i am the BEST

Isn’t his tee-shirt absolutely fab? It’s Bambaiyya in a way that nothing else starts to match.For the uninitiated, BEST, an acronym for Brihanmumbai Electric Supply and Transport, runs the Mumbai bus system. Every bus carries the BEST logo in Hindi, in white inside an oval white patch, painted on the side of the bright red bus. It’s one of Mumbai’s most recognizable logos.

The BEST man's tee-shirt

The good news is that Neil is himself a designer and retails his creations from his website. Do drop into his place if you’d like to carry forward his style. Or as I’d like to call it, Neil’s I Style!

Update: The full form of BEST has been corrected (thank you, Peter!). Much apologies for the error; I can only blame it on the 4a.m. posting.

Having put out an ‘official’ call on Twitter, I know I really should have been at the venue by the stipulated 8a.m. but I plead a swine flu scare which made me stay in bed with the sniffles till afternoon. Thankfully for me, my dear Aditya shook me out of my hypochondriacal stupor with a,

You really don’t know what you’re missing! Take care of yourself and I hope you feel better soon.

Hain! Such things could not be endured so like a flash we were out of bed and chugging our way to Mahim station. Since I got there only half-way through the day, I missed picking out one of the early spots close to the station entrance. Still, I’d like to think that the quality of the paintings improve as you move from Mahim to Matunga. Heh, ‘my’ wall and those of my friends are nearly at the end, right next to Matunga Road station! ;-)

Moksh planted...err, painted...trees. Simple, detailed and lovely.

The BMC had provided paints, brushes and thoughtfully, a tanker full of water to splash up. On Day 1, I even managed to get a lift from them from the station, all the way down to my wall. Aditya, Rehab, Spitphyre and Vagrant Seeker had been already and created their colourful collage, replete with Twitter ids. They also very thoughtfully helped me start up my first wall project and left me to fill in the end details.

Left to right: BMC guy, @wanderblah, @ideasmithy, @Spitphyre, @Adityab, BMC guy

Since the BMC came around to wrap up by around 5:30pm, I’m afraid it turned out to be a rather rushed job. The results can be seen on a pinky-pink wall with green swirly things and bleeding red eyes, almost opposite to the J&J building. I was gunning for a psychedelic design but I’m afraid it ended up being more kiddy crayoney.

Pink Psychedelia: My efforts at the end of Day 1

I also managed to carefully white-wash the wall on its immediate left, layering on the paint evenly. When the BMC guys took away my paints, I vowed to get back early the next day and start on the white wall.

If you're wondering why there's white in my hair, it's my swine-flu protection pushed up to double up as headband!

Rather unfortunately the next day too, my sleepy somnambulistic side surfaced and I ended up getting there only around noon (Aditya, stop laughing! You also turned up at exactly the same time!). To my grimacing-frowny dismay, the whitewashed wall had been taken over by a family. What’s more, my carefully even-toned whitewash was being covered meticulously by layer over layer of blue-black. Ah well, I cut my losses and decided to look for another wall further up.

Happily I bumped into Shawn, Wanderblah, Jayant, Spitphyre, Aniceto and Jai at the end of the road. The corner after the tree seemed to become ‘ours’ as we set up our mini-studio there, piling up our backpacks onto the carriers of the taxis close by and painting the adjacent walls. We were joined in the middle of the day by Ashwin, Princila and Sayan. Princila took up the brush to paint a little something right under my painting. She says it’s a man being splashed with paint but I personally think it looks like a guy running away from the spotlight…which inspired me to spray an ‘AnonyMouse’ next to it.

I never imagined painting a wall could be so much fun and I realize in retrospect that it was only because it was such a community event. None of my art classes or solo ventures have been as thrilling as the weekend I spent with these amazing guys. We poked fun at each other’s artwork, we photographed together and each other in weird poses (and continue to leave silly comments on each other’s FB albums), we shared paints and brushes, we mixed up our ideas and added to each other’s work. It was such a lovely, brilliant day!

Top l-r: Jai, Spitphyre, Adityab, Wanderblah. Bottom: Ideasmith, Shawn

We also received our 10 seconds of fame when Aparna brought in an interview on UTVi (aired yesterday and to be repeated on the weekend; youtube video to be linked shortly). Their anchor was very prettily (and somewhat unsuitably) dressed in a lavender formal shirt, wherein she borrowed my paint-streaked apron (already smuggled out of mum’s kitchen). That’s the one that you see on her in the video. :D

With @Spitphyre, being interviewed on UTVi for a TechTree segment.

There was a spot of unpleasantness when we tussled for the plastic stool and spray paint cans with our neighbors, one of whom left after uttering a diabolical statement that the paintings may not be around the next day.

But the ickiest part of the day wasn’t the mean neighbors or the blue-paint which turned out to be a shitty brown. It was the attack of the Twitter vandals. If you’ve been around on the Twitterverse, you’ll know who I’m talking about. I’m rather embarrassed to admit that I invited the leader of that gang to visit the wall and join us in the project, earlier in the day. Of course I had no way of knowing that his version of contributing to The Wall Project would be to spray-paint his own name on other people’s good work, mess around with some really fantastic paintings, take stupid dirty photos of the wall and finally to add insult to injury, tweet that,

We’re done desecrating the wall project.

I’m embarrassed to say that I know this man. Most of the tweeple who were around that day have unfollowed the vandals in question. The leader of that gang has since initiated a ‘clean-up’ effort and accordingly tweeted pictures of his effort. But as far as I’m concerned, I’m left with a the thought that,

That’s just uncool. Only for losers, dude.

‘Nuff said.

The highlight of our day was the Twitter wall that we painted in our far corner. One panel was painstakingly painted shiny blue (we couldn’t get the pale sky blue of Twitter) long after everyone else had packed up. And then we recreated a Twitter timeline with actual tweets from the gang that was there. I’m so proud of us for this one guys, you all rock!

Though the Project spanned only two days, people are still talking about it. There’s newpapers, the TV interview and loads and loads of photographs circulating on Facebook and discussions still happening. Yes, the BMC may have pulled a Tom Sawyer on us but what the hell, it was fun, wasn’t it (aching bones notwithstanding)?!

Hidden Tiger, Crouching @adityab

Painting @krist0ph3r's face. Don't miss his expression!

DangerMouse on the divider

Aniceto with Jai. Aditya in the background making big eyes.

And here are the results of the brilliant efforts of the wonderful people I was with.

Spitphyre's fairytale

Shawn's SCREAM

Wanderblah and Jhayu doing their crazy thing!

@adityab's Space Wars

And here’s my piece de resistance (I hope that was used in the right context *gulp*) – my own wall!!! **DRUM ROLL**

Here’s the chess board representing order and structure, being ripped apart by a hand (whose model was a street kid called Sultan). A conversation with Sultan resulted in the painting of a crown and then a king who looked like a queen. Hence that’s the Red Queen looking very happy over the breakdown of order.

It's a honour, a high honour you see, to have tea with the Red Queen and me! - Alice in Wonderland

And finally, the resultant chaos, also known as the hungama inside my head or as you know it – theideasmithy.com. TADA!!! Incidently I stand accused of using up half of BMC’s paint supplies on one wall. I’ve also been diagnosed by the God of Gas as suffering from a disorder that makes me scared of blank spaces in art. Ah, mea culpa. See for yourself -

You can also see Princila's paint-splash guy on the lower panel. AnonyMouse is yet to be added.

Incidentally I rode down to Tulsi Pipe Road the next night because I just couldn’t resist taking one more look. While all the other paintings in our corner were intact and looking quite brilliant in the night, I was most dismayed to find that Setto’s imaginative pink piggy in a suit had been splashed with a dab of red paint running down from the pig’s nose. Agitated, I spoke to him and told him about it. I was quite unprepared to hear him chuckle and say that he wished he had been there when it was done, he’d have shot a video. I asked him how he could possibly feel that way, I felt so bad when I saw it vandalized. Very wisely and oh so cooly he replied,

Hmmm… its graffiti. You know the fact someone did that makes me happy, coz that was what the party needed. Something unorganized…chaotic…the whole scene was too much like a ’slumming’ party. Whoever did that is adding another layer to the image..and whoever follows him is doing so too.

Hmm, I wonder who the inspiration for the piggy face was...

Hmm, that’s food for thought. That is what street art is about I guess. And that’s what this city is about. Layers over layers. Colour and cheating, fights and fun, friends and vandals, silliness and talent. It’s just Mumbai.

Some other posts about the Wall Project:

Jhayu – “On Dirty Walls, Sundays and Stained Fingers”

Punk Polka Dots – “When India Takes 2 Steps Forward..”

Aditya (on Facebook Notes) – “Food, Drink, Writing And The Wall Project”

Deepa – “The Wall Project August 15, 2009″

*All the photographs in this piece have been taken by Wanderblah, Jhayu, Spitphyre and Aditya.

Am I? Each time I write something serious about the city, I’m reminded of a friend bitching about the ultra-intellectual types who eat at McDonalds and come out and talk about the poor people in the country. Am I one of them? Does the city give you a choice, surrounded as you are with surreal constrasts?

Here’s something I spotted a couple of weeks ago in the wee hours of the morning. Presumably the store is one of the many designer boutiques that dot the fashionable area of Juhu. Do they know that at night, their porch turns into a bedroom? Perhaps they do, considering our man has a pseudo-four-poster bed with a mosquito net tied into corners. And the faithful guard lies in waiting, a few feet away.

In the middle of this melancholic week, I don’t find cheer even in my favorite streetside philosophers. Today’s autorickshaw spotting reminds me that this city runs on money, money, money.

Maal hain to mohabbat hain (If you’ve got money, you’ve got love)

If you’re wondering what the word ’surreal’ means outside of a Dali painting, you know where to look it up, now. What’s left for me to say?

Further down I meet an uncle in black shots and striped t-shirt who was on his daily morning walk helps me to the right direction and even offers to walk with me. Amidst old builds with rotten wooden balconies on which long cotton sarees and faded bed sheets are hung to dry an abrupt turn take me inside a small lane. As I enter the lane I immediately feel as though I have entered a movie set. The entire place is disconnected from the chaos outside. It’s a different world out here. I can’t see many people out in the lanes except for the one paavwaala and the macchwaali. Sunday Eight o’clock is still eagerly for people here. It truly feels like a Sunday. This is Kotachi Wadi

Khotachiwadi is a heritage village in Girgaon, Mumbai, India. Houses built are made from the old-Portuguese style architecture.

It was founded in the late 18th century by Khot,a Pathare prabhu, who sold plots of land to local East Indian families. There used to be 65 of these houses, now reduced to 28 as old buildings are being pulled down to make way for new skyscrapers. -Wiki

It seems like a spec of Goa has fell right in the middle of Mumbai hustle bustle. I am a bit amazed that there Mumbai has beautiful tiny cottages amidst the concrete jungle. Houses have verandahs (let me see when was the last time I saw a house with a verandah….ding ding ding not in Mumbai until now). Even the space in front of the gate is decorated with bright mango tile chips, tree barks, stones and huge wooden urns. The bright colors on the walls, old-Portuguese style architecture, wooden framed balconies and the bougainvillea fences truly makes this place a photographers delight.

Traffic was light as it has been since Wednesday night, even for a Sunday afternoon/evening. Even so, the journey took us a half and hour either way. We passed shops that were open, people out for a stroll with their families, cars driving down…but there was an air of barely concealed tension. I had my camera out for the better part of the journey and I know I drew some curious (and not necessarily friendly) glances from the other cars. In case you’re wondering what an atmosphere of terror looks like, come to Mumbai right now.

The photos I took today of Mumbai in post-terror trauma….

Here’s the media jumping onto the sympathy-brand visibility bandwagon, over the Western Express flyover. DNA asks…

Spirit of Mumbai
FOR HOW LONG?

Siddhivinayak looks quite empty by its usual standards. To my god-fearing friend I asked,

So much security for bhagwan. What happens to the bhagwan ke bhakt who’re getting blasted?

As we pulled into town, the Marine drive, a view I usually wait for since its so breath-taking and which causes me immediately to wince since its packed with people – the Marine drive was empty save for a few stragglers. On our way back though we did see a number of people carrying placards and signs of the ‘Stand up and speak, Mumbai’ variety. No photographs of that, I’m afraid. The light gave out and so did my spirit.

A number of places we passed had signboards and hoardings recalling the bravery of those who fell. Not Just Jazz By the Bay had a very simple white cloth banner with just their names. Nothing more required. Every Mumbaiker’s heart speaks the same story right now. May our brave heroes rest in peace.

The Oberoi Trident, beamed into all our households as a backdrop to Barkha Dutt (”Oh, there goes another blast! I just heard more gunfire!”) loomed in sight. It was strange how normal it felt. Just like any other day on the road, just another high-rise building to pass in town. It is indeed strange how quickly the mind wants to forget what it is horrified by. But I force myself to remember the hostages, the firing, the massacre, the blasts and the final shots of the survivors exiting. Mumbai must not forget this horror, this indignity.

And finally, the centerstage of the terror. Colaba Causeway was shut to incoming traffic so we walked in, passing Cafe Mondegar (an equally popular cafe as Leopold’s) on the way. Now on any normal day, this photograph would not have been possible since there’d be traffic zooming right through where I stood. What’s more, that shot wouldn’t have appeared either, clogged as it usually is with the pub regulars.

Today though, whatever crowd there was, was concentrated up ahead. Leopold’s Cafe, its owners said would open very quickly even if its customers took some time to start feeling safe enough to visit again. It turns out they did open this morning but had to shut shop because there was too much crowd. Mumbai, I’d say you amaze me, if I did have any emotion left to feel.

The TV crews were still parked outside and around Leopold’s though mercifully we didn’t see scores of reporters jostling for soundbytes. I guess even media-hounds need their rest and thank heaves for that.

And last of all, the Taj Mahal hotel. We couldn’t get too close as it was cordoned off. Here’s the closest I could get to it, relying on my camera’s zoom. This was shot from Colaba Causeway, in the lane next to Leopold’s.

Since we couldn’t congregate at Leopold’s as per the original plan, we went into Cafe Mondegar. Slowly, bitterly, unwilling as it may be, Mumbai limps back to life.

On our way back, we saw the Peace March begin, people walking with candles.

Then we landed on the news channel band. And there it stayed and hasn’t moved since.

Of course we started watching something described as a gang war. This built up into a chase behind the elusive truth of what was happening, trying to piece together the tracks of someone (some people?) who’d turned up at C.S.T. station with guns, popped up five minutes later at the Taj Mahal hotel and then apparently transmogrified a few meters away at the Oberoi/Trident. Abrupt cut to assemble a whole lot of other details.

Nariman House

Grant Road station

Rubber boats

AK47

Vileparle

Dockyard

Stolen Skoda

JJ School of Art

RDX

Hijacked police van

It was well past 1 am before I realized I hadn’t budged from the seat in front of the television set. In those three hours we’d absorbed and internalized all the starting details and figured out enough to relay them to others. By 2:30 am, I was tweeting away, weaving myself intricately into the drama that the whole city, a few minutes later the whole country and within a few hours the whole world would become a part of.

Well past 3:30am I collapsed into bed from sheer exhaustion. Emotional roller-coasters are tiring and I’d been riding for over 5 hours nonstop.

I awoke four hours later and for a virginal 20 seconds, my consciousness was devoid of any sensation. Then I remembered and raced to the living room where the television was already on. I’m not normally a TV person, even less in the morning and I only meant to get a fix on the day’s situation to take a call on going to work or not. I looked away ten minutes later to find four hours had passed.

The day is otherwise a blur to me. I don’t remember eating or sleeping. But I do remember flipping channels when one started going on a loop and finding another angle on the story within a fraction of a second. I remember phone calls and left-hand-typing SMSes with the right hand tapping out on the TV remote control. I remember watching a video shot on a cellphone, reading the ticker text at the bottom of the screen, listening to my caller at the other end and relaying a super-quick analysis of it all to my family. I remember tweeting, retweeting, replying, reading tweets, following tweeple and all of it on that woefully inadequate application called m.twitter on my superslow GPRS connection. I remember shifting into gmail every couple of hours for quick checks and having to reload each time since the phone doesn’t allow for multiple windows. And I remember feeling enraged at my computer internet connection going down at such a time.

The day ended around midnight for my family as they retired with the news that the Taj Mahal hotel had been recovered. I stayed glued to the set and Twitter. When 45 minutes later, came the news that it had been a hasty wire and there was still unidentified gunfire coming out from Taj, I actually rushed back to wake everyone up. Finding them asleep, I hastened back to my couch-seat, unwilling to miss even a minute of the drama. My brain gave out at 4 am.

In this interim while I watched a panel discussion among semi-celebrities being intellectual and socialist about the attack.

I (with a number of other blogger/tweeters) panned the politicians and sneered at the PM’s address. I had a lump in my throat as I watched the minute-to-minute battles of the firemen, the cops and the NSG commandos.

I watched replays of the highlights of the feature like the firing from the police van, the interview with the Navy chief, the soundbytes from the British hostage who’d escaped.

I tsk-tsked at Barkha Dutt’s insensitive questions to the relatives waiting outside for their loved ones trapped in the buildings. I listened with an almost indecent glee to the frenzied statements by celebrities and the dead-toned voices of the junta on the roads.

I processed numbers of hostages, prisoners, casualties, terrorists, commandos and mulled over them all.

And I also contributed to the mass panic, the collective griping, the unified expression of support, the unanimous indignation. I dissolved into and became one with everyone around and outside the terror situation – the media; the social media.

This morning my frenzied participation was interrupted by having to get out to go to work. Even so, I found myself holding my phone camera ready to capture anything that might contribute to the drama. Zilch (mercifully, in retrospect). The minute I got to office and was connected, I was back. Twitter, email, blogs and the news streaming feeds kept us very much plugged into every nuance. With every fake rumor, we reverberated along with the collective panic in the city and breathed a synchronized sigh of relief when they were proven false.

This might have continued ad infinitum. After all, I can’t see any end in sight just yet. From what I hear, hostage situations in terrorism aren’t quick-and-dry deals and rather tend to drag out to exert pressure on both sides. But I spent an hour with a friend. Though our conversation started with our sharing our fears, our mutual outrage and our common jaded-by-now analysis of the situation….it gave way smoothly into the more mundane details of our daily lives, our own little soap operas.

And as I made my way home, I realized I was breathing smoothly for the first time in two days. Reality shows are tricky things. They’re interesting and engaging simply because of how well we identify with them, how involved we get with them. And we get our emotional adventures as we swing up and down and get rattled about by the situations we find ourselves in, by proxy. We connect and we’re thrilled to the bone. Yes, I said thrilled, not chilled. It’s an adrenalin rush.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m just as outraged by the indignity of fear perperated on us as a city and as a nation by a handful of terrorists. My heart still aches for the bravery of the people who fell defending us yesterday as it does for the broken people staggering out of the Taj, Nariman House and Trident. But I can’t stand anymore thrills from chills. I’m disconnecting from the most vivid reality show I’ve ever been a part of. This is too much reality for me and I’m ODing. I think I’d rather go live my own mundane, selfish little existence for little while just so I can survive. Enough, already.

Later this morning, there was a sudden buzz that a fresh round of firing had opened at C.S.T. station and that hostages had been taken. This turned out to be a false rumour. Apparantly someone had heard some noise that sounded to them like gunfire and panicked.

Just ten minutes back, I heard what sounded like a blast. I jumped but I ignored it. Two minutes later it was followed by another one. I looked up to see if anyone else had heard it. Apparantly no one else had. I was just debating whether to go back to my desk (in one corner of the office so I could have been the only one to hear it, being closest) or tell someone (and risk starting another panic wave). Upstairs someone else had heard it too and called us to check it out. We raced to the terrace, hearts thundering. It turned out to be nothing more than the daily workers going about their deed at the construction site next door. Whhhewwwww.

Yes, I’m very jumpy. I’ve been proud to be a Mumbaiker and faced bandhs, riots, bomb blasts, train explosions, bus stoning incidents, hostile weather conditions and various acts of local violence. All this and I got up matter-of-factly and went to work the next day, paying no more heed to my anxious relatives than I did to the nuisances of daily traffic. But this is different. Living in what seems to be unending terror, watching my own mind lose rationale and turn what it sees into wild fears is horrible.

And I’m angry. Very angry, on behalf of my city, the country if I may say so. This time, I swear, I don’t want to display the resilient Mumbai spirit. I just want to feel safe in my own home, goddammit! And that Mumbai is home to its largest tax-paying population seems to be no concern for the powers-that-be.

All through this horrific Thursday, while the city held its collective breath,
…while an unknown number of citizens were held prisoner by a small bunch of AK47-toting, RDX-weilding terrorists,
…while firemen battled the flames atop the Taj dome
…while commandos walked into certain danger
…while the police stood vigil and supportive, with nothing more to shield them than their khaki uniforms
…while mediapersons hovered around every location that could potentially turn dangerous (and got shot at as well) trying to make some sense of what was happening
…while hundreds of civilians hovered around, desperate for some news of their loved ones trapped within

…..while Mumbai’s heart stopped beating, what did our leaders do?

They presented a ‘dignified, unified front’ by condescending to agree with each other on condemning these blasts.
They performed the supreme sacrifice of having to tolerate each other’s company in travelling together to the city for a brief trip to show their faces to a few hospitals.
And they gave a speech or two.

The bitterest irony for me was when, towards evening the media, obviously running short of things to say, started airing ads as well. Right after our Prime Minister’s (highly insipid and uninspiring) speech, we heard the strains of ‘Pappu can’t dance sala’ modified to a demand to vote. Vote for whom?

I don’t quite know how to end this yet. The end isn’t in sight as yet. Last heard, the sanitising operation is still on at the attacked location. My colleagues who left early seem to have gotten home safe. But rumours are still rife. And the city is still holding its breath. We need life support systems, not resilient spirit anymore.

Here are a few pictures taken by yours truly :)