A foul-mouthed milkman
In the late ’70s and early ’80s, in the movies we watched on white cloth projections in the small alleys of south Mumbai, we saw Big B fire shots from a gun held in his right hand. It is because we were on the wrong side of the makeshift screen. After countless attempts to read the film’s subtitles, we would give up. During Ganesh Utsav, we would check what movie was playing in which lane, and then choose what films to catch. We’d watch the first half of one film and after intermission, the second half of another film. We sat on the ground surrounded by innumerable aromas and weird smells.
We were accustomed to the siren of police vans because every six months, there were clashes between rival gangs. A real gang war, not like the one shown in films. We would be jolted out of deep slumber due to the thud of soda bottle bombs and would run toward the window to watch things unfold under the dim streetlight. Invariably, the police would reach after the main action scene was over. But the eerie siren had the power to disperse both gangs within seconds. The focal point was Building No. 91, opposite us. A famous Mumbai goon lived here, protected by his gang, called 91 gang.
One day I saw a new face in a shop—we called him dudhwala—below our chawl. A fair, decent-looking bloke in his teens who came from his hometown to fulfil his dreams in this wonderland called Bombay. He would sit quietly next to the cash till with a cheap Hindi detective novel in hand. Another kid used to play cricket with us in the ground next to our building. He was wiry, dark, talkative, and highly abusive—he would begin and end his sentences with a foul word. The ground and its adjacent garden had a notorious past, and hence was called, Gandu Bageecha. This kid used to stay a couple of lanes away from the garden.
After a few months, the dudhwala boy started hanging out with kids from the 91 gang. As the days passed, we kept hearing stories about their gallant fights, fame, and episodes of moving up in the gang hierarchy. One day, we heard that one of them got killed in a gang war, and the other in a police encounter. I don’t remember feeling sad, but shocked at how a gentle, soft-spoken boy changed into a gangster within a few years. Had he settled in a different neighbourhood, his fate could have been different. The other kid had a dark side, so we were not surprised. Still, it felt unreal.
Growing up, we all have witnessed such stories. Back then, we thought this is a part of life. But now, looking back on how geographical settings matter in one’s destiny in this Mayanagari, it is both disturbing and intriguing. All these stories stay with you in the deep freeze section of your brain and remain fresh forever.
Shirt Pocket
On a recent Sunday afternoon, I was waiting in a car outside a mall. I noticed a ragpicker foraging for leftovers from a garbage bin. Unfortunately, he didn’t find anything. I felt bad and reached for my wallet. I only had a 500-rupee note, so I dropped the idea. But a few minutes later, I changed my mind and gave him the note. He kept it in his pocket, his eyes said a thousand things than thank you, but he didn’t say a single word. That’s when I noticed the only thing ‘intact’ on him was his shirt pocket. The shirt and trousers were in tatters; he appeared to be wearing these for namesake. I was stunned at the irony. That’s what you see if you want to see this city.
Sunil Padwal Is a Mumbai-based artist
(This appeared in the print edition as 'Mumbai Diary')
