Jhankar Beats

After being born in South Mumbai, and living off Marine Drive, it was a bit of a culture shock moving to the suburbs in North Mumbai after I got married. I knew practically nothing beyond Worli and the Haji Ali masjid in the middle of the sea, and the few forays made into the boon docks had been like an occasional picnic.

Fate is known for her cruelty, and I was back once more, close to the very place I had got lost in at age 2, in Juhu. Even at that time, downtown property prices were unaffordable. I could not believe people actually lived in Juhu full-time and big-time.

Culture shock because people were so darn different. I came down to earth with a thud that reverberated all the way back to Mahim Creek, the official divider of ‘them’ and ‘us’.

For one, most did not automatically speak in English, they spoke in Hindi. They did not have the townie spit and polish, either. The ones who did speak, invariably said things like, “What men, you bloody bugger you. I will tell my mudder and fadder your name, next time I won’t aks you to come for a flim wid me only”, and lived in places like Shirley Rajan Road in Bandra, with their mudders and fadders and Uncle Cedric.

The ones who tried vainly to break into English said things like, “Just off the fan, the chicken-bicken is getting thanda. Then fun won’t come”.

But my totally worst nightmare has been The Auto-rickshaws and their Drivers.
These guys rule in the suburbs. Not allowed beyond Mahim Creek, they take revenge by hurtling down suburbia, full throttle. Most look like they are in their teens and have bribed the RTO officer for a license.

On things about these guys. In traffic, they have to be first. And they are fearless and arrogant. If you are in a car, they will sneak alongside and butt in, in front of you. If they manage to get the snout in, the rest is easy. You, being more concerned about your precious car, will let them go.

Their chariots have names, proudly displayed on the rear. Pinkal, Jeetu, Babban. There are also dedications like ‘Baby I luv U’, Don’t Kiss and Aai tujha aashirwaad’.

The insides are gaily decorated and festooned. And most have music blaring, with the same T series Jhankar beat … ‘dhinchak, dhinchak, dhinchak’. If you ask them to switch it off, they actually get offended, they thought they were giving you a good time. But its too much to listen to Jhankar while being thrown all over the back seat and trying to hang on for dear life.

It’s been some time, and I am still not used to all this.
I want to go home.