The rape of a city

When I first shifted to Mumbai I was only 5 and totally fascinated by the language, the local trains, the low flying aircrafts over my Chembur home and most of all the Arabian sea. We would visit Juhu beach as often as we could or else make do with an outing to Diamond garden in Chembur.

The househelps were always Maharashtrians wearing their sarees the traditional way and called bai. The machiwali was a Koli wearing chunky gold ornaments, shouting and abusing you if you tried to bargain for the fish. Every evening as soon as mummy gave permission (after completing the homework), we ran out to play in the large housing society. There were no slides or jhoolas, but we enjoyed the games of chor-police, I-spy and langadi.

Today this city has changed beyond recognition. The language you hear around is more likely to be bhojpuri than marathi. Your househelp is most likely a Bangladeshi immigrant from Dharavi. There are no machiwalis any more with their wicker baskets. Instead there are machiwala bhaiyas with their plastic tubs and diamond earrings quoting exorbitant rates for a small pomfret. There are gated communities with their high-end security systems and multi-storeyed parking lots; surrounded by the slums where their house-helps stay. The beach is choc-a-bloc with people, garbage and food-stalls and the sea is choking with the tonnes of sewage the city pours into it everyday. Whatever we humans set out to do to this little island city, we have been thorough with it.