Mumbai's Boswell

Leafing with happy deja vu through Busybee's first collection, culled from 1996-97, I am reminded of Alexander Dumas' opening sentence in Scaramouche: "He was born with the gift of laughter and a sense that the world was mad." True wit, as opposed to the blundering slapstick which we excel in, is a rare commodity in India. True wit, on inventive daily display for 30 years, is little short of a miracle. Happily for us all, an ageless Parsi gentleman in Mumbai, self-effacing to the point of invisibility, with the forgettable name of Behram Contractor, has, under the nom-de-plume of Busybee, entertained a generation with unflagging elan. He has created a genre which is singularly his own. As much as R.K. Laxman is part of the national psyche, Busybee's barbed commentary on the life and times of Mumbai has forever changed the way we regard ourselves and our city.

To review Busybee is akin to taking a spade to a souffle. One simply lies back and enjoys the experience. It never fails to brighten the day with buoyant ingenuity, quickly forgotten, but the aftertaste lingers, so that reading Busybee is initially a pleasantry, then a mild addiction, finally a glad silver lining, in a city of perennial woe, which we've come to take for granted and would be loath to do without. Indeed, tens of thousands of Mumbaikars have changed papers without a second thought when Busybee did. Now in his last avatar (but one can never tell with him) as editor of his own newspaper, he wears several hats—weighty editorialist, lip-smacking food critic, emergency caption writer, benign mentor—but the one which fits best is the byline we turn to first on the last page. This is Busybee territory, discovered, explored, claimed and exclusively his own. We would have it no other way.

To the serious student of journalism, the column is a classic case study. A synthesis between a Proustian eye for close and original observation, perfectly honed intention and a high order of craft so superbly rendered it is never noticed. There is no grandstanding. The style is spare, incisive, the tone affectionately laconic, a single idea unfolds through 500 words and the punch-line rarely, if ever, fails to score. The structure is without artifice, but the art has been hard won. It's impossible to precis or red-pencil a Busybee column. The words are put together with perfect congruity; the sentences ring euphonically true; the pitch and balance leave no room for intrusion; content and form are seamless. But art without heart is, in my view, a betrayal of raison d'etre. If Busybee stands light years ahead of Mumbai's gadarene rush of columnists manque, there's reason. He has struck a chord which reverberates through the years with all of its original clarity and thrust: he loves the city. Indeed, he has gone on record to state that he will live nowhere else.

This abiding bond with Mumbai runs like a golden leitmotif through the book, and is a feast for all seasons. There are the Run-yon-esque archetypes: the antics of the billionaire buffoon who lives on the 21st floor (the perfect send-up of Mumbai's social-climbing noveaux riche); the remote control puppeteer with the iron hand in the iron glove who holds the city in thrall; bootlegging 'Aunties' in far-flung suburbs; back-street pavement chefs of astonishing virtuosity; mere celebrities Busybee considers worthy of notice; and never forgetting his mythical family—The Wife, voice of calm unreason, the Sons, Darryl & Derek, street-smart beyond their years and so they should be seeing as how they've remained seven and six for the past thirty; Bolshoi the Boxer, The Dog With The Last Word On Any Subject... Busybee has become Mum-bai's Boswell. There isn't an aspect, attitude

or idiosyncrasy which remains untouched: an ancient electric tramcar hauling a gentle past into an improbable future; a dhobi ghat; the perfect dhansak; the perennial good cheer of street performers; the upper crust peeled back, warts and all; gold in the lower dust...all of the living legend which makes Mumbai the Circe she is.

The publishers promise bi-annual collections, past and future. 6.15 pm on the Borivili Express. "Hey, I've got the 98/99"... "Want to swap with vintage 87/88?"... "Morons. I've booked my copy of 2001"... "Go away, nothing compares to his best hooch years, 83/84"...

Rejoice and be glad.