State of affairs
Kellogs in India is now advertising how it is 'anaaj', the Hindi word for Grains and food. Earlier when they came to India, they wanted to change how India eats breakfast. Not to mention the high sugar , salt and preservatives in all these packaged products.
Mothers have switched to stories like Cindrella and Red Riding Hood. No mention of the stories from Panchtantra, Ramayan and Mahabharat.
Mcdonalds is Indianising its menu further and so are lot of Pizza joints.
The Udupis are secure that people will keep coming back for more. The are concentrating on hygiene and consistency.
Mumbai being the second honest city in the world included the Marathi, the non Marathi and the North Indian migrant population. I am sounding such a fascist when I talk like this.
The festivities have put me in a space where I am okay with the way things are and the way they are not.
The priest or the Pandit is called Bhattji in Marathi. The priest who washes and cleans the small temple under the tree with one small idol knows when I bunk my Yoga class. He wants to know why I have not been coming.
The tea maker outside the mobile company office now waves at me on some days.
The man on the cycle selling toasts nods cheerfully at six thirty in the morning.
The Pan walla after sweeping the surroundings with the broom, puts Gathiya on the pavement for the crows to eat.
I know when some children are late for their school bus or are missing their school on certain days.
A nod here, a wave there and a smile somewhere, makes me realise that I am grateful to be alive. I am also grateful that my environment is alive. The same sights every day make me feel secure.
The trees which were cut pre monsoon have now grown back. I am happy to see the new leaves.
The rains are there in spells. Monsoons and Mumbai continue their long standing affair.
Mothers have switched to stories like Cindrella and Red Riding Hood. No mention of the stories from Panchtantra, Ramayan and Mahabharat.
Mcdonalds is Indianising its menu further and so are lot of Pizza joints.
The Udupis are secure that people will keep coming back for more. The are concentrating on hygiene and consistency.
Mumbai being the second honest city in the world included the Marathi, the non Marathi and the North Indian migrant population. I am sounding such a fascist when I talk like this.
The festivities have put me in a space where I am okay with the way things are and the way they are not.
The priest or the Pandit is called Bhattji in Marathi. The priest who washes and cleans the small temple under the tree with one small idol knows when I bunk my Yoga class. He wants to know why I have not been coming.
The tea maker outside the mobile company office now waves at me on some days.
The man on the cycle selling toasts nods cheerfully at six thirty in the morning.
The Pan walla after sweeping the surroundings with the broom, puts Gathiya on the pavement for the crows to eat.
I know when some children are late for their school bus or are missing their school on certain days.
A nod here, a wave there and a smile somewhere, makes me realise that I am grateful to be alive. I am also grateful that my environment is alive. The same sights every day make me feel secure.
The trees which were cut pre monsoon have now grown back. I am happy to see the new leaves.
The rains are there in spells. Monsoons and Mumbai continue their long standing affair.
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