Editorial Music & Arts Folk Tale Humour Rasoi Reflections Punjab Roundup Prev Issue Next Issue

Mumbaiyya - Sandhya Acharya "My name is Sandhya and I am doing an M.B.A in the U.S. Life for me is a sequence of happiness, sorrow, hopes and dreams and Writing - an expression of life."

It is sometimes not until you lose something that you realize how much you loved it. When I packed my suitcases, reached the airport, got on the British Airways flight and put on my seat belt; I felt a strange fear, an excitement; hope and dreams for the future. At the same time I had an uncanny feeling that I was leaving something behind. I was not sure what.

Over the two years I have been here, I have revisited that feeling many times, and with the increasing years, I have increasing recognition of what I have left behind. Nostalgia is a common phenomenon for all immigrants, a common experience. The strangest thing about Nostalgia is that you would have had no idea in the past that these are the things you would be missing, yearning for, wishing to return to one day in the future. Images of the past flash before your eyes like photographs being flashed through a projector, and these pictures flash when you close your eyes. You see the teeming crowds like armies of ants marching purposefully at Victoria Terminus. You see the colorful procession of old cars, new cars, smoking muddy trucks, pedestrians in all shapes and hues all flowing into the endless sea of humanity all around you - all the time. You smell the jasmine in the garlands at the flower vendors on the streets of Matunga, you smell the garlic in the chutney at "Rajmata", the Vada Pav stall. You hear high pitched voices of the hawkers at the crowded Mandi in old Thane. You hear loud arguments of pitted groups in the train hurling invectives at each other; each more eloquent than the other. And you miss them and remember them fondly. You miss the sights, the smells the sounds of Mumbai. You miss the city that seems to live with a character of its own. Like a mother missing her son who left his house for his destiny.

So of all the things I miss about home, today I shall speak of Mumbaiyya, the language.

Mumbaiyya is a raucous language. It is not even a language so interspersed it is with Marathi, Hindi, Gujarati and English. My chaste Hindi and Urdu speaking friends have often gasped in shock when they hear the animosity in the language we speak. With all the lack of grammar, and structure and gender and softness, it seems more a sacrilege than a language. Yet I love this language with a passion that one would feel for his first love. Like the city, the language does not really care for others status or gender or age. Everyone is – well, just anyone; another individual sharing with them today, this moment this experience that is Mumbai.

"Sarak". That’s a crude one. The trains live by their own rules and when you hear this word it means you have to make place for the fourth-seater in the three-seater benches. There is no request in the tone for that is the rule of the train, of the city. When the train gets crowded, you have to make place for the fourth person. When there is less for anyone, everyone has to give. That is your right then to take. So you just demand it. "Sarak."

"Vaat lagi". That’s a simple one. You are in trouble. There is no reference to any emotional turmoil or the machinations of fate or poetic tragedy. There is no package that softens an incident or event or the truth in it. What is there is there and you acknowledge it as it is. When you know you are going to be late for work, when you know you missed wishing your friends on his or her birthday, when you lost something your neighbor asked you to drop off. When you are in trouble, you are in trouble. Vaat lagi.

"Bom nahin marneka". Don’t make a noise over it. That’s a strange one. What with all the noise of the eunuchs clapping their hands at the platforms, the loud garish music in the "Ganpati Visarjan" processions, the clattering of stainless steel vessels you hear in your neighbour’s house, the deafening sound of crackers during Diwali and after a cricket match victory. "Bom nahin marneka" because some are common experiences and some are individual ones. Everyone has to know where to draw that line and fight his or her own battle. Even when you are harassed by your controlling wife at home, even when you are regularly tossed around like a rag doll in the crowded buses, even when bomb blasts tear and break the tempo of the city. Even when you think you are in the pits don’t beg for sympathy or cry for time. Life goes on. There is a dignity in maintaining your silence amidst all the noise. "Bom nahin marneka."

"Bindaas rehneka". Be carefree. That’s a difficult one. With the milk-vendors mixing so much water in the milk, the "Gaswala" failing to deliver on time, the traffic making you miss your 8.32 Dadar fast, having no idea how to pay the "Kiraniwala" the accumulated bills for the last two months. In the face of all the troubles and cares of everyday life, there is a will and simple determination that resurfaces everyday and makes light of it all.The feeling is infectious. So when your bus is stranded in the middle of a flood you all get down for a "Batata Vada treat". When you are stranded in the middle of two stations in a crowded train, you sing tuneless Antakshari with strangers. "Bindaas rehneka".

"Paka mat re!" Don’t bug me. That’s a blunt one. Straightforward and to the point. There is no nice of way of putting it. If someone is getting on your nerves, if even your best friend is ranting about some non-descript event which you have no interest in, just let him know. Hypocrisy hurts only you. "Paka Mat re!"

"Vaanda nahin". No trouble. That’s a generous one. You might have inconvenienced someone, stood up someone, kept him waiting, kept him guessing, but he knows there is no use in harping about it. It might have been the traffic, the bad monsoon, the train delay, a last minute errand or just that you were not in the mood. You didn’t mean it and he knows. So let’s get on with our lives buddy. "Vaanda Nahin"

"Teri to phat gayi." You are in trouble. That’s a direct one. People could say this and burst into boisterous laughter in response to your admitting you have a problem with your girlfriend or that your dad caught you zooming away with your boyfriend. It’s not about laughing at you, it’s about laughing with you at the situation. After that they can help you come up with a strategy to deal with your predicament, but right now they will all take a break and have a good laugh. "Teri to phat gayi!"

"Chalta hai". That’s a philosophical one. Don’t sweat the small stuff. You may not have the best evening wear for the unanticipated party, you may have not been able to find time to buy your friend the gift you promised and intended to get, you may have not made it to the finals in the intercollegiate youth festival dance. It doesn’t matter. Clothes are not your personality. Friendship is not about getting gifts. Competition is not about winning. Don’t sweat the small stuff. "Chalta hai".

The purpose of a language is communication. Though every language does communicate, there is a something unique in each language that communicates and speaks to the heart differently. To me Mumbaiyya has not just been the language of my childhood and youth, it is a language of honesty and an indomitable spirit of life. So that’s how it is. The language may not have retained the dignity or the purity or the beauty in it. Yet it picked up more than what it lost. It picked up a flavor, a character, a personality. That’s how it is. "Mumbaiyya aisaich hai"

Till we connect again...

View and Post comment on this article