Skip to main content

The Fly Over




     Stepping down the bridge of Parel railway station.As i walk on i pass by a tied up cow and people touch its butt and place their hands on their eyes ignoring its pissing.A weight machine,atm, chapal shops, bhajji shops, a small open temple all pass by.Then as i pass by a bridge casting its shadow beneath i enter the minislum.Each house seems to have a tail, as a water hose peeps out of their doors.The inmates bathe,wash clothes and utensils on the open using the water from this tail.Houses are placed like matchboxes with two toilets at the ends for the entire household.Then i cross a road bearing a FlyOver to enter the campus where my office is.

When the sun looks from the east...

     I work on shifts, sometimes on morning shift,few times on general shift and mostly on afternoon shift.During my morning shift as i cross this FlyOver,a filthy dressed kid cleans the area with a broomstick beneath the FlyOver as if she is cleaning her own home.Few metres away from her another filthy kid does the same.The area between two of the basements supporting the FlyOver is their home.Even the beauty of small kids is hidden by their filthy attire.They look abhorring.Stoves burn with their morning food getting prepared.One kid kicks another one with its leg and is having fun.A few adults are still sleeping both on the round basement supporting the FlyOver and on the floor.They have no home or may be the world is their home,bigger than any of ours.Our apartments are too small.Every home is a deep hole digged inside a wall closed by a door.The door has a hole too to check who is knocking at our door.Back in my town though houses have doors and they are closed only during night time when sleep knocks in.During the day time,anyone walking by can say which which TV shows they watch,who the new inmates in the home are and even what their today's preparation for meal is.


When the sun stays on top....

           Its afternoon shift.Still some prefer sleeping as they have no office to attend to.The kids are still having fun.No meal is getting prepared now.May be 'Food should be eaten 3 times a day' is a false assumption.For my afternoon  meal, the waiter at SriKrishna hotel hands me a menu card.I am confused as to which food to order.Veg fried rice,Mushroom fired rice,Garlic fried rice,Ginger fried rice,Dhal kichidi,Naan,rotti,chappathi,puri,dhosa(with its own different versions),idli sambar(idli seperate with sambar),sambar idli(idli dipped in sambar),south indian thali,punjabi thali and so on.I go with dhal kichidi as usual


When the sun handles the baton to the moon...

                It is raining.The FlyOver inmates still prefer to sleep on the floor beneath the FlyOver and on the basement supporting the FlyOver since they do not have any other choice.They are covering themselves with thick cloth which appears like sack material.A baby brushes her hands on her mothers neck making sure she is sleeping nearby.Another baby is covered in a similar sack cloth with  its head alone popping out.It  looks like a doll, filthy though.Rain drops drizzling is ignored.The noise of vehicles passing by is muted.They are sleeping peacefully.A girl sleeping on the basement sees me passing by.As i notice her glaring, she puts her head inside the sack cloth.

This is a daily scene,the same video played back everyday.

When will they get out of this FlyOver?

May be,

When the fly over their filthy clothes chooses to fly over the Fly Over.


                                                    January 1997, Karna's diary


-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

January 2016, Balu's blog



                                  I took my first ride on Parel FlyOver today.It gave me goosebumps.I had spent my first 5 years of life under flyovers, the last one of which under this one. A gentle man decided to become a good samaritan 19 years back while on his way to work under this FlyOver.

                                On February 2002, he adopted me from my FlyOver parents and gave me this life. He gave me education which gave me a job which gave the bike i took to ride over this FlyOver.My life has been lifted one FlyOver high.As i rode i felt like visiting my first home. I rode down the flyover and parked my bike near it.

 A new family had occupied the place obviously. They looked filthy:their clothes,their faces,their plates,their everything.I heard the stories the FlyOver had witnessed since my departure.

The family has a father who pastes cinema posters, a mother - an entrepreneur selling brooms, a grandma ,one girl and a small boy kid.

It was two girls before, one of them had died when a drunkard truck driver drove beneath the fly over one rainy night. The family witnessed the accident right before their eyes,the grandma said in a cold tone.The other girl too often gets molested she said. It was their daily lot.

As i heard their stories the girl offered me tea in a plastic cup. I wondered if i could drink it and that hesitation pricked my conscience.I finally took it with the girls smile.She then retreated to washing vessels.

"We need a ration card" the man said showing me the photographs and identity documents he had prepared to apply for one. It was a card offering hope for his family.

Life is unfair. I realized how lucky i was to get over the fly over. My father once told me that on the day he decided to adopt me , i stared at him for so long so innocently that he couldn't help but come near. I then asked him

"Have you gone above this FlyOver ever?"

My father replied "Yes i have"

I then asked "Do you know how to get over the FlyOver?"

He showed me the way , albeit a permanent one.


As i finished recreating that scene in my mind the small kid who until then was playing on a makeshift cradle came to me and asked

"Where are you coming from?"

I replied "From above the FlyOver"

He joked back "From above the FlyOver to below the FlyOver?"

and then asked me
"Will you take me over the FlyOver?"

Comments

Post a Comment

Your feedbacks here...

Popular posts from this blog

The Lift

Good Morning.Welcome to Sizza plaza,You are on Ground Floor                            Gengu pressed on button 12 and as the lift door was closing ,his taste for design made him wonder, at the alternate possibilities of arranging the lift button panel.  Why is it not outside the lift?  Could there be a better design for this? He mentally calculated the pluses and minuses of different arrangements. Gengu works in an advertising agency.His job is to woo customers through his creative ads and make them want things whether they really want it or not.Despite the creative nature of his job, he felt it monotonus.It didnot satify his creative spirits. He wants to be an artist and create things in his own way. His corporate life started everyday in this lift. The eerie silence in the small metal room , the possibility of strangers standing together ,something  impossible for the major part of human life time, triggered his curios mind and tickled it with wonder. He al

The Writer's Story

                          It was a lazy Sunday Afternoon. Crows cawed, the sun smiled warmly, vehicles horned occasionally, life seemed to be still. Smitran Ragubat was having an afternoon nap, a tool he used to de-stress and shut down the noise in his head often. Twenty weeks had passed since he published his last story. His publisher was putting pressure on him to come up with one for the magazine he worked for.He wondered if the muse had left him and he is no more a writer. Afternoon naps have often served him good, flushing his brain and making it empty for ideas to pour in. And then his alarm rang. Smitran Ragubat woke up and went for a walk. He took tea from a roadside shop , contemplating on the way for an idea for his next story. As he walked back to his home, an idea came out of the blue. "I will walk back and meet a person, a stranger. I will earn the person's trust and ask their life's story and publish it with their permission" he thought. H