Switching on Winter

I love light. As a child, I was known to switch on all the lights in the house because I loved it so (and then get a lecture from one of my parents about electricity costs and wastage). I have an associated fascination for lamps and string lights and streamers and candles and tea lights and lanterns..even bright resplendent full moons. I can almost imagine The Significant Other nodding his head vigorously at this admission as he recalls all the times we've been out and I've been busy admiring the lamps and light fixtures in the place while he tries to talk to me.

And that is the reason why winter in London is a miserable time for me. The mere six hours of dull grey light in a day are just not enough for my soul and now that I am a grown-up, I also realise the significance of electricity costs and the ramifications of wastage and have to unhappily adhere to grown-up norms of prudent living. Pah.

And so, when they put up Christmas lights in London - although a bit too early - I'm certainly not one of those complaining. Last night they switched on the lights at Regent Street and Oxford Street and I was there in a flash, soaking it all in.

I wasn't the only one, though. The moon seemed to be taking it in too (much to my delight).

I certainly needed the cheer.

(Another version of this was published on Metrotwin Mumbai and one of these photographs appeared on Londonist this morning).

The other Mumbai wakes up

Early on a Sunday morning, the Fort area of south Bombay ought to be deserted. No throngs of suits and ties, no briefcases and cellphones, no long and short cars, and traffic jams and honking and cursing, and sweating policemen just barely managing to keep a semblance of sanity in the chaos. None of it.

The suits are in pajamas at home sleeping off the week and the traffic policemen are yet to arrive on duty. I expect to find a deserted Fort. It is strikingly different, but as I look around I realise I have unwittingly wandered into the morning rituals of the other Mumbai - those who have no weekends.

For, work must still be done for that wage that will buy today's dinner for the family. That walk to work must still be done. That bus caught. That cycle trip made. Sunday is not a weekend. There are no weekends.

Teeth must be brushed before those gas cylinders are delivered.
Hair must be brushed before the day's business starts.
Last night's laundry must be picked up from the park fence before a bird ruins it. Rubbish must be cleared.

I'm clearly the outsider: Who is this woman toting a camera? She isn't supposed to be here so early on a Sunday.

Pictures must be posed for.

"Didi, humaari bhi photo le lo"
(Big Sister, please click a picture of us too)
Lots of posing and giggling ensues.

"Maddum, hum bhi khinchwale?" she asked shyly.
(Madam, Can I also have one?)
I loved her smile.

"Arre Maddum, lage haath meri bhi le lo!"
(Oh Madam, while you're at it, please take one of me too!)
Strikes a pose, pretends to talk on the phone. Never mind the trash in the foreground.

It's always like this on Indian streets. It's more endearing than annoying. I click, while an amused old taxi driver watches. I train my camera on him, but he doesn't flinch.

Back to morning business - tobacco and choona (lime) must be shared, over routine morning greetings.

"Arre Maddumji, ye kaunse aqhbaar mein chhapegi?!"
(Hey, Madam! In what newspaper will this picture get published?)

I smile and shake my head to indicate a no and walk on. Perhaps I should have explained what a blog is. But the sun was getting higher in the sky and sweat was streaming down my back. It would have taken too long - too long for my comfort.

Meanwhile, the old taxi driver is still watching. He's smiling now. One more picture to let him know that I know he's watching. He could have been a statue.

Up on the road, business has already begun. The first customer of the day, the first few rupees. That heavy delivery of potatoes that will take hours on a cycle. The posh shop front must be prepared for its posh customers. The underwear drying on the plants must be removed.

Someone else cycles past me and waves me a loud hello. He's faster than my camera. My car's waiting, the driver slouching in air conditioned comfort, probably wondering what the hell I'm up to, but too polite to ask. I want to stay and watch some more, but I'm drenched in sweat now. I'm not used to this. The rest of Mumbai is still asleep.

I glance back before I sit in the car. The taxi driver is still watching me, his smile wider - the kind of indulgent smile that the elderly reserve for what they consider the foolish young. I laugh and take one last picture.