15 April,2011 08:54 AM IST | | Lindsay Pereira
There must be something valuable hidden under the streets of Mumbai. How else am I to explain the regularity with which the BMC's minions arrive for impromptu digs on the narrow stretch I live on, every second week?
They come without preamble, in groups of three or more, and shoddily proceed to tear up what earlier groups have unevenly smoothed out a few days before.
Piles of rubble on either side of the lane swell and dwindle every month. During the monsoon, the pits turn into makeshift homes for small animals. The digging and filling is of such abysmal quality that I sometimes wonder if incompetence is one of the prerequisites for employment at the BMC. Efficient workers must stick out like sore thumbs at that august institution.
Forced into the role of amateur trapeze artists, we weave in and out of gutters and potholes
Forced into the role of amateur trapeze artists, my neighbours weave in and out of gutters and potholes. Like them, I avoid hillocks of mud and head to the main road every morning. Once there, I wait until nine rickshaws refuse to take me to the railway station, before opting for a bus. The kilometre-long trip takes 35 minutes, on account of work involving the soon-to-be-open-in-2014-or-so Mumbai Metro. I am informed, via a badly painted signboard, that the Maharashtra State Road Development Corporation regrets the inconvenience.
At the station, the train is late; as it has been for the past 11 months. The Western Railway plays a recorded message, in three languages, informing me and 26,000 others on the platform that it regrets the inconvenience. Most residents of Mumbai can repeat the message fluently, in three languages.
When it does arrive, I wear my knapsack up front to avoid being pulled back by fellow travellers. I then jump in minutes before the train rolls to a stop. Exactly 16 minutes after the scheduled departure time, it pulls out at the speed of 2 kilometres per hour. I shuffle through the crowd, avoiding armpits and pushing heads of shorter men away from my own. I do this for 40 minutes before arriving at the station I am compelled to get off at, in order to make a living.
There is just one foot overbridge at my destination, part of which looks as if it has been made by welding together sheets of iron. I avoid looking down as I cross it. Approximately 100 minutes after leaving home, I walk into my office. It is 11 am, in what is referred to as India's financial capital. Here, any inconvenience caused is regretted.
