Musings about Bombay

I arrived at Victoria Terminus (now Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus) around midnight in 1979 with all the imagination and apprehension of a teenager about Bombay. There was hardly any sign of night even at that hour; the huge and bright streetlights were there to scare away the darkness. Local buses were still plying, and people were moving around. The beaming red-coloured, double-decker BEST buses running in a hurry were fascinating. I was totally amazed by the large, aesthetic historical buildings and wide roads. All this appeared as a dream to an eighteen-year-old coming from the small and quaint city of Dehradun.

It was a treat to experience the soothing touch of a cool sea breeze, observe the rhythmic movements of waves, their splashing among themselves, and listen to the rustle and thunder they emanated at the gateway of India. At times, the waves would rise high and splash the visitors, who would run helter-skelter to protect themselves. I also enjoyed walking along Marine Drive and watching the waves, in their playful mood, approach the shore and then recede at regular intervals. When the sea used to be a little angrier, the waves would roar and lash the surroundings with fury.

Once, I got a chance to visit a five-star hotel located beside the sea at Nariman Point. The view of its elegant, massive lobby with king-sized chandeliers dangling from the ceiling was mesmerising. It had huge glass panes on the exterior walls that provided a panoramic view of the Marine Drive, the Arabian Sea, and the distant Malabar Hill. The lobby appeared fairly close to my childhood fantasy about heaven. And there I had a glimpse of the famous artist M.F. Hussain, in his sixties, walking barefoot on the thick carpet with his arm around the shoulder of a charming young woman.

Traffic lights were a first-time experience for me, and these were not only meant for vehicles but also for pedestrians. And, once, while waiting for the green signal to cross the road near Churchgate, a car with a gentleman in a suit in the back seat stopped close to me. Our eyes met, and the gentleman smiled. The face and the smile appeared familiar, but before I could realise that the gentleman was the legendary actor Dilip Kumar, the car moved on.

I was impressed by the long-disciplined queues at bus stops, theatres, etc. and the way people reacted and shouted in unison if someone tried to jump the queue. Once, I saw about a 1 km-long serpentine queue for the James Bond film ‘The Spy Who Loved Me’. Similar was the case when a famous western rock band was about to hold a show.

I often wondered why other Indian cities do not have the queue system and how it developed in Mumbai. Recently, I read the autobiography of Morarji Desai, ‘The Story of My Life’, and got the answer. When Morarji Desai became Home Minister of Bombay province in the interim Congress government in 1946, he noticed the crowding and pushing at tram and bus stops. He posted two policemen at every busy stop and directed them to ensure that people formed queues and boarded the tram or bus in an orderly manner. People appreciated the initiative and, within a few days, started forming queues of their own. The system also spread to other fields of public life.

A simple initiative ingrained a civic sense among the people and is still being followed even after decades. It shows that if the leadership provides a just solution, it is followed by people.

Reading about this episode in the book rekindled wonderful memories of my 10-month stay in Mumbai.