Of boilers and samovars.

Kyani & Co., Dhobi Talao, Mumbai

The peeling white paint, the high ceiling with the long fans, the glass pane cupboards. You climb up the steps and enter over 100 years of history. Leaving Mumbai and entering Bombay.

On this particular day of my history, we settle for a plate of Kheema Pav, Akhuri on toast and two cups of tea. We wait for the waiter, who seems to have forgotten to take his weekly bath yesterday, to go around and bring us our 'cutting'. Lamenting on how few of these Irani tea shops can be seen these days.

A caricature climbs up the steps. Holding on to the rope that is left hanging to aid his ilk. A Parsi whose childhood must have coincided with the glory days of Kyani. Whose old age brings with it a slow shuffle of a walk, thick spectacles and a permanent smile. Dentures? Maybe not.

The old man ended the solitude of the table next to us. It isn't surprising when he gets his tea along with ours. The old regulars should be allowed to have some clout, if nothing else. The tea is carefully poured on to the saucer and brought to his lips using both his trembling hands.

I wonder if he has noticed my appreciative gaze for he looks up and asks me what time it is. 4.20. What? 4.20 sir. Young man, you must be careful when you tell time like that. 420 is the local term for a criminal. Taken from the Indian Penal Code Section 420 dealing with crimes of cheating and dishonesty. And you may get slapped. His laugh is loud and friendly. I wonder if he knew that 420 also is a reference to Marijuana in the US. I ask him how long he has been coming here.

Forever. I used to stay here. In Fort. And used to come here almost everyday when I was your age. But these days I am not so regular. Only come in once a week. Ever since my wife was killed I have had to live with my son and he stays far. She was killed in the Gujarati riots. But the Gujarat government was kind enough to send back the body to Mumbai. It came in a nice coffin with a letter from them. A letter expressing sadness for my loss and also mentioning that the Octroi tax had been wavered for the shipment. Can you believe that? My wife's body didn't need Octroi. The loud and friendly laughter caught us by surprise and as soon as it died down the routine with the tea and saucer recommenced.

Lê Lê Street Kitchen, Vesterbrogade, Copenhagen

This place doesn't look too Vietnamese does it. It looks more like a juice shop. The tables outside look nice though. I don't want to sit outside. It's too sunny. Why don't we take that table with the tall stools overlooking the road. You should be happy, they seem to have some vegetarian stuff. I will have the same thing she is having but with the chicken.

It says here that this is the new place that this Vietnamese aunty has opened up. The original Vietnamese place called Le Le Nha Hang is somewhere down the road.

I don't like what I have got. It's just the same stuff that you have but I have a few pieces of chicken on top. The rice noodle are nice but most of the bowl seems to be leaves from the back garden. I hope the lemongrass tea is better. The rice noodles are nice though.

Its nice and sunny outside. The old ladies seem to be liking the sun. If they were in India they would be running from it after a day. Never thought I would be seeing guys wearing business suits riding bicycles. What? Ya, that statement doesn't seem right. It seems like they are in the middle of a circus act. Guys dressed in business suits can be seen riding bicycles. There you happy with that?

I quite liked the waitress. She seemed very warm, blonde hair and grey eyes. No. No. I wasn't checking her out. I was just appreciating beauty like one appreciates art. Just preparing for the trip to Louisiana Museum. 

Hopefully she will bring the tea  and I could confirm if they were grey or green.

I wouldn't have believed that the red light district is the parallel road if I hadn't seen it last night. Walking up Istedgade with 2 suitcases at 2.30 AM and with the 10 day old bride for company. Nice beginning to Copenhagen. Google should have more description included in their maps. Funny how two South Indians ended up getting directions in Hindi from a Pakistani storekeeper in the middle of the night. There is something reassuring hearing a language from your part of the world in another part of the world.

Where has the tea gone? I think they have forgotten it. I can't seem to find the waitress either. Hey, that waiter seems to have nicer hair than you. Let me go remind him about my tea. Just as I suspected. They forgot the tea.

Damn. That's a big kettle. Alright, it's a pretty kettle too. You want a photo of it? For what joy? Cool. Why don't you take one? Don't take it with the food. Your plate looks disgusting. Just take the kettle alone. Here let me place it to overlook the window. Hot. Hot. The kettle is hot.

Elma's, Hauz Khas Village, Delhi

The William Dalrymple book, City of Djinns, is great company when you are roaming the streets of Delhi. But the Hauz Khas monuments aren't mentioned in the book. To be honest, they aren't really the most mention worthy monuments in Delhi but, this book I thought would have a word or two about it. 

A friend recommended Elma's at Hauz Khas Village for their pastries. Is it the weather? The January winter chill mingling with the warmth inside Elma's. Is it the pastel shade of light green or blue on the walls? Is it the sheer number of foreigners sitting in those wooden chairs and drinking tea from porcelain? Not sure what exactly gave the place a rather English feel. Maybe all of the above.

And there was this girl. Even the most ordinary place become memorable when there is such a girl around. But Elma's is far from ordinary. 

Lithe and full of life. In a low neck red sweater and jeans. Black hair band keeps the bob in place. In two minutes the monuments are all but forgotten. Request for a table for one and there is a table smack in the middle of the melee. The apple pie on the counter looks tempting but when she comes to take the order a recommendation is sought. Carrot cake. Oh hell. Bit of a letdown due to a visceral opinion against the presence of vegetables in cakes. A pot of Darjeeling Tea is promptly ordered to help with the cake.

She walks around. Waiting tables. Picking up the tab. Air kissing guests. The whole scene seems carefully orchestrated. Right up to the part where she walks up and asks if her recommendation was fine. The cake was quiet good actually in spite of its orange colour. And the tea? 

The tea is fantastic!

Towards traffic, Mumbai Local

I am the beginner the title of the post refers to ( well the title was a beginner's guide to Mumbai Local trains but I kinda changed it but was not in the mood to change the start) and I must confess that over the last 2 months (nearly 2 months) I have had the fortune of travelling against traffic for 98% of the time.

This post would draw on my experiences from the 2% when I got to travel with the traffic. Only 4-5 times did I get to experience the Mumbai trains which are shown in all those photos showing Mumbai's resilience. The ones with all those people hanging out of the compartment. There was even a 3 minute movie which was shortlisted by BBC in one of their Talking Movies' contests which only showed people climbing in and out of Mumbai local trains for 3 minutes. This post draws from the insights captured from those 4-5 trips.

Entering a local train in Mumbai is quite easy actually. All you have to do is to ensure that you stand at least 2-3 feet close to the tracks and as the train enters into the station, the wisdom of the crowds will ensure that you are pushed into the nearest compartment.

And once you enter into the compartment, you may understand the inherent natural urge that makes sunflowers follow the sun when your brain commands you to crane your neck and turn your head in search of oxygen. That is if you are fortunate not to find your head nestling cosily in the armpit of a raunchy old man who ardently believes that the density of pubic hair is a sign of virility.

I am taking a horticultural diversion here. You know the whole sunflower following the sun thingy is flawed. As in I think it may not be true for all sunflowers cos the ones in my campus dont tend to face the sun through the course of the day. Now getting back to those trains.

After all the search for oxygen you find that perfect spot where the angle of the fan is perfectly in accordance with the aerodynamic principles of Bernoulli and you are definitely sure all the mathematical and geometric calculations have been made and like I have previously mentioned the spot you have nailed is perfect and you come against that most dreaded law... Not sure if it was Confucius or if it was one of the Marathikars who said it - "In local trains, when perfect spot found, beatific smiling old man or angelic smiling old lady suddenly comes around!" You just have to give way.

And through it all you hope that the person you stand next to has had time to clear his bowels because in your search for Oxygen the last thing you want to find is Methane or Hydrogen Sulphide. You hope not to stand next to someone who has had beef and mutton pulav to eat the previous day and not had the chance to go in the morning. In other words, you hope that you are not standing next to me!

Overbridge, Matunga Station

He is a blind beggar. This is not going to be one of those posts where the author tries real hard to capture the times in a truly eloquent and witty way and then stun the reader by springing a twist in the final line by declaring that the protagonist is blind using a very subtle and poetic sentence. Why? Firstly, I think that whole format has become quite stale. Jeffrey Archer has done it to death. Secondly, and probably more importantly, I am not that good a writer.

So the start pretty much puts it across in a straight not so subtle way. The protagonist is a beggar and he is blind. He is this blind beggar who stands at the end of the overbridge in Matunga station towards the East side - Kings Circle Side.

Over the last month and a half or so, I have walked past him almost on a daily basis and I admire the dignity with which he stands over there in that corner. He is either wearing a blue t shirt or a dark blue shirt and thats neatly tucked in to a terycot formal pair of pants which was the fashion of my father's generation but still continues to hold its own today. No formal shoes but a nice pair of leather sandals. And he doesn't make a sound. Singing is not his style. Nor does he plead or implore you to drop some coins. He just stands there, listening., in a corner, trying hard not to disturb or bother you.

I am not sure how much he collects daily and I haven't seen him around on Sundays. He puts in a 6 day or a 5 day week. And that overbridge is all his.

I am more interested to know what all he must be listening to during his 'office hours'. Has he picked up any Tamil from the Matunga crowd? Does he smile in embarrassment listening to teenagers sharing their newly discovered romance or does he nod in cognizance? Can he feel the madness and the rush of many trying to catch their morning commute to work? Does he empathise with the exhaustion of those returning home? Does he wish to see the joys of the kids who run to Shivaji Park for their daily dose of the gentleman's game at Shivaji Park? Was he standing there when the name of Sachin Tendulkar made the rounds around the park? Does he have friends whom he meets and shares a drink with at the end of the day or week? Does he recognise the sound that my bag makes and does he expect some coins in his palms every time the bag comes near?

The daily stroll home... till June

And the 19:53 Slow train to Churchgate brings me to the stop where I get off - Matunga Road. Start walking towards my right as I disembark from the train and stop at the refreshments stall to buy me a Lichika. It tastes a bit odd for a Litchi drink but its nice nevertheless. Climb up the ramp to reach the Matunga Z-bridge - an asbestos lined ramp which takes one from Western Railway halt (Matunga Road) to the Central line (Matunga) - that takes me over the Railway Coach factory. I think to myself that this a perfect place to have a chase sequence from an action movie, they should get some Vijay movie shot in Mumbai, with him being the gang lord at Dharavi or Sion or some slum or he can be a Dosa master at Ayyappa's road side dosa stall (more on this later)

The Z-bridge ends at the overbridge of Matunga station and I walk past the blind beggar wishing I had some change to give to him just to pay tribute to his presence at the end of the overbridge every single day of the week. As I get down to the roads I see people fervently looking at the lottery numbers on a small kiosk which has these screens flashing numbers. The kiosk stands next to a paper shop that sells Tamil and Malayalam magazines to what must be a regular South Indian clientele brought up in the shady (in terms of tree cover) locales of Matunga.

The Thandai shop and Vada pav try tempting me but I do not wilt. My mind is made and I walk past the shops selling "South Indian flower garlands" as my stomach is waiting for that Podi Dosa in what is arguably the Best Dosa Stall in Mumbai - Ayyapan dosa kada right next to Mani's Lunch Home (who serve unlimited Full Meals for Rs. 70/- with unlimited Pappadams) opposite to a mid-sized temple. The place is teeming with young and old alike. No doubt hooked by the awesome Dosas and Sambar. Pineapple Seera to round off my dinner and I walk out of the lane back to the main road.

Walk right past the old Mallu uncle selling pirated DVDs of the latest Tamil and Malayalam movies sitting right next to the entrance of the Kochu Guruvayoor temple and past Amba Bhavan coffee club where you can drink the closest resemblance to South Indian filter coffee Mumbai. Enter King's Circle and take a left towards Mysore Concerns - selling filter coffee powder and Coimbatore butter, walk past the Pulao/Pav Bajji wallah and the health juice shop, glance at the queue outside Madras Cafe, walk towards the New Punjab Restaurant thinking of the night I spent with 2 buddies eating pappad and drinking 7-Up while one of my friends tried hard to down that 2nd bottle of Beer.

Wonder how there is always a queue outisde Madras and Mysore Cafes and remember the great rasam that I tasted there last Sunday. Cross the road and remind myself to have the Summer Special Mango ice-cream with Malai the next weekend and also make a visit to Idli house to have their out of this world Jackfruit idli that reminds me of the Ella Appam that my grandma made the last time I saw her alive. Walk past the Kulfi wallah, telling myself all the time that I need to control the urge to have a mixed Kulfi plate as my pants are refusing to comply to the requests of my ever increasing waist size.

Decide to try out the cheese szchewan rolls opposite the Kulfi shop for dinner tomorrow and also decide to never step into the New Yorker and end up paying a bomb for vegetarian food. Must have breakfast at Koolar Irani Cafe on Sunday. Kheema with Bun Maska and Irani Tea. Also get some really strong ginger soda, odd tasting raspberry soda, nice spl tea with burun maska and some nice plum cakes.

Take a left now to enter the Adenwala road, which is all dug up and ready to be concretised, walk past the Khalsa college road and the AMP hostels to enter the gate of Belle Ville.

The dog, traumatised by guys when it was young according to the old aunty who owns the place, greets me with some noisy barking. Ha, I am home... at least after A. throws down the keys and I enter...

Posting from the Maximum City

Mumbai, on recent estimates, has a population of over 13 million people. India's most populated city. And in the last 10 days that I have been living in the city, I have realised it's only ever really all about the Mumbai people.

The taxi drivers who call out to you and return 1 rupee change as you try to rush and catch your train. The old man reading the Economic Times without a care in the world while religiously waiting at Dadar to catch the 9:25 Fast train to Goregaon. The old aunty living on the first floor of a bungalow in Wadala with 3 dogs for company, letting out the second floor to paying guests and fighting to reclaim the ownership of the ground floor from the Government. The auto drivers who don't mind coming for minimum fare. The 70 year old lady standing on a jam packed 2nd class compartment of an 8 PM Thane train with the courage to not hold on to any aid for balance. The line of boot polishers who work away in zen-like rhythm that has been perfected over years of grinding routine to provide that masterpiece shine.

The touts, the Vada Pav sellers, the Dabbawallahs, the street children, the beggars, the PYTs travelling in the first class ladies compartment hanging out to get down at the next stop... Mumbai is only ever really all about the people.