Election Day

This week in Delhi and Mussoorie, the (very) local papers were filled with speculation about the elections in Bombay--everything was going to change this time around, whole new voting blocs would emerge, mobilized by outrage over the November terrorist attacks, crumbling infrastructure, constrained resources, corruption, etc.. The polls opened at 7 am this morning in parts of the city, but South Bombay seems largely unconcerned with voting. It is a day like any other, but with less traffic.

I went down to check out the registration tables in Colaba, by the fire station and saw none of the lines and queues that Diana faced in Borivali in the early part of the day, where there were 20 people with flawed voting cards for every 10 voters they actually let into the polls.



Seven rickety tables lined the shady corner in front of Colaba Municipal Secondary School Lane. They were staffed primarily by young, thin men in collared shirts, tipping their chairs back and looking slightly aggrieved when approached by potential voters.



People jostled the tables, poring over orange paper-covered booklets that listed the names, addresses, gender, and ages of voters qualified to vote at the school. So much depends on who is working the tables: The English speakers had forgotten their voting cards; they argued in low tones with the voting officials over whether or not they could use passports. They were confident, unhurried, outraged by red tape. Across the lane, at the Hindi table, Vishal's voting card was wrong; his middle name was spelled incorrectly, the same problem that plagued him in the last elections. He was agitated and blustering; he spoke in Marathi to the bored-looking official who responded in Hindi.





The Shiv Sena had commandeered the best location, right under the tree. They were handing out hats and stickers as two giggling women checked the rolls.




Raj Thackeray’s party, MNS, was next to them. Older stout men with mustaches and rings on their pudgy fingers stapled flyers to the back of the booth assignments they passed on to voters.



When we rounded the corner, three women approached Angeline to remind her gently to vote for Meera Sanyal, the hope of the liberal Malabar Hills constituency.

Independent voter identification and registration. Whatevs, right?

As for the problem of voting early and often:




Indelible ink. Better than computers.

Tonight Kap announced that voter turnout was 45%. Bombay is starting to look like the US.

Fariyas Can Opener

When you move to a place for just one year, shopping trips are more about what you can do without than what you intend to buy. At Big Bazaar last summer, Yoshi and I spent most of the time walking away from kitchen items that we thriftily—and stupidly—deemed unnecessary. Like knives. Also can openers.

But now, in our next-to-last month, we’ve inherited three cans of sweetened, condensed milk from a fire sale at the American Consulate commissary. And, as both of us are obsessed with cold coffee, I spent the better part of an afternoon trying to hack into one of the squat little red cans with a fork.

At last I admitted defeat and went next door to borrow a can opener. My request met with much consternation, ending in a ten-minute hunt in Harsh’s apartment which is really no bigger than ours. Harsh thought it was a conspiracy, as our other neighbors had just borrowed the opener a week before. Here is what they had; here is the can opener that is keeping Fariyas—all 11 floors and 33 apartments—fed.

Slum Dog Stats - 2/24/09

"My favorite thing about all these articles about Slumdog Millionaire," said Yoshi this morning, "is that I haven't seen a single one, not one, that lists the same number of people living in the city."

Mumbai is a city of 15, 17, 18, 20 million. 5 million, give or take. Whatevs.

Gandhi's Birthday - 10/2/08

"Commerce isn't sentimental," said Yoshi this morning at 6:30, crossing Tardeo Road near Mani Bhavan, Gandhi's house in Bombay.

Today is Gandhi's birthday and the schools and government offices are closed; the day is supposed to be dry in this city that loves cocktails and Kingfisher beer, but Nana Chowk--with its mattress shops jumbled next to snack stalls and metal working stands--is bustling already, getting ready for the day. We pass eight men, all in row, squatting on the curb; they drink tea from shot glass-sized cups, emblazoned with the Officer's Choice logo (the worst, the worst, the worst whiskey in the world) and one of them flicks a bidi butt towards me and grimaces an apology.

At Mani Bhavan, the spinning demonstration is sparsely attended and everyone seems weary; the machine looks like it was stolen from a Soviet factory in the 1970s.


The group gathered on the thin mats in the library is old, so old. They are wearing khadi, some of them, but it seems like an exhausted gesture, a habit that lost its oomph over the last 50 years. The womens' saris have yellowed along the folds, indicating a once-a-year outing. The only young people in attendance are kids who have been carted in from a few schools to perform songs; they belt out devotional ragas effortlessly, vacantly staring into space and elbowing half-heartedly for a spot closer to the mikes. In their boredom and their 10-year old superiority over the grey-haired gathering, they remind me of nothing so much as little girls in Kalamazoo getting ready for their Annie tryouts.

Fever at Fariyas - 4/4/09

Reflecting on parenthood in inhospitable climes:

Tonight Priya has a fever. It's so mild, really, not even 101 yet and she is unaware of how hot she looks, of the two, dry patches of red that have appeared on her cheeks, of the blue tinge under her eyes. Her hari krishna tuft has separated into sweaty slicks, clinging to the back of her skull.

It is just that things go south here so quickly; it is just that in the heat, far from home and late at night when my Hindi is so bad, the margin for error seems so small and our little world feels very rickety.