Bombay

Bombay is a strange city. Goa, Aurangabad, the Sahyadri range and such like clustering around but no one will ever find the time to venture that far. Beaches right at your doorstep and a sea outside your window but no time to take a walk across the road or draw the curtains.

In the streets, Bal Thackeray’s nephew tries hard to claim the throne from the son. It’s BT’s own patented method – spew venom. An actor’s house is damaged a little, a whole bunch of poor cab drivers are beaten up. Private cars drive offiice goers back as the cabbies retreat from the roads in protest. Politicans make comforting sounds but the targets are not appeased. The nephew is rounded up and taken off to jail. Supporters gleefully burn some shops and vehicles and beat up a few harmless vegetable vendors. People abandon work and rush home. Trains overflow. There are no cabs. And next there there is no trace of any of this.

Like clockwork the city ticks. If you move out of your place, someone else will step into. And like a frighteningly huge machine, at 9 every morning Bombay rears itself. And it ticks away till two at night. And then slowly, ever so slowly, over a span of two hours, it grinds to a halt. And you know that somewhere deep inside it, peeople are still moving.

visiting other companies

the ones our clients want to take over…means you eat what they eat and, much worse, pee where they pee. Having braced yourself to enter (with some tissue held over my nose), you could find anything. Sparkling cleanliness (this is rare, very rare – only very filthy companies get acquired). Notices saying ‘Please flush. Dont try if not trained to use western toilet’. And the worst – soggy, wet, smelly little holes that lie concealed in perfectly civilised buildings waiting to catch innocent visiting lawyers unawares.

Scintillating conversation

Today I was regaled with stories. Who is sleeping with whom. Who slept with whom. Who has cobwebs in her vagina. Who is a Bitch (everyone, or so I am told). Who is the Partner’s Pet. And so on.

 Bah!!!

Tales from the Loo

It is funny how much a bathroom can tell you about somebody. Camoflaged in Gucci, Dior and Hilfinger walk people who don’t flush the toilet when they are done. Yes, that woman with manicured hands and perfect hair leaves water all over the seat and floor. And that other one with the world’s largest collection of dainty sandals does not wash her hands when she is done.

Work in a posh job with posh people and walk in to sloppy un-flushed toilets and tissues flung outside the bin and shudder at what lurks beneath the well-tailored trousers and impeccably made-up faces.