3 Key Reasons Why Gujaratis are a Nuisance

Deeply disturbed by the incessant sharing and relentless re-sharing of  posts like "10 Reasons Why Gujjus are the Best People on Earth!", I bring to you, as I must, the counter points.

Dear Gujaratis, enough of your self-aggrandizing and megalomania on the internet.

1. Travel Nuisance:

Gujaratis, specially on holidays, travel in herds. Sadly, Indian Railways and IRCTC do not exist for exclusive use of Gujjus, and there's a cap on number of tickets you can book in one go. Result is berths scattered across coaches. But what to do? No matter how many we are, we HAVE to travel together, according to Article 37, Para 2 (b) of the Constitution of India.

God help you if you are traveling alone on a line that remotely touches a popular holiday destination. Large, large groups of Gujjus will storm into your trains, and once they are done arranging their 18 tonnes of luggage ( 70% food, 30% utilities is the thumb rule), they will maraud from coach to coach, looking for those who are "single" - Gujju for traveling alone - and coax you for your berth because you know "Ame badha group ma che" and there are "laddies and nana chokra" and the classic "saathe jamvama takleef padse". You change your berth, often twice or thrice, and still find yourself in company of Gujjus.

It's late night, and you want to sleep. But you can't because Gujju ladies around are talking (loudly of course) about all the snacks they prepared and packed for this trip, the difficulties they faced while making them, arguments and counter arguments on the correct recipes, in between lambasting children to stop running around and finish their food.

Wait, your ordeal isn't over.

Not yet.

Some uncle in the group has his b'day tomorrow. The clock strikes twelve. You are in the clutches of sleep.

A voice booms nearby "Ae halo, utho! Dilip bhai no budday celebrate karvano he!"

And then there are celebrations, complete with the cake, the singing (happy budday to you followed by tum jiyo hajaro saal), and the clapping.

At midnight. In a moving train.

By the time your journey comes to an end, the coach smells like a restaurant's unventilated kitchen, its air heavy with the smell of thepla, dhokla, pickles, three types of fruit and on bad days, a half eaten cake.

Somewhere in the air , there's also the smoke of your AC ticket money burnt to ashes, and your rage.

2. Eating Out Nuisance:

Gujaratis are vegetarian*

*Terms and Conditions are generally different permutations and combinations of the below:

a) No onions

b) No garlic

c) No onions AND garlic ("delicious" snacks are exempt)

d) No onions and garlic and potatoes and beetroot and everything that grows under the soil (except in samosa, sometimes)

 e) Restaurant should be 100% pure veg.

f) Veg plus Non Veg eateries won't do because *wide eyes, horror* they might be using the same spoons and vessels to cook both. SO WHAT THEY ARE WASHED. ANIMAL FLESH IS IMMUNE TO WATER AND SOAP YOU EMBODIMENT OF BLASPHEMY. McDonald's though is exempt, mostly.

Result is, eating options for Gujaratis are severely limited in places outside in Gujarat and in a multi-cultural group. So while you are out to eat with your bunch of friends and order a round of drinks with chilly chicken to go, the gujarati across the table stares nervously, and you tell the waiter - "ek pepsi aur french fries add kar do"

"Err..French fries ki jagah peanut masala kar do..pyaaz mat daalna".

"French Fries me aaloo..."

Thus, every dinner outing involving Gujjus, considerable time is spent fretting over the place to go and food to eat. What if the eatery cooks veg and non-veg meals in the same kitchen? What if there are no no onion-no garlic dishes? What if people at adjacent table order chicken..or god forbid, fish?

We Gujjus are the odd ones out, a minority for which special provisions are to be made.And comments on B school forums and caste-centered op-eds will tell you, no majority likes to make special provisions for the minority.

3. Festival Nuisance:

Makar Sankranti is the first festival every new calendar year. While people across the country mark the beginning of harvest season, bathe in holy rivers, visit their near and dear ones, visit temples to perform religious ceremonies, Gujjus are slightly more traditional and understated in their celebrations of Uttarayana.

As sun rises on 14th of January, a Gujarati rises to his terrace, armed with a bunch of kites and bulky spool of string, tiny shreds of glass in it glinting in  morning sun. Soon enough, the latest item song played at full blast rends the air. The entire city is on its terraces, water tanks, balconies - engaged in fierce kite battles, shrill war cries of lapppppeeeetttt and hooting and whistling and bollywood music all around. Drowned somewhere in all the din and bustle is a desperate flutter of terrified birds.

The sun sets and it is too dark to fly kites. But, WE ARE GUJARATIS AND THIS IS GUJARAT AND THE PARTY IS STILL ON! So we light chinese balloons and dispatch  them from the top of our terraces. So what if they might cause fire somewhere and result in huge losses? They make for great facebook pictures!

And how do we cap a day of excellent kite flying and bird slaughter? Fire crackers, of course! Gujaratis are too rich to buy fire crackers just for Diwali, and the chinese-lantern-lighting-potential-facebook-profile-pic-clicking ritual is followed by a round of lighting all fire-crackers from bombs to rockets right up there in the terraces. The force of explosion shakes buildings and rockets might fly off course to injure someone... but - tu jalsa kar ne yaar!


Navaratri (Rest of India) - a festival to worship nine forms of Goddess Shakti
Navaratri (Gujarat) - Worship? LOL. Chalo garba ramva! Also, dandiya!

Who has the time and the energy and importantly, the money to celebrate a festival nine days at a stretch? Right, Gujjus. A Gujarati's preparation for Navaratri can only be rivaled by a Bihari's preparation for UPSC exams. Such are the stakes. Gujaratis pay their obeisances to the Goddess of Shakti by dancing around in circles, for hours together, to songs that go - yaad piya ki aane lagi, haay bheegi bheegi raaton mein...played at loud, loud volumes.

Make no mistake, Navaratri in Gujarat is a visual treat but an acoustic pain.

Following nine nights of revelry, Gujjus celebrate Dusshera - the historic victory of Lord Rama over king Ravana, a victory of good over evil, of truth over falsehood - by gorging  on fafda-jalebi. What is the relevance of fafda-jalebi to Lord Rama's victory? Did Lord Rama and his Vaanar Sena have fafda-jalebi for breakfast in Lanka the day they finally decimated Raavan? Or is it a Supreme Court directive?  Never mind. In Gujarat, Jai Shri Ram is Jai Shri *burps* Ram.

Gujjus burst crackers on Uttarayan evening. So you can imagine the level of celebrations on Diwali. The peculiar thing about Diwali in Gujarat is, it isn't a one day or two day affair. It lasts for an entire week. The entire place comes to a virtual standstill.

Why?

"DON'T YOU DARE ASK WHY. WE ARE GUJARATIS AND THIS IS GUJARAT. WE ARE THE KINGS OF BUSINESS. WE ARE THE CREATORS OF WEALTH. WE ADD MORE TO THE GDP IN ONE YEAR THAN YOU DO IN YOUR ENTIRE LIFE. SO WE CAN TAKE A WEEK OFF FOR A ONE DAY FESTIVAL, OKAY?

Also, END THIS POST ALREADY! WE ARE FASTEST GROWING STATE ON EARTH. WE ARE DEVELOPMENT. WE ARE 24*7 ELECTRICITY. WE ARE ROADS. WE ARE CUTE. WE LOVE FOOD. WE ARE MATHS WIZARDS.

NARENDRA MODI IS A GUJARATI!"- Gujjus

The State of Road Transport in MP and an Evening to Remember

Government's failure in delivering basic services to its people, is fertile ground for shady private enterprise.

The part of Madhya Pradesh where i work and roam, which is about the same, state road transport is like sanity in Bollywood remakes of Tamil/Telugu films - there is none. To be fair, they haven't yet built the roads too. And so, inter-city road transport is entirely at the mercy of private players that constitute the venerable Transport Mafia. Often, their bus service is just one of their businesses... other interests being politics, mining, truck transport, construction and other such avenues of black entrepreneurship. Depending upon the condition of roads, they ply a variety of buses. This includes an ingenious jugaadment of the blue-colored Tata 407 bus, the ultimate epitome of rickety, where leg space is essentially a state of mind - to run on severely potholed roads that often see long traffic jams because aage truck ka axle toot gaya hai, and on routes that see lower demand. And of course, there are the Baalvo buses - yet another jugaad in the form of Tata/Eicher make buses that become Volvo solely by the virtue of "VOLVO" written in bold font on all sides of the bus - for longer duration runs on decent roads. The bus services are known by the names or surnames of their respective owners, the name being plastered at the top of front glass pane of each bus in their fleet. They do not have offices or ticket booking centers. There is no fixed time table too. The timings of each operator's buses, their frequency on a certain route, their parking area in the bus stand etc. is a kind of tacit agreement between all the operators. Every operator has a key man marauding about the bus stand and managing operations, ensuring the agreed-upon schedule between the operators is implemented to the letter. Under him is a team of helper, conductor and driver allocated to each bus. Irrespective of the operator, all buses have an inexhaustible playlist of love and longing themed songs from yesteryears. The tickets are in the form of small, rectangular pieces of cheap paper with the seat number written on them, and change due to the traveler, if any. On any route, the bus stops for anyone holding a jhola in one hand and waving the other. The bus might be filled to the brim, but there's always some space for one more.

A couple of weeks or so ago, I traveled to Anuppur to meet a couple of people in Kotma. Anuppur, 260 odd kilometers from Jabalpur, is at Madhya Pradesh - Chattisgarh border and assumes its place in prominence by virtue of its proximity to Bandavgarh Tiger Reserve (150 km) and Amarkantak (80 km), besides housing a major thermal power plant and a sand mining belt. Kotma is a small town 40 km from Anuppur on Manendragarh road and is thus a corner of the state of Madhya Pradesh. The problem of public transport is all the more pronounced here, given the remote location coupled with a low population translates into very less demand for bus services. The private players, of course, wouldn't ply their buses on routes that are not commercially viable. Plus, being a no man's land between two states doesn't help the cause. This was my second trip there, and knew of a bus that runs from Anuppur to Manendra via Kotma at 8 in the morning. For the return journey from Kotma to Anuppur, there are Tata Magic vehicles that start once there are enough people on board.

A very brief note on Tata Magic:

The Tata Magic is an illustration of excellent product development. A four-wheeled public passenger vehicle that can seat 9-10 people is redefining short distance public transport, especially in rural areas. Tata Magic is being extensively used to ferry people over distances ranging from 20 km to 50 km. . A lot of people buying Tata Magic vehicles are young men from villages who invest a small amount of their own, and get the remaining amount financed, thus leading to business for the finance companies too. Their cause is being helped by the increasing road connectivity between villages through the Pradhan Mantri Gram Sadak Yojana. Good quality roads mean faster transit, lower wear and tear of vehicles and a better fuel efficiency. Being a four-wheeled vehicle, it is much safer than the bulky three-wheeled Piaggio auto-rickshaws, occupies lesser space on the road and can carry more people. Its compact version, called the Magic Iris, is being used for public transport in urban areas. Overall, the Magic series of vehicles are effective products that are improving the quality and safety of public transport.

At about 5:15 pm in the evening, as I was planning to return to Anuppur, I received information of a certain Mr. Gupta in Anuppur inquiring about one of our competition machines. I called him up. Mr. Gupta, in fact, lived in Funga, a small village midway between Anuppur and Kotma. We agreed to meet at Funga in the next half hour. Fortunately, a Funga-based Magic operator was about to leave from Kotma for his last trip of the day. We reached Funga at 6:15. The operator warned me that from here, my only means of transport back to Anuppur would be a Pushpraj bus that started from Kotma at 6:30 and crossed Funga at 7:00. There wasn't any bus after that till morning and the Magics too had called it a day. At Funga, I realized my phone was dead... Though, I had a spare phone, there was no means to retrieve Mr. Gupta's phone number. There, at the crossroads, a man was idling on a cot in front of his kirana shop.

To look important, I wore my company ID card and approached him...

"Bhaiya, Gupta ji se milna tha.. aap jaante hai unhe?"

He scratched his grey stubble...

"Kaun Gupta ji?"

 "Kaantractor hai...dumper hai unke paas me"

"Oh.. crusher waale Gupta ji?"

"Ji, ji.. crusher bhi hoga unke paas"



He took out his phone and dialed a number...

"unke saale ka number hai mere paas... kaahe milna hai Gupta ji se?"

"Chakke wali machine kharidni hai unhe...JCB...usi ke chalte milna tha"

"Hmm.. Mood toh bana rahe hai bhaiya..."



Meanwhile the call connected...

"Hello.. Namaskaar bhaiya, Namaskaar.. Jija ji ka number deb... arre woh JCB waale aaye hai Gupta ji se milna chaahat hai"


I took down the number on my phone and dialed. It was 6:30 by the time Mr. Gupta reached. He insisted that we converse there on the road itself, so that we could keep an eye on the bus. He reiterated that the 7 pm bus was the only means of transport to Anuppur available now. I couldn't afford to miss it. At about a quarter to 7, completely against the run of play, the weather took a sudden turn. The searing heat that persisted all day long gave way to strong winds. Within moments, there was thunder, lightning and it began to rain...

We rushed to the nearby dhaba for shelter from the rain that was now coming down in sheets. The sky had turned pitch dark by now and the winds so strong, they made a swooshing noise. He ordered tea and we continued to discuss...

"Tata ka engine hai bhaiya... aapko iske parts aur mistri aasaani se mil jayenge, aur turbo engine hai toh kam diesel me zyada taakat paida karega"

"Hmm, nai Tata ka saamaan har jagah mil jaata hai.. yeh toh hai... abhi humne dumper bhi uthaaye hai Tata ke"

Somewhere behind us, a bus honked twice and and an engine roared. We turned around. A lightning struck across the sky and its white light lit up our surroundings for one ephemeral moment. The 7 pm Pushpraj was speeding towards Anuppur. The only available means of transport, gone. I stared at its fading red back lights. Stuck in the middle of nowhere, with nowhere to go, while it rained and thundered all around.

"Baithiye sir bike par, pakadte hai bus ko..."

It was Mr. Gupta. He put on his helmet and kick-started his bike.

"Mil jaayega aapko bus.. abhi zyada door nai gaya" - the dhaba owner commented.

Amidst the pouring rain, Mr. Gupta blasted his bike through the road. The bus's red back lights were still in sight. The bike's speed touched 40...50...60 even as the bus didn't show any signs of slowing down. Honking wouldn't have helped. The rains would drown out the sound. There were no street lights around. The bike's headlight and the lightning were the only sources of light punctuating the blackness that engulfed us.

My pulse shot through the roof as we accelerated further to close in on the bus. Moments later, the bus showed first signs of slowing down. There was a huge pothole on the road. Thankfully. We managed to close in on the bus as it slowly tided past the pothole. As we neared the bus, Mr. Gupta honked and I shouted asking the bus driver to stop. Mr. Gupta overtook the bus and drove his bike in its path while I turned around and waved frantically.

Three odd kilometers from Funga, we finally managed to catch the bus. I got down from the bike and thanked Mr. Gupta profusely. The fact that he took the pains to drive3 km in the rain to help out a stranger he met half an hour ago was touching.

I got into the bus, and as it waded through the potholed stretch to Anuppur, I wondered if the potholes and the practice of halting for anyone and everyone on the route was entirely bad... At least, the adventure made it an evening to remember.

A Cup of Tea

The noon of 11th January combined the brooding, overcast sky of a monsoon dawn with chilly winds of a winter night. A dense fog enveloped all things more than a hundred metres away. The Intercity Express was running late by an hour. And as it happens on trains running behind time, as the destination approaches, more and more of the occupants got down every time it came to a halt. It could be a short stop at a station or a forced halt by the side to give a long-distance Superfast its right of way.

Often, the worth of a city or a town is determined by the trains that halt at its railway platforms and for how long.

But, anyway.

The Intercity Express screeched to a halt at its penultimate station - one that commanded a minute of Express and Passengers and little more than a half-hearted deceleration of the Superfasts. I got down. Like it is at countless small towns, sharing the fence with the railway station were a temple and a municipal school. The temple seemed to be more affluent of the two... for the priest's chants could be heard from a loudspeaker, put up at the feet of the temple's flag, shivering from the chilly wind.

A snack or a sweet - the food item a place claims it is "famous" for - is sold at its railway platforms. That and tea. For this one town, its claim to culinary fame was potato wada - locally known as "Aloo Banda". Five-six men carrying a basket full of piping hot potato wadas swamped the different coaches. They dexterously switched between wrapping a couple of wadas and a lone mirchi in rectangular pieces of paper, handing them over through the window grill and collecting ten-rupee notes in return. Two or three men carrying tea kettle in one hand and "Indian Railways" marked paper cups in the other flocked in between.

The signal light, vaguely seen through mist in the distance turned  yellow, and a long honk overpowered the neighboring temple priest's prayers while it lasted. Passengers hurriedly moved into their coaches as the train slowly rumbled into motion. Like an afterthought, a fellow passenger munching on his wada while standing in the doorway asked a passing tea seller -

"kitne ki hai?"

"5 rupaye"

"1 cup do"

 The tea seller - an old, thin man wearing a white shirt, grey pants and a grey waistcoat - got onto the steps of the moving train - it was already in motion and so, the tea seller didn't have an option. He moved in as people in the doorway stepped aside. He poured a cup and held it as the passenger fished out a 10 rupee note from his wallet.

"Aap chai lenge?" - he asked a man who occupied the adjacent seat through the journey.

Amazing, how easily camaraderie develops between fellow travelers. Fantastic topic for research.

But, anyway.

The train steadily picked up its speed. It had to - it was running late by an hour.

The fellow-traveler-turned-friend replied in the negative.

Taking the cup of tea from the seller, the man handed him a ten rupee note.

"Chhutta dijiye saab...Chhutta nai hai"

The temple priest's fading prayers were drowned out by another long honk, as if to reassure its passengers that there destination, finally, was next - and the train accelerated.

Everyone in the doorway wondered, how could the seller possibly get down now, with the train speeding and end of platform near. Their gaze fixed at the man fidgeting with his wallet, looking for coins that could add up to a value of 5 rs. The tea seller looked out of the door, at the station's name plank fixed at platform's end, which was drawing nearer by the second.

The man drew out 3 coins and handed them over. Tea seller quickly glanced at them, and slipped them inside his trousers' pockets. With the kettle in one hand, and paper cups in the other, he leaned out of the door.

The train had by now picked up considerable speed.

He paused for a brief second and leaped out onto the platform, bending ever-so-slightly as he landed and owing to momentum, ran three quick steps before coming to a steady halt. He smiled as the small crowd of us looked out of the door, amazed at how he never once looked off balance, as if this was a routine he had mastered.

Not a drop of tea spilled out of his kettle, and I doubt if the paper cups so much as creased.

All for a cup of tea... all for a sum of 5 rupees.

Therein lied an important lesson for everyone in Sales, and indeed Life.

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.