Someday walk through the old city. City of Peshwas. Those funny sounding peths named after each day of the week. Preferably on a weekday. Preferably on typical office hours say 12-3 in the noon.That will filter out usually the chattering middle class and upper class. It is the time you find many unemployed-- willing away their time. At the paan shops. With sunglasses on. Latest style haircut and jeans. And they typically warm the seats of motorbikes adjusted on main-stand. Chewing paan and spitting out the red juice making a long spray painted design on road seems to be their favorite past time. And ogle at the girls walking by.
Walk through those filthy buildings called govt hospitals. Walk through their corridors. Feel the sick air. See the misery in the diseased eyes still showing some glimpses of hope of health. Breath in the medicines strong fume. Look through the paan-painted corners of the building. The chaos. The rush. They coexist with the laxity and laid back attitude of the hospital.
Out of repulse you are forced out. Walk through the narrow lanes. Battalion of bikes and cars that whisk you by. Listen to the different sounds. Beggars mendicancy. Hawkers call. Sharp spitting sound of rickshaw drivers.
Walk through the narrow alleys. The corners of which advertise in big banners, the arrival of a new "youth leader". You walk through the houses brimming with the underclasses. Those who work out in the sun. Whose bodies are tanned. Who smell grease, metal, sweat all mixed with strong gutkha. Metal works. Cycle repairs. Tyre works. Mechanics. Small half a meter by half meter tin sheds which pass as shops. You see those people with all grease and filmy-shiny grime all over the clothes. You see them sitting and doing nothing in the peak of afternoon sun. There is no customer. There is no fan. But a roof over. You see the aimless stare of their eyes -- trying to just let the time go by. Occasionally you hear Lata or Rafi's voice breaking through this cacophony, from some radio which remains the sole respite in all the oppression.
You see an old man with some motor disease --whose whole body is trembling as if trying to shrug off violently from his body; but still risks through the tsunami-of-vehicles at the traffic signal, just to beg for some alms.
Wander through those snaking roads. They lead you through even narrower alleys. Mostly Muslims live there. Ghetto you can say. Again mountains of filth and rivers of sewage flow through. But on both the banks stand decorated, with many a shrine devoted to myriads of gods.
