Notes from my Mumbai journal continued. See Part I here:
http://www.mridukhullar.com/journal/2007/12/23/mumbai-i/

Touching all senses

I’m woken up daily by the sound of the doorbell. For the middle class in Mumbai, there’s a person to take care of everything—there’s the breadwala, the doodhwala, the sabziwala, the garbagewala, the laundrywala, and other assorted “walas.” They all arrive bright and chirpy every morning. They wake me up from my sleep and it’s their faces on my mind as I drift back into sweet slumber.

The smell of fish is something I never get used to. I live right opposite the docks, and each morning and evening, the smell of fish seeps its way through the tiny openings of the window sill. There are days when I’m woken up by the stench. Everything then, to me, reeks of fish—my clothes, my bed, my skin. I drown it out by using obnoxious amounts of deodorant. And it’s only when I leave the city that I realize the smell isn’t stuck in my clothes. It’s stuck in my head.

As I walk down the street opposite the Victoria Terminus, I spot swamis—destitute and forlorn—sitting by the side of the road, waiting for someone to stretch out a palm, so they can predict a future.

I reluctantly open up my hand for one such astrologer. He thinks I’m interested in knowing about my life. The truth is, I’m more interested in knowing about his.

Looking at my palm, he tells me I will get married for love (as opposed to having an arranged marriage), live abroad and have a very successful career. He stresses repeatedly that I’m blunt, independent and obsessive, which are bad qualities for relationships, but great qualities for career success. You’re too restless, he says. You haven’t even settled in one place that you’re ready to move on to the next. You keep searching in the hope that you’ll find perfection and peace. But you don’t. And you won’t. Because peace isn’t outside of you.

He gives me advice on how to avoid the quickly-in-quickly-out syndrome in my relationships and fills me in on my lucky numbers, days and birth stones.

For Rs 51, I get my life story. And his.

Narayan Joshi is in his mid-thirties, has a wife and two kids and has been practicing palmistry for the past fifteen years. “Why do you do this work?” I ask, expecting some deep, philosophical bullshit about how he’s helping people find their destiny.

“Survival,” he says. “I’m not equipped to do anything else. My grandfather did this, my father did this, and now I’m doing it.” He worked in a hotel for a little while, where visitors could get their fortunes told, but he was soon made redundant and found his way back on to the street. “All I’m doing is looking at your palm and telling you what you already know,” he says. “But human beings need that reinforcement and faith.”

“You care about people,” is the last thing he says to me. And this time, he’s not looking at my palm.

Bollywood calling

After three weeks in the city, I haven’t yet spotted a celebrity and I’m quite bummed by that. I ask Siddharth if he’s ever seen any celebrities wandering about. “All the time,” he says. “It’s really no big deal. You’ll be at a red light, and Salman Khan will be in the car next to you.” He says this without any hint of excitement. In fact, he’s quite bored. He’s had this conversation with visitors to the city several times before.

Another friend later tells me why this is. “We’re so used to having celebrities walking around here that it’s no more a novelty,” he says. “The person you’re going to brag to has probably seen a dozen more stars than you have.” They’re not obsessed with Bollywood, he says. Yet, when Aishwarya Rai and Abhishek Bachchan, the latest Bollywood sensations get engaged, it’s front page news in the national dailies.

Each time I walk down Fashion Street, one of the top garment markets in the city, vendors compete for my attention, barking various variations of “I show you Rani jeans. Not want? How about Kareena jeans? Sania top?” I soon make it a hobby to guess which starlet will inspire the next brand of jeans.

But for every one person who’s spotted a celebrity, are ten who pretend to have. I’m sitting with my friend Shruti at her jewelry show one evening, when a woman with an expensive phone and fake accent walks in. “What man, effing Shah Rukh Khan didn’t show up for the damn party,” she says, fully aware of the many pairs of eyes on her. Shruti smirks. It’s quite possible that effing Shah Rukh Khan didn’t show up for the damn party, but it’s also equally likely that the whole conversation has been fabricated for the benefit of the people at the show. That’s another thing about Mumbaikers. They like throwing around names.

Sri, a twenty-something actor, originally from a small village in Haryana and now in Mumbai to become the next big thing, tells me very proudly that he works out at the same gym as John Abraham. He may not have the bulging biceps, the six-pack or the lean body, but he works out at the same gym as someone who does. He’s fit by association.

Like many in the city, Sri came here six years ago to “make it big” in the movies. So far, he’s done one television soap and has been offered a small role in a foreign English movie. Sri started out well, and at the peak of his career, fielded calls from the likes of Yash Chopra. But the film that convinced him of his star status fell through even before the shooting started, and he regrets having rudely rejected the small role Chopra offered him. Now he calls Chopra’s office every week but isn’t given the time of day. Sri, because of his choices, is once again a struggler.

We’re having dinner at the house of my friends Nik and Raj one day, and Sri comes in with news. He’s been offered a big role in a high-budget movie. The problem: he’ll be required to play the part of a eunuch.

“You’re an artist,” Nik advises. “Take the role. And be the best eunuch there ever was.”

Sri thinks about this for a while.

“Nah,” he finally decides. “Screw art. I want the glamor and money of the hero.”

Nik knows of what she speaks, having worked on the production side of the television and movie industry for years. It’s been a case of all or nothing for her, too. With her, I visit a production house that’s starting the shoot of a new television series. Nik’s been looking for work for months, but nothing has materialized. This time however, she knows she’ll get in. She’s come with a “contact.”

Sure enough, as soon as she’s done name-dropping, we’re offered cookies and tea. Nik doesn’t have a resume on her. She doesn’t talk about her past accomplishments. She doesn’t need to come up with reasons why she’s the best person for the job. But Nik is hired. Because she’s come with the one thing others don’t have—the personal reference of the producer.

I’m still whining about not having spotted any celebrities, so on my last day in the city, Nik and Raj take me over to see the next best thing—a bungalow that’s often used as a movie set. I won’t see the workers, but I’ll sure as hell see their place of work. In order to get in, Nik and I make up a story about how we’re checking out the location, and Nik with her industry knowledge is able to smoothly talk her way into meeting the owner. He’s not too keen on renting out the place again, saying that movie crews with their heavy equipment damage his property beyond repair. But he agrees to give it to us for a day, since we’re only doing a short film for the Cannes film festival.

“You didn’t bullshit too much, did you?” a worried Raj asks us as we walk smugly out to where he’s waiting and get into a cab. He’s just found out that the bungalow is rigged with cameras.

Mumbai’s cab drivers, like the cab drivers in most cities, are an accurate reflection of the people who live here. They’re smart, they’re in a perpetual state of hurry, and they help out when they see someone in trouble. The small spaces in their cabs are their own—decorated with photographs of their families, humorous ornaments or religious shrines.

I get out of one of my last cab rides in the city, and can’t resist the temptation. “Bhaiya,” I say. “Have you ever had any Bollywood stars sit in your cab?”

“Oh no, they have their own cars,” he replies. “But I did see Anil Kapoor at Film City last week.”