Cynthia D'Costa is upset with her family - Episode 2 - Wadala Wagrant Stories

 "See you tomorrow, then," Zubin said, his voice a low counterpoint to the city’s roar. He stood before Auxilium House, the facade of the old residential building a familiar canvas of faded yellow paint and dark green railings. A few feet away, a double-decker bus, its red paint peeling in protest of the tropical sun, rumbled past, a fleeting glimpse of faces pressed against its windows.

Joseph leaned against the gate, a sudden sense of finality settling on his shoulders. The walk was over. The grand, sprawling ideas had to be shelved for another day. “So you’re going all the way there for her?” he asked, a hint of something he couldn't name—envy, perhaps, or just plain curiosity—in his voice. “To the BPT Polyclinic? Isn't it a long way?”

Zubin shrugged, a casual gesture that made his backpack shift on his shoulders. “It’s not so bad. Besides, my parents… they don’t like her to be out there alone late. It’s better this way.” His sister, Farida, was 20, a figure of distant, adult authority in Joseph’s mind. The BPT Polyclinic, with its sprawling, almost campus-like feel, was a world away from their usual haunts. It was a place of serious work and serious people, not teenage dreams and philosophical ramblings.

“Okay, then. Take care,” Joseph said, pushing off the gate.

“You too. And don’t dream about becoming a pilot. Not yet.” Zubin grinned, a quick flash of his usual dry wit, and then turned, his figure a solitary point in the river of people flowing towards the main road.

Joseph watched him go, a sense of quiet descending as Zubin's familiar form merged with the crowd. He pushed the heavy gate of Auxilium House open, the sound of the hinges a rusty groan he’d known all his life. He stepped into the building’s cool, dim entryway, the smells of the building hitting him like a soft wave. There was a constant, low murmur of a thousand lives lived behind the closed doors, a mix of cooking smells, stale air, and the faint, ever-present scent of old wood and worn tiles.

The staircase was a familiar climb. Joseph took the steps two at a time, his feet instinctively knowing the rhythm of the ascent. As he passed the second-floor landing, his nose twitched. Sonny Aruja’s house. Sonny, who was a Keralite Roman Catholic and had a booming voice, was a man of large appetites, and his cooking was never subtle. Today, the scent was a heady, complex mix of fish curry and red boiled rice, a perfume so rich and deep that it seemed to hang in the air, a thick, palpable presence. Joseph felt a pang of hunger, a visceral, animal desire for a plate of that food. It smelled of spices and promises, of a life lived with a certain confident gusto.

He reached his own door and pushed it open, the gentle squeak of the hinges a familiar sound of homecoming. The first thing he saw was his father, Robert D’Costa, or 'Bobby' as he was known to his friends. His father was a man of habit and quiet contemplation. He sat in his favorite armchair, its faded floral pattern a testament to years of service. He was angled towards the window, the soft evening light illuminating the lines on his face and the silver in his hair. His eyes were fixed on the main street, a living canvas of human drama, while his hands held a copy of The Times of India, the rustle of its pages a constant, gentle sound.

Robert or Bobby D'Costa at his armchair with Cynthia at the Kitchen

A glass, its bottom half filled with a pale amber liquid and a few cubes of ice, sat on the small side table beside him. Joseph knew, instinctively, that this was either the second or third "large" glass of whisky. Robert D’Costa, a foreman at the Hume Pipe Factory in Antop Hill, worked shifts, a rhythm that had governed their family life for as long as Joseph could remember. When he was home in the afternoon, this ritual was as constant as the coming of night. The Goan Roman Catholics of this city, Joseph mused, never bothered with the proper measure of a "chota" or "large" peg. For them, a glass was a glass, filled to a point that felt right, a personal measure of the day’s work and a quiet moment of peace before the next shift began.

Joseph padded softly into the house, his presence unnoticed. He heard the clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen and knew his mother was at work. Cynthia D’Costa, a woman with a quick, sharp tongue and a heart of fierce love, was a source of both warmth and a certain kind of domestic drama. She hailed from Chiplun, a small town near Ratnagiri, and her family had carried a slice of that Konkan life with them to Mumbai.

He wandered into the kitchen, his stomach rumbling in anticipation. He took in the scene with a quick glance. A pot of what looked like watery chicken stew simmered on the stove. A plate of rice sat beside it, looking tired and uninspired. And on the counter were the sad, leftover bread slices from the morning. Joseph’s face fell, the hunger that had flared just moments before deflating into a familiar disappointment.

Cynthia, her back to him as she stirred the pot, didn't even turn. She sensed his presence, or perhaps, she had already anticipated his reaction. “Don’t look at me like that, Joseph,” she said, her voice a low grumble that had a certain theatrical quality to it. “You want better food? Who is going to go to the market? Your father? Or maybe your sister, Wilma, will come down from her room and magically bring fresh fish and new vegetables?”

Joseph felt a familiar pang of guilt and a slight sense of irritation. He knew this litany by heart. The complaint was not meant for him. It was a soliloquy, a carefully crafted piece of domestic dialogue designed for an audience of one. His father, sitting just a room away, with his back to the drama, was the intended listener. Cynthia’s voice was loud enough, her frustration pitched at just the right level to carry through the thin walls. She was not angry with Joseph. She was speaking to the universe, to the unhelpful men in her life, and most pointedly, to the one who sat in his armchair, lost in his newspaper and his whisky.

Without a word, Joseph retreated from the kitchen, the sound of his mother’s low-pitched complaints following him. He felt the weight of his own helplessness. He couldn't go to the market now. He had just come home. The day’s events had been a long, rambling journey of mind and body, and now, all he wanted was to find a quiet corner and wait for dinner. The air in the apartment felt thick with the unspoken, the small domestic frustrations that made up the backdrop of his family life. He moved past his father, who remained a statue of quiet contemplation, and headed for the bedroom, the memory of Sonny Aruja’s fish curry a cruel and delicious taunt.

Bharat Bhushan

21 August 2025

Football, helicopters and taxi drivers in Wadala

Mumbai hummed, a constant, shifting melody of horns and hurried feet. In this relentless rhythm, Joseph D’Costa, all of 14 years old, found his own erratic beat. He was a boy built of contradictions: a skinny frame that moved with the promise of future athleticism, and a mind that drifted across half-formed ambitions. Today, as he leaned against the sun-warmed wall of his Wadala school, he was a future football star.

“You’re mad,” Zubin Bhatena, his friend and occasional co-conspirator in adolescent mischief, said, his voice a dry counterpoint to Joseph’s grandiose proclamations. “A professional football player? Have you even kicked a ball that wasn’t a crumpled-up paper a**?”

Joseph pushed himself off the wall, a dramatic gesture. “The passion is what matters, Zubin. The josh! I feel it in my soul.” He mimed kicking a goal, a graceful, if slightly uncoordinated, sweep of his leg. “Besides, the Brazilians started on the streets. We’ve got the spirit.”

Zubin, with the quiet composure of a Parsi boy from Dadar’s Parsi Colony, adjusted the strap of his backpack. He was a year older than Joseph, and carried his 15 years with a preternatural wisdom that Joseph often mistook for cynicism. “The Brazilians also had a proper field, not a patch of broken pavement. And they didn’t have to deal with traffic that would make a saint curse.”

“Details, my friend, details,” Joseph said, a breezy wave of his hand dismissing the practicalities. “It’s about the dream. You wouldn't understand.”

“I understand that my dream is not to break my ankle on a pothole,” Zubin shot back.

The last of their classmates drifted away, their chatter fading into the urban white noise. Joseph and Zubin began their familiar walk, a meandering journey that took them from the relative quiet of their school to the vibrant chaos of the Wadala railway station. The air thickened with the smells of the city: exhaust fumes, frying snacks, the faint, sweet scent of jasmine from a vendor’s stall.

“Speaking of dreams,” Zubin said, stepping around a vendor arranging colourful plastic toys on a sheet, “did you tell your father about your new ambition?”

Joseph’s smile faltered. His father, a man of quiet, unwavering faith and meticulous habits, had very specific ideas about a son’s future. “Not exactly. I told him I’m thinking of becoming a pilot.”

Zubin stopped dead in his tracks, a look of genuine disbelief on his face. “A pilot? Joseph, you get dizzy on the top floor of our school building.”

“Not a pilot, a helicopter pilot,” Joseph clarified, as if this was a crucial distinction. “It’s different. They’re cooler. More… focused. And you get to see the city from the sky. No traffic.”

“So, you’ll trade potholes for power lines?” Zubin said, resuming his walk, a slight shake of his head. “And what did he say?”

“He said, ‘Joseph, a helicopter pilot? We don’t even have a fan that works properly at home.’ It was a very short conversation,” Joseph admitted, a hint of dejection in his voice.

They crossed the bridge over the railway tracks, a vantage point from which they could watch the city’s lifeblood flow. The trains, packed to the doors, were iron serpents slithering into the heart of Mumbai. The platform below was a teeming mass of people, a beautiful, terrifying mosaic of humanity.

“Maybe I’ll just be a taxi driver,” Joseph mused, more to himself than to Zubin. “Easy, right? You just… drive. And you get to meet all sorts of people. And you get paid every day. A steady income. That’s what my dad wants.”

Zubin looked at him, his brow furrowed. “So, from professional footballer to helicopter pilot to… taxi driver. Joseph, are you a person or a multiple-choice question?”

“I’m eclectic!” Joseph declared, raising his hands in a gesture of triumph. “I contain multitudes, Zubin. It’s a very Mumbai thing. One day you’re a chaiwallah, the next you’re a movie star. The city lets you be anything.”

They navigated the crowded streets, their conversation a thread weaving through the tapestry of the city. They passed a bustling vegetable market, its colours a riot against the grey of the buildings. A man with a handcart piled high with bright, yellow coconuts called out to them, his voice a familiar part of the soundscape.

“You know, my dad says I should learn business,” Zubin said, his voice softer, more thoughtful. “Take over the family shop. We’ve been selling textiles for generations. He says there’s a certain honour in it.”

Joseph considered this. He knew Zubin’s father, a kind, well-dressed man who always gave Joseph a small bag of sweets when he visited. “Honour is good. It’s solid. Like a brick.”

“But it’s a brick that doesn’t fly, or score goals, or take you on an adventure,” Zubin said, a rare note of wistfulness in his voice.

They continued their walk, turning off the main road and heading towards Antop Hill, a quieter, more residential area. The air grew slightly cleaner, and the sounds of the city were muffled by the dense canopy of trees and the narrower lanes. They passed a small, brightly painted Catholic church, its bell tower a landmark against the afternoon sky.

“Maybe I’ll be an artist,” Joseph said, a sudden inspiration striking him. “A painter. Like Husain. Paint horses. No, not horses. Paint… the sea. The sea is always changing. Like me.”

“Joseph, you can’t draw a straight line with a ruler,” Zubin said, a tired sigh in his voice.

They reached the top of a small rise, a secluded spot with a bench overlooking a small, untended garden. They sat down, the quiet a welcome relief. The sun was beginning its slow descent, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink.

“You know, I don’t think any of it matters,” Joseph said, his voice now stripped of its bravado. “The job, the money. It’s all just… stuff. I think what matters is the story. The one we tell ourselves.”

Zubin looked at his friend, a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. “So what’s your story, Joseph? The one you tell yourself when no one is listening?”

Joseph thought for a moment, his gaze fixed on the fading light. “My story… is that I’m a boy from Wadala who is going to find his way. And that I’m going to do it my way. And that it’s going to be a good story. A really good one. Even if it’s a bit messy and doesn’t make sense to anyone else.”

He turned to Zubin, a wide, genuine smile on his face. “And my story has you in it. And all of this. This city, this walk, this conversation. It’s all part of it.”

Zubin didn’t say anything. He just looked at his friend, and then at the city spread out below them, a city of a million stories, each one as rambling and wayward and serendipitous as the next. He knew, instinctively, that this was just the beginning. The story had no end, just a new page, a new day, and a new ambition for Joseph to chase, a new path for them to wander down.

As the first streetlights flickered on below, illuminating the city in a soft, golden glow, Zubin knew that his own story was a simple one. It was the story of a boy from Dadar who was happy to just walk alongside his friend, and watch. Because in a city as eclectic as Mumbai, sometimes, just being a witness was the most serendipitous adventure of all.

Bharat Bhushan 

21 August 2025 

The "Kitchen in the Balcony" - a book that I need to write

20 June 2021

The "Kitchen in the Balcony and other stories of my parents" is a book that I need to write. We lived at the corner ground floor apartment at the Usha Building (Wadala - Mumbai) from 1972-73 onwards. I stayed on through to 1995 until joining service at Pune in 1996. The corner apartment had a balcony that had access to it from three sides of the open compound. The living space in the apartment was only about 200-220 sq feet. The kitchen comprising 100 sq feet was modified as an usable living room or bedroom and the balcony was modified to be used as a kitchen. 

This was not unique in Mumbai. Many old apartments in buildings were modified to be used as kitchens or as bedrooms or as study rooms. One needed to reorganise the plumbing to make the kitchen space usable. Normally, buildings were of two types of ownership in Mumbai. Some were on lease from the government for 99 years to the cooperative society. The others were owned by the builder or a single owner or by the cooperative of all the apartment owners. Some buildings had a single owner and the apartments were given out on pagdi to the family. 

In all such circumstances, there would be some person who would object to modifications made in the balcony space and if the alignment of the water supply pipes and drainage pipes were altered. We did not have any such problem. I think it was because we were in the ground floor apartment. Our flat, i.e. #27 and the neighbour, #26 were the first ones in the building to modify the balcony for use as a kitchen. 

Watch this space - for more thoughts on the "Kitchen in the Balcony and other stories of my parents" 

Being of service to the family is the purest prayer to god - memories of my father and mother (2)

Our tiny and very compact kitchen was in the balcony of our 320 square feet ground floor apartment in a single-building compound in Wadala, Mumbai since 1972 when we had shifted from the suburb of Chembur in the then northern part of Bombay, which is now very much overtaken by the growth of the entire megapolis. My father, Balapila Naga Bhushan, was with the Ministry of Technical Education, Government of India and worked at Churchgate, while my mother, Sharada (Indumati) Bhushan, was a school teacher and later served as the headmistress of the Andhra Education Society’s High School and Junior College at Wadala.

My mother had to be at school, right on dot, for the morning shift that started at something like 0700 hours while my father would leave home at 0905 am to catch the 0924 harbour line local train to VT (as we knew it then) and onwards for a crisp walk to Churchgate to be at his office by 1010 am. Their schedules never changed through our school and college-going years during the seventies and early eighties. My mother would be up by 0530 hours and would make enough of a polite disturbance to nudge my father awake within five minutes.

They would not talk to each other in order to avoid waking us up, me and my sister, Sarala. The two of us and our parents always slept on coir mats through all the 70s. As we were told in those years, that as kids we were privileged to wake up later, though not much of a sleep-in, but we had to be up and about by 0630 or at the latest by 0645, as though that was much of a luxury.

There is one image that I have in my memory, through all these years, of the morning scene at my house, apart from the one of my father making filter coffee, and my mother going through her early morning routine of prayers, dressing up, conjuring up a magical spread of food items for breakfast, school tiffen, and emergency snacks and savouries. This other image is of my father quietly standing at the kitchen sink through the early hour when my mother would need monopoly over the bathrooms and almirah and the full-length mirror. During this time, my father would be silently at cleaning up all the left over utensils from the earlier night, and would do a complete washover of utensils to be used by my mother for preparing breakfast and other stuff.

The magical aspect of it was that my father could do it in an almost silent manner which is impossible for most others, men or women. He would examine the cluster of leftover utensils, analyse the threat factor like an airforce pilot and pick out the utensils that can be first removed for cleaning without bringing down the other utensils. These initial utensils would be wiped with torn-up newspaper to remove the grit and wet layers of gravy or oil. Those were the days without the green scrub pads or the metal wipers that we have now. There was no liquid soap and there was none of the magical utensil cleansers that we have now.

My father always claimed that the first wipe with the newspaper would make it easier to wash the utensils. The second attack would be with some dishwashing powder. The entire cluster of utensils would be coated with the dishwashing powder and kept aside for some time, before finally washing them clean with tap water. This was not any brandwala dishwashing powder. My father, as would most middle-class simple households do, would go to the wholesale soap markets of Dadar, near Ranade road, and would purchase a 5 kg pack of dishwashing powder. He had a routine for storing it and using it carefully, but that’s another story.

I did not notice it much, but after the entry of black and white TV and doordarshan and a whole lot of forced programs, I realised that it was the lady of the house or the kaamwali bai who was supposed to do all the cleaning chores in the household and not the man of the house, ie the lord and master of the house. I had not known about this separation of tasks and had always accepted that my father would clean the leftover utensils and make the first round of coffee and whatever while my mother would get ready to go out of the house to go to work at her job. My parents would share their tasks in the evening and later at night, my mother would have crashed out to sleep early enough to allow my father to clean up and get the kitchen and the bathroom ready for the morning.

Much later, when I had left home for my various research stations and started working, of a sort, and had learnt about various other matters, I asked my father about it. Why would he, the lord and master of the house, take up the task of cleaning the leftover utensils and the menial tasks of making the first round of coffee, etc.?

My father did not think about it a great deal but replied in a very matter of fact manner. “That is not any other work. That is when I do my prayers and recite my routine of saying thanks and conveying gratitude to god everyday for keeping us all happy and content. It is when I am cleaning the leftover utensils out of my own intentions and not because someone else has asked me to, it is only then that I am in service to my family in the purest of ways. I keep reciting and repeating the god’s name and I have a long list of gods to whom I say thanks to, and they seem to be happy about it.”

“The best prayer is in the act of service without any expectation of goodwill or return. The best way to send our prayers across is during that moment and not when one is sitting in front of the prayer place, or when one is lighting incense or when one is visiting a temple or when one is conducting a puja or whatever. Each utensil that I clean is a manner of cleaning my inner self.”

On that day, when my father explained it, I did not understand the perspective. I did not try to. I was only happy that my father had done that particular routine because he wanted to. Later, much later, in January 2009, he had returned after hospitalisation and had been advised bed rest at my campus residence in Pune. He was staying with me in my study room and the two of us had converted it into a bedroom. He was restless at not being able to go about on his own as he would have done in our small house at Wadala, Mumbai. He told me in a very tired voice, “Go and get some 10-20 utensils from the kitchen sink and bring it over to the attached bathroom here. Let me wash them daily. I need to do my prayers in peace.”

He passed away in March 2009 in that study room at Pune without having been able to return to Wadala.

11 October 2019

growing up with filter coffee, first thing in the morning - memories of my father and mother (1)

We lived in a 320 square feet ground floor apartment at Wadala, Mumbai, through my childhood and formative years, through marriage in 1986 and onwards to moving out to Pune in 1996. My father, Balapila Naga Bhushan stayed back at Wadala until the December of 2008. We retained the house through many trying years and plenty of happy times. It was a one-room plus kitchen plus balcony. We modified it by moving out the kitchen to the balcony and used the available modified space as an additional room. Both rooms were for all-round general purposes and were used as bedrooms, study rooms, prayer halls, TV space, lounging area and whatever.

The kitchen in the balcony was a new idea and many apartment houses in the area were warming up to the concept. Our neighbour had also converted their balcony and we were not alone in this innovation. Nobody pointed fingers and there were no complaints from the resident’s association. The municipal corporation in Mumbai is generally kind to such actions and they came and inspected the premises and said that it was a violation and that we would have to pay up a “compounding fee”, which we did, and that was that.

The kitchen window backed up into the hall-plus-bedroom and the entire family slept there on coir mattresses on the floor until plastic mattresses replaced them. The climate in Mumbai was very unique in our childhood days. Nobody needed a bedsheet to cover oneself and one did not require any cotton mattress or groundsheet to sleep on. A coir sheet was perfectly okay and we got really splendidly woven ones from Kerala. Vendors would bring them in to Matunga and one could bargain forever and get a real good deal if one was persistent.

Early mornings, we generally woke up to the excellent and enticing aroma of filter coffee being brewed by my father in the balcony-kitchen. The tremendous waft would forcibly wake us up. My father was a specialist at his art. A real master. He would brew the filter coffee that he procured regularly and faithfully from Phillips at Matunga with hot steaming water. In those moments, the milk would be got ready, boiled, diluted to the correct measure and kept ready to receive the filter decoction. My mother, Sharada (Indumati) Bhushan, would have already been up and she would be getting ready to get out of the house to reach the school where she worked as a teacher during the early seventies and later as a headmistress in the late seventies and early eighties and until her retirement.

My father would not partake of the coffee or distribute it until he had placed some milk in a small vessel on the prayer shelf in front of the deities. He would recite a brief prayer and my mother would take over the space after having had her bath. This was a fixed routine in an apartment with only one bathroom and one toilet. The person who would exit the house first always got priority in the queue. After the prayers, my father would distribute steaming hot coffee to each one of us. That was a sacred ritual in our small and compact family. We never realised it. My father had privilege of getting it ready and handing it over to each one of us. We would sit quietly, each one on the coir mattress, our backs leaning on the wall, sipping the coffee, enjoying it and delighting in the taste and flavour. I do not think any south Indian house would be different in those years. The moment of drinking the first morning cup of filter coffee was pure pleasure and every family would probably indulge in it.

I often wondered as to why my mother did not make that first cup of filter coffee. She did the second round in the morning though, and later in the evening. The night round was made by my sister, Sarala, much against the wishes of my parents. This was only for me, as I would sit late at night, reading novels and comics and whatever. We did not have much of anything else to do at home until the black and white TV entered the room and took over much of our future.

The filter coffee decoction vessel was also different for use by my father or by my mother. The one used by my father was a small and compact one and cleaned efficiently by him and kept aside in a location where my mother and sister could not access. He would always claim that the ladies did not know how to clean the decoction vessel properly. Only men were good at that activity. His younger brother, Shantaram Naidu, always agreed with him, as he did on each point made by my father. Their father and my grandfather, Shyamala Ranga Bhashyam, on the weekends that he stayed with us, was most happy when he saw his elder son preparing the filter coffee. He would not control his patience and would take over the act of performing the first prayer so that it would force my father to hurry up with the final preparations of serving or distributing the filter coffee.

My grandfather needed an entire large mug of filter coffee, almost equal to four of our cups. He would indulge in it, by worshipping an entire range of gods, seeking their blessings from the heavens by pointing the coffee mug at every other corner of the skies. My father would wait quietly with his cup of coffee and ask politely if my grandfather would need a refill. Precious memories, all.  

My mother would be wary of serving the second cup of coffee to my grandfather, ie her father-in-law. She knew that he would be very demanding of the correct taste, the exact proportions and the rightful flavour. She could not cheat by asking my father to make it as he would do it, for my grandfather would recognise the difference. So, she would make it as she would, and hand it over to my grandfather and would immediately place a disclaimer, “This is of course not as good as your son would do, but what to do, we are not perfect, all of us.” That would certainly allow her to escape with a smiling nod from my grandfather who would agree with the confirmation, “Yes, of course, nobody can make filter coffee like Babu ( = his name for his elder son) can.”

10 October 2019

From Srirangam to Matunga - the timepass tales of Bhushan and Shantaram

Sunday breakfast at Matunga, without fail
Shantaram and Bhushan were brothers from Srirangam and settled at Wadala, Mumbai. As part of their Sunday morning tradition over many decades, since the days they accompanied their father, they would walk up to Sharada Bhavan in Matunga to have their regular order - idli + medu vada sambar, rava masala dosa and filter coffee. It never changed and as ever, the decor and furniture at Sharada Bhavan had remained the same. 
This never-changing tradition and its environs had led to the brothers becoming resistant to any suggestions or need for change in their lives and their work.
Their tradition faced a challenge and an obstacle on one such splendid Sunday. A large group of cricket fans had taken over all the seats in Sharada Bhavan and the old-time regulars were waiting outside. The strong rumor was that the idli-vada sambar and rava masala dosa may run out and the restaurant may not be able to serve them their only choice.
It would not do, said Bhushan, and taking hold of his younger brother's arm, they went inside and stood near the cashier and insisted that they may be allowed to share a table with the youngsters. The cashier knew them for many years and asked for two chairs that were being used as a temporary store inside the kitchen.
Once seated, they were amazed to see that the entire group of young cricket fans was also eating idli + medu vada sambar and rava masala dosa.
It filled Bhushan's heart with joy as he explained to Shantaram, "I am so very happy. Our nation will never have any problem. The younger generation will also prosper and be good. A plate of idli-vada sambar followed by rava masala dosa and steaming strong filter kapi on a Sunday morning at Matunga, and everything is all right with the world!"
[True story... It actually happened...]

[27 May 2019]


Watching Guns of Navarone at Aurora talkies

Bhushan and Shantaram were having a Friday evening argument as usual. Aurora talkies, the cinema theatre at King's Circle was showing "The Guns of Navarone" for the umpteenth time and both the brothers had seen the movie, several times. They were counting off the number of times that they had seen the movie. Bhushan had seen it 10 times and Shantaram had done better, 12, because he had also accompanied their father, Bhashyam, to see the movie at Aurora talkies.
"Better to stay at home and cook ourselves a splendid dinner for Saturday evening," suggested Bhushan.
"No! Let's go and see the movie again," countered Shantaram. "They may not show the movie later, and this may be the last time. I do not want to miss the scene of the boat tossing against the angry waves, and Gregory Peck drinking his cup of coffee in that cool manner. Let's go and see it again."
Bhushan was also reminded of that scene, "cinema history!" as he termed it. No one could better it, even if the movie was remade a hundred times.
Their wives and children had given up on the argument, many years ago, for they knew what would happen. The brothers would surely go for the movie, as they did, to Aurora talkies, every Saturday evening. Sunday mornings were for breakfast at Sharda Bhavan at Matunga, while Saturday evenings were for the 6 to 9 pm show at Aurora. Any movie, Hindi or English or Tamil or the very rare NTR Telugu one.
It was their father, Bhashyam, who closed the argument. "Go and see the 'Guns of Navarone' and get tickets for me also. I will come with you. I want to see Gregory Peck and Anthony Quinn and David Niven. Who knows, the three may not come back in a movie again."

[2 June 2019]

Rice Plate and Masala Dosa and a glass of ice-cold water

The 21st Road at Chembur - Nothing's changed... since the 60s and 70s

It was sometime in the early 70s, maybe 1970 in fact. We were staying at 21^st Road, Chembur, Mumbai, in those years. A one-room kitchen 2^nd floor flat with a balcony. I still remember the house as quite comfortable and large, especially the balcony. It was really spacious, enough for me to hide in, away from my parents, and to rummage in my adventures, most of them within my mind. The ‘hall’, as we called the single-room, had three sections in it. One was the bedroom section, where the two foldable metal cots were placed with the cotton-filled lumpy and yet, comfortable, mattresses. The other was the cupboards section, where we had our single steel wardrobe, ‘almirah’ – it was called. The third section was the ‘study-room’, near the front window, where my study table was placed.

My study table, because my sister rarely studied. She just went to school and returned home to go to school again, to return home. My father would read the morning ‘Times of India’ while reclined on the cot, and my mother was usually in the kitchen, when she returned from her teaching job at the High School. I sat at the table, and played at studying, most of the time. It was fun to read up all the chapters in the textbooks, and purposefully read the chapters that were not being taught as yet. I felt that it was really intelligent of me, to have read up the chapters before the teachers taught them in school. It felt like we knew more than the teachers knew, for did they not read them only in the classroom?

From my study table, and out of the second floor window, I could see through the 21^st Road, Chembur, to the main road that ran from Diamond Garden to Chembur Railway Station. The 8 No. BEST buses had their last bus-stand just beyond where the 21^st Road got over, while meeting the main road. The railway station was about 150 metres beyond, and my father and grandfather returned from their workplaces by train, alighting at Chembur, and walking up to the house. I could see them, by the clock, accurate to the time, turn into 21^st Road, from the Station-to-Diamond Garden Road. My father would turn into the 21^st Road at 6 pm, exactly to the dot, while my grandfather would turn into the Road at 6.40 pm.

The turning into the 21st Road

My father’s brother, my uncle, would return by the 8 No. BEST bus, and would never get back straightaway to the house. He would go wandering about in the vegetable markets and book stalls and snack bazaars near the Chembur railway station between 7.30 pm to 8.30 pm. I returned home from school, with my sister and mother, by school bus, because the three of us went to the same school. We would return by 5 pm, for the school bell rang at 4 pm, 14 kms away, south, at Wadala, and the bus returned well in time. There wasn’t much traffic on the creek road between Chembur and Wadala during those days.

At the end of the 21^st Road, where it met the Diamond Garden Road, was a newly opened Udupi Restaurant, do not remember the name correctly now, that served vegetarian snacks during the day and rice plate at night. I could see the restaurant from my study window, and if I stared at it properly for a long time, I could almost smell the smells inside it. I could visualise the food stuffs being served inside, for it was all very different from the food that we used to make in those days. Our idlis were not like the idlis served in that restaurant, and our dosas were certainly much more thicker and fluffier than the ones in that place. Today, I feel that the thicker and fluffier dosas made in our house are certainly better, healthier and tastier, but in those days, as a child, that Udupi Restaurant was an entirely different place.

Geetha Bhavan - I went back to get the photograph.

Remember, this was a day and age when there were no video games, no TV or VCD-DVD, no internet or cellphones etc. The radio usually always belonged to the father, the lord and master of the house, and he would decide that he would listen to Vividh Bharati at a certain time, the All India Radio at a specific hour and the BBC World News at a very specific time. At other times, the radio would be shut, for it could definitely, most definitely, corrupt the children by its very bad programming of film songs and film songs. There were no games that were played by children in the apartment complexes or colonies during those days. We did not play cricket properly on the streets in Chembur until 1973. Street cricket was only played by those ‘urchins’ as elders called them in the inner streets of Matunga and Dadar. If only they knew that those ‘urchins’ were the forerunners of Sunil Gavaskar and Ashok Mankad and others after them.

Our house during 1961 to 1974 - Flat No. 17, Narulla Building

My evening was well set. Catch the school bus at 4 pm at Wadala, return home by 5 pm. Have a large steel tumbler-full of hot bournvita or horlicks or ovaltine and sit down to study. My mother would be the ‘master’ of the ‘Hall’ until my father returned, so she would be bossing my sister and me during that time, complaining to us that we did not study well, because the schoolteachers had been complaining to her about us. Since they were her colleagues, she naturally presumed that she should believe them. I would complete my homework in the ride in the school bus from Wadala to Chembur, but I still had to pretend that I had a lot of homework to do, in front of my mother. My sister usually had all her textbooks and notebooks in a bad mess inside her schoolbag, and would get a tremendous beating from my mother, and the two of them would then sit down for 10 to 15 minutes to unravel the puzzle of her school bag.

At 6 pm, my father would turn in from the Diamond-Garden road. He was a treat to watch. Very stylish, handsome in his own way, broad shouldered, with a full-sleeve white shirt tucked in, pleated trousers, black shoes with black socks, and both sleeves folded back to the elbows. Stylish glares, slim ones and a white steel-buckled wristwatch. I could see him turn in at the end of the 21^st Road, and he would be like a film hero, entering the street to fight bad villains and others, in my mind. I had just then begun to read “Into the valley of death” by Tennyson, and I could imagine him to be one of the warriors going in. Except, my father was definitely more stylish.

The 21st Road, Chembur - turning in from the main street

He would walk smartly and fast, and would come straight to the house, and would open the door by himself with his set of housekeys. You could hardly hear the key go in, and you would never hear the door open. He would shut the door very soundlessly, if that were a phrase. I believe that my father could be the reason for many phrases of that manner, such as “hear the house key not making any noise”, or, “shut the door so that you can hear the quiet sound of the shut door” among others. We knew his tread on the passage outside the door, and my mother, sister and me would rush at him and he would smile, in his welcome way, and it would always be a welcome moment in our lives, during those years, when we were all by ourselves. We were indeed happy, the three of us, me, my mother and my sister, to welcome my father, day after day, at the same time, just so that he would set our day, the same way, day after day after day after day.

He would have made a list of groceries and vegetables to be purchased, in his head and inside his memory bank, during the train journey back from his office. Somedays, he would have written the list on some sheet of paper, and on other days, he would consult with my mother, and they would draw up a list. It was usually a very short list. Those were the days of meagre wages and salary, and we always purchased groceries and stuff for the very day, or a couple of days. There was no refrigerator and nobody purchased stuff more than they would consume in 1-2 days. He would give me a 5 Rupee note and a 2 Rupee note, and would explain that the 5 Rupee note was for groceries and vegetables, and the 2 Rupee note was for purchase of bread, bananas and flowers for prayers.

He knew that there would be a few paise left over, about 50-60 paise. So, he would say that I could take 25 paise and my sister could take 25 paise, but we had to bring back the rest of the money to return to him. That was great loot, for us, for 25 paise could purchase tremendous stuff in those days. A plate of bhelpuri, that comes for 40 Rs now in a good bhelpuri shop, in 2012, was available for about 10 paise for half-plate, and 15 paise for full-plate. We could still have money left over. My sister had her own strategy for using up the money and I had a different strategy. And, my strategy had a well-thought out plan. My plan included my grandfather, who would be turning in to the 21^st Road at 6.40 pm. My plan required split-second timing and proper execution.

Each moment that my father would give me the money for the day’s purchases, and remark that the 25 paise was mine, I could immediately smell the interiors of the Udupi Restaurant, and I could see inside my mind, a hot tasty plate of Masala Dosa, which for me in 1970, was the ultimate thingee to splurge on, and to save pocket money for. Because you could get every other small snack dish on the hawking carts near the school and the railway stations, but in those days, you could get the Masala Dosa only in the Udupi Restaurants. The magic of the potato-stuffing, the smell of the half-cooked onions inside the potato-stuffing, the strange semi-green and semi-yellow colour of the vegetable and the manner of hiding it inside the dosa was like a very mysterious dish for the uninitiated kid of Chembur, in those days. We knew the “Sada Dosa”, but we had not been introduced to the “Masala Dosa” until then. And even if we were in a restaurant, my mother deemed it as “too costly” and “totally unnecessary”. Usually. 


My strategy focused on my grandfather who would be returning home from work and would be entering the 21^st Road at 6.40 pm. Having received the money and purchases list from my father, I would run down the stairs and walk up the 21^st Road to be on time at the street corner when my grandfather would be walking from the railway station. I continue to be surprised by the memories and the independence of judgement that most parents gave their children during those days. I was about 8 years old, and my father would entrust me with money to purchase groceries and food, on 2-3 days in a month, with money for purchase of rations in the ration-shop, and sometimes with old oil cans to go to the oil mill and purchase oil, including vegetable oil for cooking and coconut oil for use as hair oil. In those days, we had to purchase oil from the oil mill, and middle-class families could not afford to purchase branded oil and usually did not trust the quality. Fresh oil-mill grounded oil was most trustworthy, but that is another story.

At the corner of 21st Road, Chembur - Exactly as it was in 1960s and 1970s.

On reaching the corner of 21^st Road and the Diamond Garden Road, I would wait. My father could see me from the 2^nd floor window of our house, and I knew that he would be watching. My grandfather usually carried a small cloth bag, and would have made some purchases at the vegetable market near Chembur railway station. He would purchase small itty-bitty stuff that he thought was interesting and SHOULD go into his food, and it would usually be stuff like freshly sliced coconut, coriander, curry leaves, ginger, bananas, half-packet of ‘Modern’ bread, drumsticks and spinach – ‘paalak’. This was his staple diet, for he had given up on most non-vegetarian food over many many years. He was 71 years old in 1970, having been born in 1899, and would continue to work in vague locations and loved commuting in Mumbai, by changing over from buses to trains and sometimes taxi-cabs. Mumbai was a beautiful place during those years, when the autorickshaw had not been discovered, I guess.

I would walk back with my grandfather, holding his hand, something that he hated. He felt that we should all be independent and should be able to walk alone, and walk silently. He had a dislike for perfunctory or mundane conversation, a viral that infected my father and his brother, and similarly infected my cousin, and me in later years. There was simply no chatter or gossip amongst the men in our families, and I guess, that was how most middle-class commuting families led their lives in Mumbai, busy, tired, living within meagre means, and yet, proud, happy and independent.

My grandfather would never allow me to carry his cloth bag of vegetables and other purchases. I would keep talking to him, and would tell him about my school, about homework, and about my father’s return to the house and my responsibility for the day, of having to purchase groceries and food. And then, I would spring my master move, and would tell him that my father was allowing me to retain only 25 paise from all the grocery money, and how I loved the Masala Dosa at the Udupi restaurant, and I could not possibly get to eat it, because it was 40 paise, and I still needed 15 paise. This was our daily discussion, the same strategy repeated every day, and I would keep waiting for that magical moment of suspense, when I could convince my grandfather to part with the 15 paise that I needed.

That was not to be. He was a clever man, every day. He would give me 50 paise, every day, and would give me a different bit of advice each day. On one day, he would say that the Masala Dosa was not to be eated on a daily basis, and that I should promise him that I would save the money today. I would. I always obeyed him. Because I had to show that I deposited the 50 paise that day, in front of him, in a Mickey Mouse coin-hole savings box given for all child-bank-accounts at Syndicate Bank in those years. On another day, he would say that I should purchase a Masala Dosa and a Sada Dosa and bring it home to share with my sister. This was something that I hated, because she got to enjoy sharing both the Dosa dishes without having made any effort or thinking out the strategy that I had to convince my grandfather.

The road from Diamond Garden to Chembur - a total delight

On some days, this was something I totally loved, he would turn back, with me, and this time, he would grasp my hand tightly, and would walk back on the 21^st Road, and cross over on the Diamond Garden Road, and we would enter the Udupi Restaurant. I would look back at the 2^nd floor window, and would easily spot my father and mother watching us both, and I knew that it was a tremendous victory, for now I could eat an entire Masala Dosa, all by myself, and my grandfather would sit with me and pay for the food. The serving assistants, ‘waiters’ as we called them, knew me, and knew and respected my grandfather, because of his immaculate dress-sense, and clean clothes, sharply creased, even at 7 pm for a 70 year old. They would talk to him in Kannada or Tamil, and he would reply with some short phrases. It was home. 


My grandfather would allow me to place the order, because, I guess, he knew that I loved doing that. However, I loved hearing the waiters recite the menu though they had given the printed card to my grandfather. So, I would ask, “Yenna Special?” (= What special?) and they would reply in a sing-song accent, “Idli sambar, vada sambar, Idli vada, masala vada, bonda, sada dosa, masala dosa, uttapam”. And they would end the sing-song menu, with a flourish and emphasis on the word, “uttapam”, which would almost sound like “pummmm”. After all these years, I can remember vividly the flourish and the final emphasis and the 2-3 waiters who would surround us during the rendition. They knew my selection even before I would choose, for I would almost select the same dish each time I visited. It was ‘Masala Dosa’, unless my parents were with me, and then, it would be Uttapam, because it would be more filling, or it would be ‘Idli Vada’, dunked in sambar, because as my father would remark, “it has both and it will fill the stomach.”

My grandfather would sit alongside and have a quick cup of coffee that they would serve in a twin-steel-tumbler style, with the lower larger one used to mix the decoction and milk and sugar with the inner smaller steel tumbler. It was a standard south Indian design for drinking tea or coffee. I would never get any, because I was too young, and it was only horlicks, viva or bournvita or ovaltine for me. The coffee was always strong south Indian Philips filter coffee. Instant coffee had not arrived as yet to corrupt the world of its coffee drinking choices. The situation was too good, and I can as yet remember the sounds, smell and surroundings. They had a glass cabinet to display sweets and savouries, and the fresh trays of hot hot steaming sweets would be kept above. The smell would fill up the restaurant and flood everyone with temptation.

But, even the strong smell of sweets and savouries was not enough to drown the smell of filter coffee being mixed at your table, and the fresh smell of crisp dosa, fried in white clarified butter, with hot sambar. Most of you, reading this, will immediately know what I am writing about. Those who have not experienced it, are unfortunate, for these hotels have moved on and the smells and sounds are not the same. Today, most restaurants are suffocating and the savouries are usually outsourced like a poorly performing BPO and the resultant tragic mix is kept for display. Most restaurants that are not true south Indian ones usually offer instant coffee in very thick milk and extra sugar, which tastes almost like purgatory. My memories of my grandfather are of the strong grasp he had, very painful, when he would pull me about to go across the road, and of the smell of filter coffee that he would drink at the restaurant while he would chat with the Kannadiga and Tamilian waiters. 


An important transfer of technology took place, sometime in late 60s and in 1970, it began to spread in India’s urban suburbia. This was the water cooler. I am not mentioning it in jest. I am serious. Today it is an accepted and easily recognisable essential utility in most corporate, academic and commercial establishments. In those years, getting an ice-cold glass of water without having to dunk unsanitary chunks of ice was an impossibility. The easiest way to stomach disasters and other evolved forms of bacterial infestation was to drink cold liquids with ice cubes or shredded ice. The manner of ice preparation has surprisingly not changed in commercial terms over these many decades, and ice-manufacturers in inner cities in India continue to offer employment guarantee schemes to the millions of medical graduates of the nation.

Most houses, as previously mentioned, did not possess a refrigerator in those years. It was not as unbearably hot as Mumbai is nowadays, but it would have been a welcome aspect to be able to get a glass of ice-cold water. Restaurants did not have water coolers. The Coca Cola establishment was prominent with ice-boxes, but the ice was from the vendor who would go around in a bullock-cart or donkey-cart or cycle-rickshaw, and sell the most polluted ice-slabs that one could ever obtain. But, it was a different age and time, during those years, and for kids, the most fascinating adventure was to keep running behind these bullock-carts or donkey-carts and keep begging the urchin-assistant on the cart to shave off some ice chips. The urchin would usually oblige, and the bullock-cart owner would shout some of the choicest of phrases at the boy, and for a moment, everyone would retreat. The next corner would have a different group of boys who would go chasing after the cart, of course.

The ice-slabs were covered in sawdust and kept cool by pouring some water from a rusty 5-litre oil can that must have seen much better days for some years. It’s a wonder that the medical profession did not ask Indians to take tetanus shots if we had cold drinks, for I am sure that the rate of infection must have been quite high in most suburbia, and nobody would have been the wiser for it. There was another vendor, a vehicle that would rate nowadays as a WMD (= Weapon of Mass Destruction). This was a real goon of a guy, who would bring 15-20 ice slabs on a buffalo cart, taller one with tractor-trailer rubber tyres, and a real massive buffalo, who would amble slowly, and yet gain much distance. When the vehicle would come to a halt, the buffalo would come to a real complete halt. Nothing could move it, not even if there were double-decker BEST buses threatening it front on.

Usually, most restaurants in Chembur and in Mumbai’s suburbia would be serviced by these ice-slab vendors and the ice would be kept inside in a cool-corner, covered with ages-old sawdust, sogged down by water that would have collected in that corner for many months or years. The ice-slab would be brought out when required, to the thrill of all the local kids, with a huge clamp, and would be slid down the restaurant eating area, with the sawdust spreading all over. The ice-slab would be chiselled out into shreds and pieces and these would be placed inside the Coca Cola ice-chest. For iced-water, if you wanted a glass of it, some ice pieces would be stored in stainless steel vessels inside old non-working ice-cream chests, and you could get yourself an ice-cold glass of water, if the establishment knew you as a regular customer.

Most families would usually beg or plead for a glass of ice-cold water for their kids, and it would be thrilling to see the water drops form on the outside, and it would be more fun to draw upon the condensation and show off. Some aunts would comment that their kids were known to draw much better sketches on ice-cold glasses of water than what I could do, and that was that. It was indeed a very rare occasion when my father would be happy enough on us to go out of his way to purchase an ice-cold bottle of Coca Cola. That was a real treat, and I guess, much safer. He must have been smart, for he would never allow us to ask for a glass of ice-cold water, but would rather get us the sealed bottle of the iced-drink. He would insist that he would open the bottle at the table, and would make a flourish and clean the bottle-opener, and then upon opening the bottle, would clean the rim and pour out the bottle into four shares and the four of us would have ourselves a good treat. 

Why Satish did not take a bath...

Satish did not like to take a bath. Over the past 25 years and more, as a college-student, he loved to brag that he did not take a bath daily. He had his own brand of philosophy, much like most other mumbai-dwellers had theirs, about something or the other. This was the best thing about Mumbai. One and all had a theory about something. I guess most other cities have their own version and take on this. All that my friends in Mumbai, and me included, needed was someone to tell it to, over and over again. Satish loved to do so, and he was always on the lookout to get someone to talk to.

You had to be smart at it. You could get another philosophy-spouting mumbaikar, who could be faster than you. The only way to identify a 'bakra' (scapegoat), was to use the "1 bounce -2 bounce" system. Do not ask me to explain this high-funda stuff in detail. I could easily go off to another story. Anyways, in brief, the "1 bounce -2 bounce" theory worked like this --

You needed a crowded place, where people could not get away easily. This could only be on a suburban train in peak hours, or one of the "Limited" BEST buses traveling from one end of the city to the other. Either journey, train or bus, could easily take more than two hours. You spot an outsider to Mumbai, or someone totally bored with life, or a non-English speaking 'punter'. Start talking to them, about some other issue, just loud enough for others to hear.

That is one thing that you can be sure about. Everyone is listening. There is nothing else to do in the local train and bus system of Mumbai. Even if you are reading a newspaper or chatting on your mobile phone or talking to your companion, you are always out 'there', listening.

So, to use the "1 bounce -2 bounce" theory, you had to start a strange conversation, full of doubts and queries, with a total stranger, who you know fully well, or you can guess, will have no answers. You "bounce" your snare off one person, and then, on another person. The conversation would have to be so strange that you should look disgusted when the other person obviously cannot answer.

Once the trap is set, the 'bakra' will walk-in. He will be the smartly dressed or oily-haired person standing next to you. It could also be the aunty-like lady in the seat in front of you. The conversation should continue on the same strange story, for some time, to reel in the victim. When the hook is fully bitten into, change over into the real philosophy that you want the person to learn about.

Satish was an expert at this. He felt it was life's mission to explain to everyone about his reasons for not taking a regular bath and moving around in dirty clothes and stinking terribly. His thrill came in watching the gradual change of comprehension in the listeners' face. From puzzlement, to curiousity, to participation, to happiness, to shock, to despair, to claustrophobia, to panic and anxiety and finally to desperation. From this peak, Satish would let go, and yet, take the person to the ultimate the ultimate feeling, of fear and terror. All this just by talking to them, in a slow monotonous voice, non-stop and explaining slowly, his own philosophy, on why one should not take a bath on a daily basis.

He loved this particular line of "not taking a bath" philosophy. It was tried and tested. People ended up horrified and some actually stopped traveling by that particular train line. Most regular travelers on the suburban harbour train line in Mumbai, especially on the 9 am to 10 am time-slot at the Wadala railway station, knew Satish well enough, and tolerated him for all his pranks. It was the newcomer, that Satish usually caught unawares.

Today, as on every working day, Satish was getting ready to 'get' someone. He was hanging out at Wadala railway station to catch the 9.24 am local train. His usual group of friends seemed to have ditched him. Which was not a surprise. He knew they were his "best friends for the train journey at 9.00 am". He had a different set of "best friends" for the bus journey from the CST railway terminus after alighting from the Wadala-CST train journey. Similarly, he had a different set of "best friends" for lunch hour, for the return journey back, and for the late evening hang-out at Matunga.

The train at 9.24 am was his favourite. It had that wee bit of space for him to squeeze inside the first-class gents compartment, so he could get in by 3 feet. Other trains did not give that opportunity unless you were thin, strong and did not worry about crumpling your ironed shirt. Satish liked to have his crumpled look intact to that specific wrinkle. Not too much. He was not a lout, after all. The 9.24 local started from Bandra railway terminus immediately after two fast trains from Andheri railway station zipped through to connect to the Harbour Branch Line.

The two fast trains picked up enough passengers at Bandra, Mahim and Kings' Circle railway stations to give some space in the gents first class at Wadala where the western railway trains merged with the Harbour Branch. The space was only available for those who knew about it. For the untrained train traveller, for the stranger, for the regular on the wrong route and for the regular on the correct route but at the wrong time, that space could not be seen. 

Also, the second class bogies and the ladies first class were terribly stuffed already. These were the regulars from Mahim and earlier, from Kings' Circle, who went backwards in the train to Bandra, so they could get space to stand, when the train returned on its route to CST railway terminus. Satish was an expert at all this. 

Mumbai was in his blood. In all his travels elsewhere, Satish always missed the speed and careful recklessness of Mumbai. There indeed was an aura to all the numbing energy that seemed to make everyone flow in the lifestream of the city. Satish loved all that. He wanted to have his own, very own, 1-degree turn or spin on the momentum of the city. To tweak it a little.  And, his philosophy about 'not taking a bath on a daily basis' was going to do it for him. 

At Wadala railway station, at 9.22 am, it was that stirring of the plan in every regular travelers' mind. You could see each person plan his location, calculate the first 1-2-3-4 steps, careful measured steps, so each person could see how the other person would be moving at 9.24 am when the train would start coming into the platform. You did not want to run into the other traveler. Then, both would miss the 9.24 and both would be late to attend their offices. That would be a no-no...

After the 1-2-3-4 measured step, each passenger would have to pick up the momentum and speed up, so that they would almost be on the same speed as the train would be as it pulled in. The trot-step would propel them correctly inside each compartment. The speed would give each person the strength and energy they needed to push into the crowded compartments. This was a practiced routine and it happened in so many railway platforms in Mumbai, so many times, each time, with the ease of expertise from repetition. 

Satish waited. In his well marked spot behind the pillar that would line up with the hawkers compartment, next to the ladies second class. He would start moving when he would see the 9.24 local below the railway overbridge, about 100 meters away from the Wadala railway station. His 1-2-3-4 steps would turn to a run, as the ladies first class compartment moved past him and the next six steps in a fast run would take him to the spot from where he would just jump into the moving train. It was the exact spot, at Wadala, for the rear first class gents compartment on the 9.24 local from Bandra railway station. 

He did it with effortless ease today. Mondays was easy, because the traders at Dockyard Road and Masjid Bunder railway stations were in lesser numbers since it was their weekly market holiday. He jumped at the right moment and slid easily between the young ticketless traveler who was always at the centre-rod, clinging to it, and never letting go, and the traffic policeman who usually got in at Kings' Circle railway station and got down at Sewri railway station, ie, immediately after Wadala.

Satish moved in behind the traffic policeman, and backed into the partition between the standing area and the sitting area. He could rest comfortably for the 22 minute journey from Wadala to CST railway terminus. Now, to hunt for his prey. Within two minutes, he spotted him, standing four persons awy, beyond the two regular sikh brothers who seemed to work at the camera shop at Flora Fountain. He had seen them near the camera ships along D. N. Road after Flora Fountain towards the University of Mumbai. They knew him from the daily journey and knew about his philosophy of not taking a bath regularly.

They moved aside by about 4 inches, so that Satish could choose the bounce target elsewhere. They had suffered him earlier.