The Color of Fun

Knock. Knock. Knock.

V was knocking on my door. And M’s. V and C used to live on the fifth floor. S uncle on the sixth, and he usually started the proceedings. So, they start from flat 606, knocking on each door as they come down. I was put up on fourth.  And M was my immediate neighbor. As soon as I opened the door, I was green in my face. Quite literally. My dad and mom were red. Y’s mom on third floor wanted her son to be left alone. It was his board exams and I realized my mom would be speaking the same lines next year. All of us moved on.

We had a long corridor and it allowed us to form fine trajectories with our balloons. The ones filled previous night and the ones that survived their downfall from the 7th floor over the past one week. K’s throws on the second floor were the most lethal ones. K was never a sport. He used to be the only one to insist the kids call him bhaiyya. And the only one to yell at the kid when the poor thing wouldn’t take V’s wicket. The kid was 8 and V, 19  then.The P sisters lived on second floor too. The P sisters were the cutest and sweetest sisters. And turns out, they still are, as I found out last week.

The plan was to head to Decor after leaving the kids with their pichkaris. The way was filled with usual spotting. Got introduced to N’s sister, having no way to figure out how she actually looks. And meeting that girl from Mithibhai who was one of the serious victims of our balloons day before. M noted that she was considered to be the queen of Mithibai. Thank God, I did not go to Mithibai, I had said to myself.

The usual floor by floor visit happened in Decor too. There were the funny brothers with very interesting anecdotes, that deserve a post of their own, the maverick Aks and the little S, my nemesis A and couple of also rans. So A was the only one to join us in the next stop at Karthik. Now this was a long walk, through Lokhandwala Complex and, for A, the most interesting one. He would stop at Embassy to meet the queen of Bhavans(yeah, our neighborhood was cool like that), then a couple more at Ascot and Sunrise. On the way, the waiters at Mcdonalds and Dominos have to put up with our smearings and love.

The folks at Karthik had a lot of water. It used to gush out from the endless tubes running all across the dirty, wet concrete badminton court. You usually had no idea who was playing with you and who you were playing with. Whether it was the aunty or was it the daughter. Was it your dad’s manager or was it the watchman. These questions, though valid, never passed through your mind. It was Holi, and that’s all you cared about. And of course, it was time for revenge.

“Adi, that guy over there, seedha paanch balloons, aankh pe”, shouted C from the other end of the court. “Kaun Hai?”, I wanted to know the motive. “That’s R, jisne V ko caught and bowled kiya thaa. Yaad hai? Finals, Juhu wale tournament mein”, remembered C.

“Aah!”, I realized, picking up two balloons from the bucket and stood up. Whack! Pow! Thump! I was out cold, and there was a small fear, if I had just lost an eye.

V got married earlier this year. A is somewhere in Kolkata. I have no idea where M is. I think C does. C is in Hyderabad, designing graphics for films like Evan Almighty, The Hulk among others. I still have the picture of M, V, myself and our then watchman, Singh, that my mom clicked on the terrace. All of us in a collage of colors from head to toe, completely disfigured and unrecognizable. No wonder, Holi is the festival, I miss the most.

Appalling..

Two things.

Read this.

Oh my God, what are we doing to ourselves? This is not what we splash across every hoarding, every public service announcement, every movie and what not. We are supposed to be this “people of different cultures and languages living together”. Remember? It’s amazing how one man’s silence had given us freedom and one man’s pointless words can cause destruction within.

And now, what crap is this woman talking? Is she sure of anything at all? I don’t even know why she is being asked these questions, anyway!

I never saw this day coming. I am actually ashamed of Bombay. There you have it.

I hope these wounds are not permanent.

(Those Bombay bashing people need not jump at this opportunity to leave spiteful comments. It will only make yourself feel stupid later)

Revisiting Busybee

Do you remember the late Behram Contractor? No? Or will you remember if I say, Busybee?

I was not a keen follower of his columns but I read about him and later his columns, from the collection published as Busybee. I remember, Arjun was the one who introduced them to me. He had all the books. They were published in a few volumes. This was around my ninth or tenth.

I loved his writing. Very simple, elegant, straight from the heart writing of an old school journalist. I even remember a few articles. There was one about Hema and Murli Deora, one about the character of Sachin Tendulkar and how even Azharuddin smiled when Sachin garnered all the publicity. The ones on cricket, especially India vs Pakistan matches. There was a very funny take on Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things. The “Eating Out” section reviewing the various restaurants of Bombay. I finished all the volumes as if I was reading some thriller. The articles he wrote about Bombay were probably the best.

I suddenly came across his name somewhere and did a quick Google search only to stumble on this site.

http://www.busybeeforever.com/default.htm

Simply brilliant. I am rereading all the articles and they are such unadulterated joy back alive from those days.