Maximum City Mayhem

MUCH to my dismay, the first thing to be taken away was our ceiling fans. A few months after we'd moved into our apartment, our landlord decided to repossess them for his new home. There was little we could do. Our rental agreement didn't include a list of fixtures and fittings, plus the landlord held our security deposit. Property rental laws are archaic in India, and full of pitfalls for tenant and landlord alike. While it's difficult for a landlord to remove an overstaying tenant, it can be as challenging to get the security deposit back from a landlord. Even if contracts are legally enforceable, it can take years or even decades for this to happen. A landlord has the right to set the amount of the security deposit payable by the tenant. In Mumbai it's often equal to the total rent for the whole eleven-month term of the agreement. The rent on our apartment was 9000 ($220) rupees a month, and the security deposit a whopping 100,000 rupees ($2500). We'd also paid the standard one month's rental to the real estate broker for finding the apartment.

‘I'll come and get the fans on Monday,’ the landlord informed us. Monday came and went, and there was no sign of him. On Wednesday evening, he phoned again. ‘I'll come and get the fans tomorrow. Call me after you've removed them and got them ready.’

It prompted familiar feelings of indignation. ‘Not only has he not bothered to turn up when expected, he wants us to do his work for him and at short notice too,’ I muttered. Surely these things shouldn't surprise me anymore. Where was my Indian commonsense?

Aryan just wanted to get the inevitable job done as soon as possible. At ten-thirty that night, we were surrounded by disassembled ceiling fans partially hanging from the ceiling and spread all over the floor. Dirt and dust sullied the tiles that I had freshly washed that day. I'd have to do it all again tomorrow. At least at that moment, I was spared from knowing that there wouldn't be any water to clean with.

The water supply was the second thing to be taken away. The watchman delivered the bad news to us the next morning when he knocked on our door.

‘The water supply will be turned off in half an hour,’ he informed us. Apparently some repair works were needed and the outage would only last two hours. Ten hours later, at 8 pm, the water supply was finally restored.

The next day, it was turned off again. The same routine continued for four days. Little did we know that it was the beginning of the end of our 24-hour water supply. The water mysteriously continued to go off at irregular and unannounced intervals. Various excuses were given by the watchmen, who were custodians of the water supply in the apartment complex. The tanks were being cleaned, a pipeline was being repaired, the municipal council wasn't supplying enough water.

Eventually, the water supply settled into a regular pattern. We got water for a few hours three times a day, and never any to flush the toilet. The water supply to the toilet had been completely cut off.

Having a 24-hour water supply was something I'd taken for granted all my life. I found this new way of living hard to fathom, especially in India's most progressive city. My whole day had to be planned around the water supply, and we had to fill large buckets full of water to pour down the toilet. I was even more perplexed that the landlord didn't seem particularly concerned about the problem.

I sent him disgruntled emails. ‘We're paying you rent on an apartment that's supposed to have 24-hour water supply, and we're barely getting six hours of water a day. Please investigate.’

One evening, he turned up at our apartment unannounced.

‘The municipal council isn't supplying enough water to the apartment complex,’ he declared. ‘The council has been diverting water away to new developments in the area. This is because the housing society registration formalities are yet to be completed, and the apartment complex doesn't have its own pipeline.’

The booming number of new real-estate developments in Mumbai had put further pressure on Mumbai's already scarce water supply. As a result, the municipal council didn't provide new apartment complexes with full water supply until their housing societies were properly registered. Never mind that the apartment complex had been built almost five years ago. The application for registration was still sitting in a notoriously inefficient council office somewhere.

‘Once all the formalities are complete, the paani ka problem will be solved forever. It won't take much longer, just a few more months,’ the landlord reassured us.

My tenuous Indian commonsense told me not to believe him.

‘Anyway, you should be thankful you have a water storage tank. It's an excellent solution. Your apartment is the only apartment in the whole complex to have one,’ the landlord enthused.

Our apartment did indeed have an overhead water storage tank, which could be directly filled from the water supply, when it was available, just by turning on a tap. However, its only outlet was a small tap in the far corner of the bathroom. It wasn't much use for washing dishes in the kitchen or taking a shower. I'd assumed that every apartment in our complex had one of those water storage tanks.

‘Really? Why doesn't everyone install a water storage tank?’ I asked.

‘Oh, they're not allowed to. Overhead water storage tanks are not permitted in the apartments. I used to be a member of the housing society and I actively implemented a rule that banned the installation of overhead water storage tanks. But I installed a tank in my own apartment,’ he concluded proudly.

‘So how do the other residents store water?’ I wanted to know.

‘They have to put it in big drums and buckets.’

The outcome of the landlord's actions was predictable.

‘An angry mob of residents gathered at the door of this apartment. They hammered on the door and threatened to beat me up. However, in reality, they couldn't do anything. I was a member of the housing society and had all the power,’ he gloated.

I couldn't believe not only the unfairness and hypocrisy of the situation, but also the landlord's self-interest. He wasn't at all concerned that he'd deprived all the residents of an important convenience. Instead, he was supremely satisfied that he had something that they didn't.

For decades, Mumbai had been a magnet to Indians from all over the country who were seeking a better life. Her arms wide open, she'd generously welcome anyone who had a dream and find a place for them in her fold, even if it was merely a patch of pavement. She adjusted. But overburdened, she now harshly forced them to fend for themselves, in any way they could. One person's loss was always another's gain.

Just ask anyone who's ridden the ‘Mumbai local’.

I'd thought India's long-distance trains showed an unfettered part of humanity, but Mumbai's local rail network exposed me to a very raw and uncompromising side of the city's citizens, where the mentality of scarcity caused self-interest to reign supreme. For the harried and tense passengers, missing a train meant wasted precious time. Time that could be devoted to some other important task.

The Mumbai local transports around eight million commuters a day, making it a lifeline as well as a source of loathing. Not for the faint of heart, it has the ability to make people shudder merely at the mention of its name. Trains can be impossibly overcrowded, the doors never close and constantly have passengers hanging out of them. People even travel sitting on the roof. It's the cheapest and quickest way to get from one end of Mumbai to the other, about 50 kilometres from north to south. Keen to feel independent, capable, and a part of the city, I was undeterred from becoming acquainted with it.

Mumbai's train stations are worn and unkempt, sullied by the multitude of passengers who traipse through them every day and the homeless who dwell on their platforms. The fragrance of sweat, urine and ubiquitous spices is unmistakable. On my first train trip to Churchgate in south Mumbai, Aryan delivered me to the correct platform at the station, to a place where a large group of women had congregated.

‘This is where the ladies' compartment will arrive. Make sure you get on here, and be prepared to push,’ he warned.

The Mumbai local had separate compartments for women to spare them from the unwelcome advances of misbehaving men. However, being a woman certainly did not make one a lady in the inaptly named ladies' compartment. As the train ground to a halt, the crowd grouped together and surged towards the doors en masse, screeching like parrots. Passengers who were trying to get off were unceremoniously pushed aside as the unruly mob forced its way on, before again separating and scrambling for a seat. An elderly woman sitting on the floor was trampled in the process. She shouted out, but was completely ignored.

As I stood, barricaded by bodies in the aisle, I watched a fight unfold between two women. One had claimed a seat by placing her handbag on it, but the other had removed the bag and sat down. It was a bold move, and one that brought swift reprisal. A shouting match ensued, but the offending woman refused to budge. The other woman flew into attack, pinching the woman's arms and scratching her neck. The spectacle had me transfixed, and I blatantly stared like the most curious of Indians. Finally, another passenger intervened to prevent a brawl.

The lack of etiquette wasn't just restricted to overburdened facilities such as the local train or to the less privileged part of the population. Absence of manners was also prevalent at the shopping mall where I bought my groceries. Hefty Indian housewives overlooked me in the queue at the vegetable weighing counter. They waddled past me and attempted to hand their single items to the clerk as if I didn't exist and without any acknowledgement or asking if I minded. On occasions, I even saw mothers deploying their children to do it for them.

Venturing out was like going into a battlefield, where I constantly had to fight to get ahead. When hoards of women barged onto the train and jammed the exit, without allowing anyone to disembark first, I ruthlessly grabbed them and shoved them aside so I could get off.

‘Tum paagal ho,’ they shouted at me, calling me crazy. To me, the way they'd forced themselves aboard without any regard for disembarking passengers was crazy. I shouted back at them in return. The city made me as harsh and as unforgiving as it itself could be.

Meanwhile, at back at the apartment complex, occupants on the upper floors of our building seemed to mistake our balcony for a large garbage bin. They carelessly threw their garbage out their windows and onto it. Empty food packets, drink bottles, and even old magazines ended up there.

We obviously weren't the only aggrieved residents. An amusingly worded notice appeared one day, taped to the lift and noticeboard in the lobby:

It has been observed that flat owner in B wing are throwing waste material like plastic bottles, Plastic Bags, peace of Bread, other dirty things throw Window. They are also splitting in Corner of Staircase. It is a request to all Flat owner to behave like educated, qualified, and civilised person. Let us keep our Building clean then Mumbai and then Country. From: A humble request from Flat Owner of B Wing.

Unfortunately more than a mere notice was required to get people to change their habits. The paradox is that Indians aren't as unclean as they appear to be. It's just that for many, what constitutes cleanliness – or lack of it – is very different from the west.

According to Hindu scriptures, cleanliness is necessary for spiritual advancement. The body and mind must be kept clean, like a temple. Any substance that comes out of the body is considered polluting. As a result, Hindus try and expel as much as they can from their bodies. The chorus of gagging sounds that can be heard across India every morning as people clear their sinuses and bronchial passages reveals how enthusiastically they go about it.

Inside the home, the kitchen is traditionally considered sacred, as food from the kitchen is offered to the gods before it's eaten. So care must be taken to wash and purify the body before entering the kitchen and cooking in the morning. In very conservative households, people of a lower caste aren't permitted to enter the kitchen. Women even refrain from entering it when they're menstruating.

As can be expected, people are fastidiously clean inside their kitchens, paying as much attention to its cleanliness as they do their bodies. Utensils are scrubbed until they're sparkling and rubbish is quickly removed. That's where it ends though. Once all offending substances are outside the body and the home, they're no longer of concern.

To get me out of the apartment and distract me from my frustrations, Aryan took me around Mumbai on the back of his motorbike. Aksa Beach was only ten minutes away from where we lived, and it soon became my favourite place to go. During the week, it was relatively deserted, the shore dominated only by a resort and a few snack stands. We sat on the sand eating vada pav (spicy fried mashed potatoes in a bun, otherwise known as the Indian burger) and drinking fresh lime soda.

In Bandra and Juhu, we staked out the homes of India's Bollywood stars. As unfamiliar with them as I was, I was still fascinated by the huge part they played in people's lives and how the glitzy movie industry contributed so much to making Mumbai the city of dreams. Every Sunday evening for almost two decades, fans gathered outside iconic actor Amitabh Bachchan's house, Jalsa, in Juhu. Whenever he was home, he routinely appeared on his balcony to greet them, causing a mini traffic jam in the process.

Yet, for most of the part, suburban Mumbai lacked the charm of south Mumbai. Auto rickshaws weren't allowed in south Mumbai, but in the suburbs, they ruled the roads. The sheer volume of the incessant traffic spewed out noise and pollution.

The refined residents of south Mumbai (or south Bombay, as they still preferred to call it) very rarely crossed the invisible border into the suburbs. There was little to attract them. South Mumbai catered to their worldly wants with foreign-replica restaurants, designer stores and exclusive clubs. But, at the other extreme, it also provided opportunity for those less fortunate, such as the barely literate dabba-walas and dhobi-walas, who were vital for the city's functioning. It amazed me how rich and poor existed alongside each other, their lives intertwined in many ways.

The thousands of dabba-walas, men who carry containers, delivered around 200,000 tins of freshly cooked food to the city's office workers for lunch, at the same time every day. Rather than eat out, workers prefer to have home-cooked lunches made by their wives or mothers. Every morning, with precision, the dabba-walas collect the tins from residences and return the same tins empty in the afternoon, travelling by bicycle, on foot and by train. I marvelled at the skill of these dedicated men, decked out in crisp white kurta pyjama suits and caps, for whom the usual concept of Indian time proudly didn't apply.

The dhobi-walas also had a remarkable system in place at their huge open air laundry, the dhobi ghat which borders one side of Mahalaxmi railway station. Their job is just as arduous, if not more so. They spend most of their waking hours standing knee-deep in seemingly endless rows of concrete troughs filled with chemicals, manually scrubbing and beating the dirt out of close to a million items of laundry every day. The dhobi ghat has become a popular tourist attraction, offering a fascinating glimpse into the inner workings of the city. One day, I was brave enough to venture down from the viewing spot on the bridge above it and sneak a peek inside. Hundreds of families live and work there, in the colourless grey interior, surrounded by mounds of sheets and shirts. Instead of toys, a group of three barefooted youngsters played with a chicken. When they saw me, they ran over and, smiling, offered it to me to hold in a heart-warming gesture.

There is no doubt that life in Maximum City can be brutal for those without resources. They toil endlessly just to survive, with very few pleasures as we know them in life. However, even those who are better off can't completely escape the city's foibles. Although I'd been blessed with a job that gave my life meaning, Mumbai refused to yield to my love of order and control. After welcoming me, it was apparent that the city was determined to test me and my worthiness to be there. It did it slowly by confounding me in a different way on a daily basis, pushing me closer and closer to the brink of insanity.

Just when I'd finally accepted the absence of our water supply, the kachra-wala (cleaner) knocked on the door wanting to hook a hose up to the tap in our toilet and use the water to wash down the first-floor landing and stairwell. Pouring water everywhere then brushing it away with a broom is a common method of cleaning in India.

‘Lekin paani nahi hai (But there's no water),’ I tried to tell him. I'd barely had time to finish washing the lunchtime dishes before it was cut off.

I was wrong though. The kachra-wala connected the hose to the tap, turned it on, and water came gushing out. From where, I had no idea. Another of the landlord's illicit storage tanks? He spent the next fifteen minutes hosing down the landing and stairwell. Water poured down the stairs and out into the lobby. A couple of hours later, I went outside. The stairwell and landing were still wet, but dirtier than ever from the mud off people's shoes where they'd walked. I shook my head in dismay.

It was the Internet that actually troubled me the most, particularly because I constantly needed it for work. Most days brought a different issue with the connection. If not the cable, then the server. Or maintenance work. Or outages that would last from a few hours to a whole day, the duration of which could never accurately be predicted.

‘Half an hour, madam,’ I was invariably told when I called up to complain.

To add insult to injury, the service provider deliberately disconnected the Internet once a month while the account was settled. Instead of issuing a bill that we could pay, they sent a representative around to collect the cash. Once, it took days for someone to come and get it, and therefore for the connection to be reinstated. I had to go to an Internet café on a number of occasions to meet deadlines. The ongoing connectivity problems made me so enraged that I stormed into the company's head office and demanded an explanation.

I hardly recognised the angry person I'd become at times. It felt like I was embroiled in a twisted, dysfunctional relationship. Deep down, I did love India. But on the surface we continued to wage war on each other. There was yelling and sulking, and a desire to part ways. Coming from an orderly country that valued courtesy, I found it difficult to reconcile myself to the messy way that the city operated and thoughtless manner in which people behaved. I really struggled to make sense of it all.

Yet, I didn't want to give up on India. Her whims were part of her appeal. She was untamed. A land of mystery and possibility, where something different and interesting happened every day. There was only one way forward, and that was to bear with the daily trials and tribulations. Eventually, hopefully, I'd notice them less. I'd become accepting and detached. Then, maybe India and I could reconcile and reach common ground.