Coded by the Pin Code - A beginner’s guide to the Mumbai caste system

We lived in a small town. We had a good life. A good home, a great set of friends, a decent school for our kid. We knew the names of our neighbours, their kids and their dogs. We even socialised on weekdays and thought nothing much of it. But not being the kind of people who can leave well enough alone, we packed up and moved to Bombay.

 

Or so we thought.

 

After looking through a multitude of houses, some with bedrooms smaller than the bathrooms in our old house, we finally settled on a house that didn’t cramp our style and us much. We were quite happy, even though the rent was seven times what we paid earlier, we had a good home, and after all, this was Mumbai. We knew what we were getting into.

 

A month after we settled down I started my new job. The first question anyone asked me here was, ‘So, where do you live?’. The reactions I got to my address were varied and weird. “Ah the ‘burbs!” said Tina. “I’m a pucca townie. I hear that area has come up quite well, though I have never been to that part of town.”

 

“Townie?” I asked. “From Town, you know.” She said as if that explained anything. Now the area where I stay has been around for ever, so I thought maybe this gal hasn’t been around much. I tried to look up ‘Town’ on the escorts map book, my bible to Mumbai, but I drew a blank. Jayanti, another ‘burbie’ explained  the difference. ‘Town’, it seems, is the island of south Bombay (that part of town is yet to accept that it is now called Mumbai). The rest of Mumbai is the suburbs (hence burbie) which townies do not consider Bombay. Suburbs up to Bandra have been allowed the privilege of being included in Bombay, albeit condescendingly.

 

‘Ah’ I thought ‘I get it.’ And we thought we were moving to Bombay! Silly us.

 

That was just the tip of the iceberg.  

 

The suburbs are further divided into Western and Central. Western and Central are the two suburban railway routes in the city. The westerners are somehow superior to the central guys. Why? Don’t have a clue. I thought it was because of the proximity to the sea, but one look at the map shows that is not so. It just is. Again, that is not all. Each suburb is further divided into East and West, depending on which side of the aforementioned railway track you are on. The West part of any suburb is considered superior to its eastern counterpart, regardless of whether you reside in the Western suburbs or Central. Phew! And I haven’t even told you about the harbour line, Navi Mumbai, Thane and Kalyan yet.

 

Having lived in Delhi before I thought I could identify an elitist slight when one was thrown at me, but Mumbai is sharper and more subtle. Some of the other reactions to my address were;

 

“I’ve heard that they have malls and stuff out there now”

The key words being ‘they’ which implies ‘not us’, and ‘I’ve heard’ which means ‘I haven’t seen, since I do not venture in the wilderness there’

 

‘Thats really far’ is another one. Far from where is not specified. It’s just far.

 

Allusions to new development in your area are also to be considered as insults, because in the areas that really matter, there is no space for any new developments.

Evidence of the grand divide can be seen even in newspapers. An article on ‘what to do this weekend’ in the TOI said ‘...and if you are the adventurous kind, willing to go as far as Powai....’ ???. Again, far from where? That was the event closest to where I live, but I was obviously not the one they were talking to.

I think I have finally begun to get the code of the pin code. So if you happen to ask me where I live and begin to hem and haw, you know its because I do not know your pin code yet.

 

Originally posted at http://rivr.sulekha.com/coded-by-the-pin-code-a-beginner-s-guide-to-the-mumbai-caste-system_329115_blog

 

The author has since moved to Bangalore and in the year and half she's been here, she has barely met any natural born Bangaloreans. A similar post about her new town of residence will have to wait.

“Most women go to a doctor when all they need is audience” – George Bernard Shaw

After seven years of working full time, I decided to quit and enjoy domesticity. It was great at first. No deadlines, no last minute scramble to achieve targets, no boss!

Some of the good things took getting used to. For instance, the only abbreviation used at home is TV, all the rest are complete words! No ASAPs, FYIs, ARPU, EBITDA......everything is referred to by its given name. Nice! Also, real coffee does not taste like the stuff that comes out of the vending machine in the pantry. I sent back the first few cups the housekeeper (that’s what I like to call him, OK?) made saying that it didn’t quite taste right, before I realised that this is what it is supposed to taste like!

The thing I missed most was not the thrill of achieving targets, or that rare congratulatory mail from the boss. It was not even the security of the paycheck at the end of each month. I missed the tea breaks and lunch breaks most. You might think that life now was one big tea break, and going by the amount of snacking I have begun doing, that would be an accurate assumption, but I refer to the inane conversation had with colleagues, not necessarily friends, during the breaks.  Being at home meant that the only grownups I interact with are the maid, the sweeper, the electrician, the milkman, and of course, the aforementioned housekeeper. The women in the neighbourhood have already formed their cliques. I tried to worm my way into one of them, and ended up feeling completely inadequate. I did not know whether the milk that gets delivered at home every morning is cow milk of buffalo milk; I did not know the best time to buy vegetables from the supermarket is between 11.45 and 12.30 in the mornings; and I was not on first name basis with the property manager for our building. So while I may not be a working woman anymore, I am yet to qualify to the rank or housewife.

So what does someone like me do for conversation? I go to the doctor of course. It started with the backache I got from slouching in front of the TV all day. The orthopaedic was a nice old school guy who did not insist on x-rays or tests. I instantly liked him because he said that the extra weight I had gained was not too much. When I told him how much I had gained over the last month, he said, ‘In that case, you must have been very skinny before.’ I am not the blushing kind, but my cheeks and ears felt warm, so I guess thats what I did. I religiously called to update him on my progress and two weeks later, reported back at the nice docs office to say I was feeling much better! Doctors always say ‘come back to me after a week.. ‘ kind of stuff, and everyone knows they are just being polite, but this was not an opportunity I was going to miss. 

A fortnight later I was fortunate enough to get a fever and a sore throat, and I got to meet another doctor. I am thinking of consulting a dietician and maybe even go to a skin specialist for that zit on my forehead. There is also some dental work I would like done, but since you can not talk much through that, I am saving it for truly desperate times

 

Originally posted on http://rivr.sulekha.com/most-women-go-to-a-doctor-when-all-they-need-is-audience-george-bernard-shaw_319707_blog

The author has since gone back to work and desperately misses all her doctors.

A different kind of Stock Market Fraud

‘I’m finished. It’s all over. ‘

Shekhar was slouching on the sofa in a posture of exaggerated grief.  Rekha was holding his hand, not knowing quite what to say to comfort him.

‘I wanted to give you a better life. I haven’t been able to provide even a fraction of what you have grown up with. .. They said the investment would double in a week.’

Rekha was crying now.

‘I thought of ending this miserable life, but I am too much of a coward. How can you stand to look at me, Rekha? I feel disgusted when I see my face in the mirror’ he broke into loud sobs and held her close.

‘It’s not the end of the world, Shekhar. It’s just money.’

‘Just money?’ said Shekhar. ‘It’s 1.5 crore rupees, Rekha.’

‘I will go to prison, lose my job when the company finds out. ’

‘I will not let that happen.’ said Rekha squaring her shoulders. ‘Don’t forget, we have the money. We will use the money papa has left me. Your boss will never find out.’

‘I won’t touch that money, Rekha. I know what your father thought of me.’

‘Well he is dead; you are here. It does not matter what papa thought. The money is mine now to do as I choose. I will not hear another word.’

‘Rekha, I will work late, moonlight, do anything and pay you back. No more gambling at the stock market. Promise. ’

‘Now go wash your face’ said Rekha in a mock matronly voice.

In the bathroom Shekhar stretched his arms and smiled. Now his mistress could have that flat she wanted and he would have a neat package of cash left over, he could come home late every night.

Everything was going as planned.

originally posted on http://rivr.sulekha.com/a-different-kind-of-stock-market-fraud_332202_blog

The day the world found out what I did for a living

It is one of those traditions that go on in spite of the fact that everyone participating hates it. We call it the ‘Cousins Club’, quite aptly missing the apostrophy since its only purpose is to beat up one member into a bloody mess at every congregation. It comprises of aunts, uncles, cousins, cousins of cousins, people who are ‘almost family’, and is surprisingly cosmopolitan for a mob that regressive. The average age is about 55. We meet on the second Sunday every month for a potpourri  lunch. All attempts to wriggle out of it are quashed by well meaning parents and ill meaning siblings, who do not want to face the ordeal alone.

I had managed to escape the spotlight for a long time now. The last time being right after my twelfth standard board results were declared and my marks were dissected; ten years on, I still get nightmares. Last month the victim was Shwetha, my aunt's niece.  She had been caught indulging in the shameful act of ‘internet chatting’ by her mother. The mother, of course, sought the collective opinion of the geriatric members of the club on how to deal with the ‘situation’. The advice came fast and furious, horror stories were exchanged. Anuran kaka told of a niece who had fallen in love with a ‘krichhan’ boy, quite forgetting that Shwetha's family were staunch Catholics. Strangely Shwetha's mother understood, because she could relate to the pain of a daughter falling in love with an ‘outcaste’ (that’s the word she used, I swear). Everyone conveniently forgot that Shwethas aunt, a catholic, had married uncle Jai, a Hindu and both were present in the room. Nobody was interested in the fact that Shwetha had been online with a woman academic discussing her college applications.

It started harmlessly enough with everyone enquiring about my new job. I was confident because such interrogations were usually limited to the length of the commute and wholly inappropriate and direct questions about the ‘take home’ salary, which, in this case, I was quite proud of. It was my brother who threw me to the wolves.

‘Tell them what you do, didi.’ he said.

I mumbled ‘telecom’ ... ‘marketing’.. I wouldn’t want to bore you..

‘Don’t be silly, we are like your parents. We would love to know what our daughter does at work.’ This from a matron I could not quite place.

‘Didi is in charge of promoting Value Added Services. So all the calls and SMSs you get from your telecom service provider, she is responsible for those.’

Now I have been attending these dos forever, and I don’t think we have ever encountered silence so thick at any of our meetings.

‘So you do telemarketing?’ a hushed incredulous voice said.

‘And those SMSs I keep getting? You do those too?’
'What about the automatic diallers hawking new ring tones?'

‘I don’t personally make any calls or send any SMSs. I just coordinate....’

‘See, when you get an extremely annoying call in the middle of an important meeting, and you ask to speak to a supervisor, the one who is never available? That’s didi.’ said Judas.

'Im not really the supervisor, she reports to me..."

The questions started pouring in.

‘Yes Kishore mama, the national DND works, we never call a customer who has registered,’ I said, safe in the knowledge that he subscribed to competition.

“No uncle Josh, if you curse at the automatic dialler, I do not get a recording of it the next day’

“No bhai, we do not do a victory dance and shout “die sucker” every time we close a sale.” to Judas again.

“Yes Kamla aunty, we have it in our records that you are sixty-two. I guess we should have realised you would not want to download Mallika Sherawat wallpapers ... “

It seemed like it would never end, so I resorted to the last, dirtiest, most embarrassing trick in the book. Tears. In and instant the tide turned in my favour. Sympathetic murmurings began, ‘it’s a job like any other’ ‘why are all of you pouncing on the poor girl’ ‘someone’s got to do it’ and ‘at least the pay is good’. At this point I realised don’t get paid nearly enough, and made a mental note to ask for a raise.

After the excitement had subsided, and I had ‘washed my face’ had my hand patted by a dozen uncles and been hugged by all the auntys in the room, I casually turned to my brother and said, ‘By the way bro, why did you throw that packet of cigarettes out the window? It still had some left. Good I saw you do it, I have kept the pack back in your room.’

All eyes shifted to him.

As I left the room I turned around and  mouthed ‘die sucker’.

originally posted on http://rivr.sulekha.com/the-day-the-world-found-out-what-i-did-for-a-living_320494_blog