The value of 'woofs'

It is to live that we dread, death is just a vague concept that we have dramatized through time immemorial. It is to truly live that we do not and will not come to terms with because for that we have to put ourselves out there; for that we have to let go of what it is we think we should be and be what we truly are. My tale lies in Bombay, ah yes…the eternal city of Bombay now known as Mumbai. I have not quite gotten the hang of that name, for me it has always been and will always be Bombay. I dreamed of it as a child, it was the place I was to find my soul in. I do not quite know what exactly it was that fascinated me about Bombay. I have tried to remember time and time again but have never succeeded. It is one of those things that I will probably remember one vague day and forget it the moment it pops into my mind.

Bombay, the city where people go to become movie stars and film geniuses. That is the common notion people have about it, Bollywood being so famous does not help, but in fact Bombay is so much more. It is where people go to make dreams happen. Yes, Bombay happens to be the most populated city in India. Something about it draws people in like ants to a caramelized bread pudding. The different kinds of people you meet here is spectacular. Everybody is everywhere doing anything and everything. The smell of the sea envelops you like an old friend, the marshy areas over power your senses most days and let you be just when you think that your nose is never going to ever know another smell. Time moves ever so fast here, one minute you are drifting through the streets of Bandra, a short pit stop after a meal in Andheri and before you know it you find yourself fighting off harassed commuters on the local train at the Dadar station. Another blink of an eye and its nightfall and you are sitting in Marine drive watching the waves, wondering if life has always been this peaceful. It is a complicated city filled with complicated people who dream. Every city in India has a story, has individuals who dream the loveliest of dreams. Bombay is one such city where I dared to dream a lovely dream.

People are always running here, running to get to work on time, running to finish work on time, running to squeeze in a meal, running to meet a friend, running to get their kids to school, running to get to college, running to yoga classes, running to open up their shops, running to hospitals, running to watch a movie, running to meet an appointment, running to live, running to die…people are always running to run their lives. Bombay has this crazy energy about it; you are constantly on the move. People pass you by on the local trains, buses, autos, taxis and on the road and sometimes, whenever you get that sometime, you wonder where the hell is everyone rushing off to and then you realise there is somewhere you have to be as well. So rush away you do. You rush and yet you never quite do. You miss out and then again you never quite do.

People are amazing. The people of Bombay, of any place in this ginormous word really. They kill, they steal, they do horribly horrible things, they take away your life and they destroy you. Then there are those people who help you out when you are lost, feed you when you are hungry, save you when you are drowning (even when they do not really know how to swim), they save your soul and patch it up for good luck. People are like that, they kill you and they save you. Yes, even though you might not want to be killed or saved most times. Human beings are a complicated species. We, the Homo sapiens, tend to be self-destructive. Ah, the qualities we possess are fascinating. We harm others to harm ourselves. A little bit cowardly, since we can never face ourselves directly. We harm, most times to feel good about ourselves; to tell ourselves that we are in control; that we can control. We constantly amaze, we can damage and wondrously salvage matter. We constantly amaze.

I was heading out of a medical facility, having spent my morning with an empty stomach and the night with the much dreaded Dulcolax; all for a couple of x-rays that were just going to confirm that I was indeed a defected piece of work. The traffic in Lokhandwala was really not helping. I was not in the best of spirits and my company, my crusading aunt, was facing the brunt of it all. The sullen silence had been replaced with dramatic “I told you, I was dying.” dialogues. I was not at my best, not even close to it. I was crawling my way to the car when out of the corner of my eye I saw her. She was bending down; her shapeless dress hugging her serenity. She had things in her hand, blue plastic bowls. They looked plastic. Their body surface reflected the morning sky. She had a container with food in one hand, I am not sure if it was a container or a bag. It all got a little hazy after that. Her hair was short or was it tied? She was moving or was she still? All that stuck to my memory was that she glowed like a subdued, calm sun. Some blue bowls were on the road, right in front of my aunt’s car. There was food in them; the food was mushy and gooey. It looked like what babies are given initially, love and nutrition meshed together. Did I mention that she glowed? She glowed in the most unusual way.

There were some dogs around; a few had started on their meal. They were used to her, used to the blue plastic bowls with mushy food, used to her smell, her voice, her presence, to everything about her. She was talking to them. They understood everything she meant. I stopped. Stared. Time had taken away my limbs. She turned to me, smiled, and so did the dogs. My aunt had started up the car; I looked at her. She understood without me even saying anything. I thought of telling her to move because my aunt was trying to get the car out but I did not. She understood anyway. She looked at me apologetically. She… looked at me apologetically.She moved the blue bowls out of our way, I helped her. The dogs understood. They backed away. A few ran. They looked at me while they ran; I saw the fear in their eyes. They were telling me that they knew the kindness they had received was too good to last. They knew better. The dogs that were more familiar with her moved away but stayed at a distance. They knew she would not go that she would stay, when no else would. They had faith in her and she in them. We drove away. I looked back. She was still smiling. She reminded me of that feeling I had when I reached Bombay to study. That feeling that there was good to come, that I could just be, that dreams did come true. I do not quite know why she reminded me of that feeling. I figured she reminded me of good. I do not consider myself a pessimist but I know many would say that instead of helping stray dogs, which are anyways a nuisance, she could have devoted that time and those resources to helping humans. I guess when we cannot do; we pick on those who do. It is human nature after all. Is it not grand enough that she did something? That she did what little she could.That she made a few dogs somewhere in Lokhandwala feel safe, warm and wanted. Most of us spend so much time in stating a brilliant number of things that could change our world but never getting around to doing anything about it, never managing to understand the stuff that people like her are made of.

Bombay is a magical place, in its own right. You find a variety of people here. You find railway perverts who jump at the opportunity of crowds and close spaces to touch you, you find auto rickshaw and taxi drivers who refuse to take you to your destination because it does not suit them, you find people willing to con you at the blink of an eye, you find people ready to sell your everything when your guard is down, you find people boasting of being benevolent souls when they cannot even sit in the same bench as a slum dweller, you find people who will masturbate beside you as you sit and talk to your friends on marine drive and then you find chaat-wallas who cure your sorrows with their taste-numbing sev puris, you find restaurant owners with multinational family members (beside Andheri station) who make you feel warm and chat you up while you wait for your order of brun-maska and bread pudding, you find daughters of prostitutes who are making an effort to change their fates, you find eunuchs on the street who bless you with all their hearts, you find tired women in the local train who help you squeeze your way into an already bursting women’s compartment, you find people who care and love you for who you are and you find a smiling woman who feeds stray dogs in the morning just because. She lives even when you forget to.