now Tatanagar Jn), natural water source (confluence of Subarnarekha and Kharkai) and iron ore fields (Mayurbhanj) convinced a group of men of its suitability as most appropriate site for setting up a steel plant. Today, a bustling city has grown around it, and a massive ancillary industry belt nearby.


Since inception, the founders have taken good care of its people, and people returned the embrace, and played an active part in its growth story. In the present day scenario of increasing industry-people conflict, Jamshedpur holds plenty of lessons worth emulating.

The Enterprising Indian

 The world’s largest democracy; a country where 40% of the population lives below the poverty line; the world’s fastest growing economy; Where a Majority of the population is deprived of healthcare and education… the rich cultural heritage, the iconic Freedom Movement, Mahatma Gandhi, the Taj Mahal, the “Unity in Diversity” and the home-grown civil system… India! All the Social Science textbooks that you scrupulously swallowed in school had wholesome feeds about our dear nation. The most intriguing of all such used-and-abused facts, I reckon, is that India is a land of 1.2 billion people. Oh yes, 1.2 billion and counting! Now, it isn’t the cause for the population explosion that intrigues me, of course, It Is the means that millions of unfortunately indigent people adopt to earn their bread and butter, or should I say, stale roti on their pitiable platter.

The food inflation’s up in the sky, so are the prices of property, banks don’t give enough interest on FDs, education has become a costly issue and employment barely bails out the aforesaid stuff… but hey, when Life’s to be spent in a road-side slum or a chawl at best, the appetite doesn’t dare dream of pulses-vegetables and there’s no education in the first place to find employment, existence is reduced to a simple affair- Earn to eat… and it is this single largest mission that propels people into an amazing world of ingenious businesses…

“Free Market”-Walk on any street and sway your head in diverse directions, you are sure to find a series of shops: clothing, electronic goods, bakery items, provisions, medicines etc. An overwhelming number selling everything that could be sold. Giving company to the shops is a flock of lawries, constellations of vegetable vendors and colonies of food joints! Besides, what’s an enterprise if not creative? So while one boasts of samosas and the other of sandwiches, there’s someone in their 100m radius who makes a fortune out of selling samosa sandwiches! Well, this is just an illustration that applies to a lot of other food items that the Indian tongues crave for and respective intestines get choked by… Streets notwithstanding, walk into some famous park. No shops or lawries in here… Nonetheless you‘ll find people” on the job”, making a living out of selling balloons and small plastic toys (not sure of the lead content in them given that the one holding ‘em day in and day out doesn’t seem to be affected by it) children selling one- rupee water pouches and the more astonishing of them all- An old man sat with a weight balance in front of him, a rupee to gauge your weight. A human hoping to earn enough using just a weight balance.

“Business in Motion”- Public transport constitutes a potentially large customer base indeed and it sure is exploited! Be it “poni na pouch”, (with a nasal tinge) “chaai chaai”, “ssiiinnnggg”, wafer-biskoot or “coldddrinksshh” the Indian commuter has everything at his disposal! And quite literally so as the respective sellers, perfectly coherent with the bus/train, artfully dodge the officials and sell the indigenous goods to the commuters at inflated prices right in the moving bus/train... Take a bow!!

“Where sharks find solitude”- There’s one avenue far more lucrative than a buy and sell business and that’s opportunism… Exploiting opportunities and everything that’s vulnerable to exploitation (read government services) is a high risk (at least it’s supposed to be) but a better paying job… The RTO is an ideal example; it has given refuge to countless gutkha- eating agents, who in turn even employ padiki- eating men as assistants to serve their large customer base that increases by the day. Likewise, wily consultants and agents have assumed autonomy over myriad fields of real estate, property, passport, visas, foreign education, finances… Just name it and there’s a smiling agent at your service to cruise you through what otherwise would have been quite a cumbersome task.

Truly, India is the one place on earth where you‘ll get to witness people, millions of them, making a living out of the most atypical and bizarre businesses. The impoverished Indian is a quintessential entrepreneur… one who lives on a plain wisdom- “where there is a will, there’s a way and when there isn’t, make one”… and in this process, He doesn’t survive… He thrives.