How I got my first pauti

Ta da!

I got my first pauti* last Saturday. (*pauti – receipt in Marathi – slang term for the receipt you get when you pay the fine for a traffic violation.)

On my way back from the first free servicing of my new Honda Activa, I rode out of a one-way street into the waiting clutches of a constable who immediately seized my licence to ride. He asked more questions than all my interviewers in the past. He wanted to know if I had all the papers, who owned the vehicle, where I stayed, why then my licence said ‘Ambarnath’ and so on…all in an authoritarian tone, I think, they teach you in cop school. He wrote all of this down meticulously in Marathi in his tiny notebook.

I have always been terrified of landing into one of these soups. I was trying to be cool and all that. The mention of ‘Ambarnath’ had a kind of effect on him I wasn’t expecting. He looked like he knew the place. Apparently he used to visit the place often, since he used to live in Vithalwadi. I used to live in Vithalwadi too, I tell him. Where? He inquires and then proceeds to tell me where his house was. Genuinely surprised, I let him know that we might have been neighbours decades ago.

Fifteen minutes have passed in this unlikely catch-up. He asks me if I know where the Chembur Police Station is. That’s where I must go to pay the fine to release my licence and get the receipt. I told him I had no idea where his office is. He said he’ll accompany me there so I could pay the fine. But then he’ll have to vacate his spot. The solution is to call the beat marshals doing the rounds in the area and ask them to accompany me.

While we wait for the, this guy must be wondering why I’m not in a hurry at all for he says to himself, “Aapko chhuti hoyega Saturday Sunday.” I nod. “Aapko late ho raha hai toh aap jao. Mereko fine de do. Main bhar dega.” I ask if I can then collect the receipt from the police station later. He looks me in the eye and pauses for a few seconds and calls the beat marshals again, telling them that they must be motherfuckers to be keeping him waiting for so long.

Soon enough, they arrive. But they don’t want to accompany a no-entry guy to a police station. Too measly. It is decided that the cop who caught me will accompany me riding pillion while the beat cops will stand in his spot. I relent.

On the way to the police station (riding against the traffic with my upper and dipper alternating and me beeping) he tells me Chheda Nagar is full of ‘tumhaare log’ meaning ‘your people’. I think he means south Indians. ‘South ka log gentleman hota hai,’ he observes. I immediately seize the opportunity to picture myself in a 3-piece suit.

Thankfully, I haven’t had the need to visit a police station. I’d been pally with the cops at Ambarnath Police Station because I would frequent it to plant trees for them. This was to be my first tryst with Mumbai Police. I saw a few Singham types (lean and built, with moustaches they seemed proud to sport) and a few who looked like they were imitating Ashok Saraf playing a constable. A cop in uniform was hanging up his regular clothes he had just arrived in. While I was being charged Rs. 200 for riding into a no-entry street, I was amused at how a cop station was nothing but an office – a workplace for these hardworking people. The inspector who was writing my receipt seemed a wee bit annoyed that the constable had brought me right when he was planning to leave for home. That explains why my name on the receipt looks like it plans to escape from the paper.

Licence retrieved and fine paid, the constable hops back on my vehicle. As promised, I am to drop him off at his spot.

‘Sorry haan, mein aapko pakda,’ he says.

I am amused. I tell him he’s just doing his job and wonder aloud as to why he was being apologetic for it.

‘Nahi mereko maloom nahi tha aap gentleman hai,’ he says.

I laugh, awkward at what that is supposed to mean.

He then proceeds to explain that he couldn’t have torn my details from his notebook because then his seniors will find out about it and cause a scene. Apparently every page in a traffic cop’s notebook is accounted for.

I drop him off at his spot and we shake hands dramatically.

And that, kids, is the story of how I got my first pauti.

Instant photo, bees rupya

I have a theory. If you visit the Gateway of India on a Sunday or on a public holiday, you will easily appear in at least a thousand pictures. People click pictures on their phones, smartphones, tablets and cameras both compact and DSLRs. Among those using the DSLR cameras are the 300 odd photographers who'll give you a piece of your memory for twenty rupees a print.

When I last visited the Gateway, I was struck by a thought. These photographers click everyone. No one clicks these photographers. I tell this to M.K. Das, one of the many photographers. He laughs. Quickly, he finds someone to click us. 

With Mr. M.K. Das

I reached the Gateway today, armed with my Nikon Coolpix and a random set of questions, hardly a questionnaire. The objective was to catch these memory-makers in action, talk to them and know who they are.

It wasn't easy to get them talking, especially on a Sunday. Today is when the monument gets the maximum footfalls. A good day for business. I overheard two photographers discussing how there are more locals than tourists today. Not so good a business day then.

Das has been clicking tourists here since '88 when he was twenty. He roars with laughter when I tell him I was born in 1986. An average working day begins at 11 and ends with daylight at 8, the last few frames aided by the yellow beam on the heritage structure. 

With Mr. Tulsi Rai

I talk to Tulsi Rai who's been clicking at the Gateway for 15 years. Where's he from? He takes a bit to respond, Jharkhand. I made a mental note to avoid similar questions at the very beginning of the conversation. Both Mukes (M.K. Das) and I are from the same village in Jharkhand. I tell him about my photographer-clicking spree. He smiles and nods and gets another photographer to click us. Does he do only this? Rai works in a pub sometimes, clicking at their events. He gets a hundred rupees per photo there.

How did he end up here? There were relatives in Bombay. I used to come here with them whenever I visited. Then one day, I just stayed back, Rai says.

Ranjit, sipping tea from a plastic cup approaches me with the usual sales pitch. Bolo sir, instant photo, bees rupya. I tell him I want a picture with him. He shakes his head and says Mein sirf apne biwi ke saath photo khichaata hoon. It was my turn to laugh. I raised my hand for a hi-five but he had the cup in one hand and an umbrella in another. He gave me a fist bump with the umbrella hand.

Babu saw me trying to talk to him into posing for a picture. Ranjit ran. Babu and I chased him and got this one. Win win situation. I got this picture. He did not pose.

Chasing Ranjit

On a good day, Rai says he makes an average of Rs. 450. Paisa kamaane ka apna apna line dhoondhna padta hai. I agree with him. I wish I could find mine. I ask Das if he manages to make a living with this money. Chal jaata hai, he says.

Maqsood came to the city 4-5 months ago after passing his tenth. He has to send money back home in Karimganj, near Silchar in Assam.

Maqsood

He lightens up when I tell him I was in Guwahati and Silchar last year. He lost his father. His maternal uncles work on boats at the Gateway, he says. Is that how he got here? There are more maamas here, photographers. Idhar sab maama hai he says.

What do I do? Das wants to know. I tell him I am a jobless writer. He nods knowingly and says he knew I was ‘something like that’. Apparently my questions gave me away. So you make stories. I nod, somewhat glad that he put it that way.

Many photographers like Fulesh (from Bihar) and Ranjit refused to be photographed. I don't know whether to file that under 'You are afraid of what you don't understand' or ‘the ghosts of past experiences.’

I'm glad some of these people spoke to me. I wish I could ask them more questions. They were busy and I was growing tired of walking in the rain. After spending around three hours clicking and talking with my flashy friends at the Gateway, I left for a late lunch.

P.S: Both Both Das and Rai refused to accept money. They said this is the first time someone thought of clicking them. Isko aap gipht samjho.

Some more clicks from today:

The poor man's bubble bath.

Their equivalent of a 'water-cooler' chat.

Families taking pains to convince their baby to look into the camera and smile.

This is how photographers have fun in their mundane job: Make tourists do stupid poses.

This is how photographers have fun in their mundane job: Make tourists do stupid poses.

Sometimes, they pose too.

The printer that has made 'photography' easy. Apparently, people who used to do 'monkey-business' have now become photographers.

The Grand Taj.

The End.

Would you live in a micro apartment?

Mumbai is an expensive city. While the cost of living is on a steady hike, it looks as if the price of real estate and the cost of transportation are on some kind of hallucinogen.

Let’s get practical. The stock of fossil fuels the world has is fast depleting. Those with money will continue to buy their share and more at whatever price, thus raising the average cost. Minimum fare for public transport and the price for all other commodities will subsequently rise.

Coming back to real estate. Till as long as people with money continue to buy property for the available rates, the rates will just remain skyrocketing. This is not even accounting for the demands for black money and things like that. There are people, newly married couples, buying 2,3 BHKs for a couple of crores.

Does a 20-something young couple need that much space? Hell, if you’ve grown up in such luxury and can still afford to replicate that, you are welcome to suit yourself.

I definitely don’t. My fiancee corroborates. Allow me to propose to you the idea of micro living or living with less.

Imagine a 300 sq. ft. flat. (A lot of ‘houses’ for the LIG or the Low Income Group that the MHADA builds are only as big as 225 sq. ft which often houses four and more members. (At the same time, unlike the elephant in the fridge joke). Don’t worry, you can also imagine an in-house toilet and a bathroom. The only other wall inside the apartment is mobile, which means it has a set of wheels at the top and bottom, by which you can move it from one of the room to the other. If you need more of the living room, push the mobile wall to the far end. If you need an extra room, keep the wall in the centre and put a mattress or an inflatable air bed there. Voila, spare bedroom! One side is obviously the kitchenette, with just enough to feed the two or an occasional four. I’ll bet that’s more space than you’ll need.

You are probably struggling to come up with disadvantages of a micro house but I would exhort you to push them aside while I tell you about the positives of living with less:

LESS SPACE TO COOL/LIGHT-UP

It’s only 300 sq. ft. which means it won’t cost you much to cool the entire space, if you want to. You won’t need more than a couple of CFL lights to light it up either. Moreover, green building techniques also suggest walls made of double-layered, durable fibre-glass that let in all the sunlight you’ll need during the day. All you need then are good blinds. You don’t want people on the road watching you have sex, but don’t let anything I say come between you and your kinks.

NO SPACE TO HORDE

You know you only have so much space which makes you think, “Do I really need this stuff?” which is good because you have more room for life and can also save money for that pending Ladakh trip!

And most importantly, which I’m the happiest about –

LESS SPACE TO CLEAN

I can imagine a lot of future fights with my wife about who’ll wash the dishes and who’ll clean the house with both of us wanting to do the latter.

I have a question for you. Given a chance, would you like to live in a micro apartment in Mumbai?