BEING a native of the "City of Gold", I am often asked what is the difference between Mumbai and Delhi. I have not, despite several attempts, been able to provide an intelligent answer yet, but last week on a quick visit to Mumbai (screwed up by the Air Traffic Controllers' go-slow) I think I saw the difference.
At a traffic junction near Mahim, an urchin was selling the customary magazines, Cine Blitz, Elle, Stardust and, alas, India Today but no Outlook, with moderate success. He clutched all the magazines in one hand and in the other he held a solitary book. Stationed thus, he seemed to be conducting a brisk trade. Happily, my car stopped next to him and I was able to see the title of the book. It was Arundhati Roy's The God of Small Things. I complimented the lad for spreading good reading habits but when he realised I was not a buyer but an idle chatterer he sped to another car. And what did I see? There was this man with fat, ring-filled fingers in a Maruti 800 who rolled down his window, inspected Roy's novel, pondered for five seconds and then produced four one-hundred rupee notes and bought the book.
Would a high-quality, serious novel be sold at the Chandni Chowk traffic lights?