If Cities Were Men...

If cities were men, I would have dated Mumbai; I would have married Lucknow.

The statement above is not a quote. Unless of course, you already consider me quoteworthy. In which case, this is definitely a quote with a deep philosophical thought and must not be misinterpreted to implicate Choti Mata of lewd thoughts.

It is a Facebook status that I had put up a couple of months ago.

The reason why it is put out here is not to highlight the anthropomorphic albeit imaginary promiscuity of Choti Mata. The reason why it is the starting point of this post is because of the interesting thought that had triggered the compulsive need of letting out this very obscure and mostly irrelevant status for public admiration. The thought that said that every city has about as much character as a living breathing human being (I refrain from saying man because that would defeat the allusion)—the very same thought that leads to movies like Kahaani that actually treat the city of their setting as an independent powerful character or more recently Raanjhana.

I am no globetrotting soul. Apart from the fact that the phrase ‘trotting Choti Mata’ never created a very flattering imagery in my head; this was also because of an almost clinical travel phobia. Not ‘I get cranky when I travel’ kind of phobia but ‘I puke at the mere sight of an airport’ kind of phobia. And for that extreme, I have still managed to be at a number of places—Lucknow, Hyderabad, Delhi, Mumbai, Indore and Kolkata.

Cities vibrate with their own distinctive energy and character. Inevitably, they inspire emotions of myriad hues. And hence the thought—what if they were men? What if in some magical parallel world, these cities were indeed men?

And here, I reiterate, if cities were men, I would have married Lucknow. Dependable, sophisticated, suave and cultured. It has a bureaucratic disposition and air of royal authority. It might lack the wild ambition of high rise. But, what it lacks in ambition, it makes up for in its ‘take home to Mommy’ quality. But even more importantly, In other words, an ideal husband material!

Mumbai is quite the opposite. Given my penchant for men like Lucknow, it was ironic that my affair with Mumbai was love at first sight. Creative and throbbing with restless energy, it is the epitomic wild child—the kind of men that are fascinating and scary at the same time. If Mumbai were man, it would be the kind you have torrential affairs with. The man who is rich, innovative and wildly attractive. The man who can draw a portrait with as much panache as he strums the guitar which in turn is as smooth as his money filled coffers. Mumbai is the man of all dreams…and yet it is so unpredictable that there just cannot be a lasting marriage. Mumbai is the guy who takes you to bed (and you love it!) but you can’t take him home. Its enigmatic facets hide as much as they reveal and this enigma has a deadly air of transient attraction. Which is why, we tread carefully when it comes to Mumbai—the man and Mumbai—the city; or what is left behind is a scar that refuses to heal.

And then there is Delhi. If I were to roll all the clichés and notions associated with Delhi into a man, the result would be an unmitigated disaster of monstrous proportion.  Delhi would then be the man who earns truck-loads of money by the day (by means that sway dangerously from the limits of legality) and is a roving, raping, murdering psychopath by the night. Delhi can be a lot of things— a politician, a bureaucrat or a consummate businessman. But its identity during the nights—literal and figurative, remains unaltered. This is one city I am grateful is not a man.

But there is another Delhi, the one that is visible only when we look beyond the clichés and the pre-conceived notions. That Delhi which still has a heart that justifies the alliteration “dilwaalon ki dilli’. If I were to think of Dilli as a man, this would be the guy I would want to talk about. The guy with a raucous (sometimes cringe-worthy but fun nonetheless) sense of humor. And the guy with food…lots of food on the table…all the time! The guy who is an easy connect for all North Indians just because he symbolizes everything that is so ‘North’—from Punjab/Haryana to UP/Bihar. And despite this rather strong north bias, this is the guy who can practically get along with anyone, irrespective of their origin,  so long as they have a sense of humor.

The Delhi I am talking about is easy, helping and fun. It is the guy who loves money, but in a good way and is consequently very hard working, again in a good way.  This is the guy which cares for the people he gets to know—the Delhi which is uber modern in growth but has retained that fine touch of our culture and tradition. At its best, Delhi is the guy any north Indian girl would consider marrying.

Any north Indian girl—barring Choti Mata.

I like Delhi, despite all that is purportedly wrong with it. But, with Delhi, I could never have a roaring affair like Mumbai or a simmering connect like Lucknow. It may be partly owing to its reputation because even at its best, Delhi can never be the guy I would stay out late with—unlike Mumbai, which makes me feel safe, however illusory.

Dear Delhi, you know how they say—it’s not you, it’s me.

Delhi can be a great brother. Which is actually a good strategy given the reputation Delhi has managed to earn for itself. But as far as I am concerned, Delhi has been and will always be a great friend—even when it is not actually a man.

I can’t conclude this post without mentioning Kolkata—the only city which I think cannot be a man. If Kolkata has to be anything, it can be a woman. The very essence of this city throbs with feminine mystique. Kolkata is loud, cultured, intelligent, reticent, modern, cocooned, independent, enigmatic and feverishly clinging to its past—a bundle of extreme paradoxes only a woman can be.

Is there a point somewhere here?

Honestly, no. It was just an idea lying in my unused folders for really long. But to keep the tradition of always finding a point alive, no matter how forced—I will conclude this with a point.

We spent too much time in our lives going places—literally and figuratively. We hardly take time to look around. If at all we do, it is mostly and exclusively for serving our critical faculties. The place is too cramped, too open, too crowded, too quiet, too polluted, too clean…

If only we could take some time out and appreciate what each of these places stand for in spirit and in form, it might just be an absolute eye opener. Actually wanting them to be transformed into ‘man’ may be taking things too far. But who knows, you might just be pleasantly surprised!

'Laa' (Law) Chronicles and Happiness Aboard!

Choti Mata’s Note: This might look like a random piece of personal musings (ego-centric written version of a selfie fuelled by misplaced megalomania is more accurate—but I will stick to ‘musings’). But in spirit being a blog by Choti Mata, there is a takeaway. Who knows, this might just be that one thought which is about to change your life. Or add to your vast repertoire of Facebook like feel good gyaan. Either way, it might be worthwhile. So try to hang on till the end.

I am a lawyer. By qualification anyways. And this is a declaration that meets with a variety of responses. The most common one being “You mean a liar”, followed by a loud guffaw with a presumption, I presume , that it is something I have never heard before.

I had joined law school a couple of years ago when law schools and their associate perks (read—fat paychecks) were just about gaining some ground in students’ or rather their parents’ imaginations. One of the most memorable reactions to my decision came from an acquaintance back in my mother’s hometown—a smallish town in remote MP.

“You are doing ‘laa’!”,he exclaimed pointedly, “then we are all in the same profession!”. There was hardly anything remarkable about the statement as such until it was followed by this man’s ceremonial departure—in a tattered black coat on a forlorn bicycle that had long outlived its extinction date. I still remember the queasy feeling that refused to go for the next couple of weeks.

My misgivings vanished almost instantly once I landed in NALSAR, Hyderabad. Apart from the fact that it was and still is, the second best National Law School in the country (latest ratings will of course dispute this fact, but all of us know the truth, don’t we?), I think the sprawling campus and the apparent lavishness had a lot to do with my suddenly uplifted spirits.

They were eventful 5 years—my stay at the law school. But I will breeze over that part. I think we owe one to Chetan Bhagat for inspiring an entire generation of closet writers to come out in open. Considering that all the campus tales are about as unique as Karan Johar's directorial outings, I don't have to waste this precious blogspace in narrating my tale. I can and will simply direct you to the latest campus 'bestseller' on the stands.

The squirming soul of recently demised literary merit notwithstanding, there is a larger benefit of this trend--the benefit of having the stories out. And stories, no matter how much they induce the gag reflex in a discerning reader, are always good. They prevent the societies from closing their eyes and ears to the truth and imagination of their times.

Non-literary merits of campus stories aside, I will cut straight to the end of my tale. The part where every law student’s five years of mostly zero productive law school stay is validated by –wait for it—a job! A couple of zeroes in your paycheck is all that is required to establish you as a worthwhile member of your family and a legitimate part of the society—all your previous existential sins conveniently forgotten.

Zeroes and all were fine—blinding enough for me to not be able to realize initially that my law firm existence was hardly any different from that man on his tattered cycle. Except of course I had money. And he had a life.

Inevitably, I quit!

Which is not to say that it was the only way to happiness (more on that later). Which is also not to say that I always put myself to good use henceforth. For one, the zeroes took serious offence and went totally missing. The paychecks persisted—for a while. But of late, I seem to have offended their ilk as well.

But I have been happy. Surprising as it may sound (or not, depending on your self help general knowledge), it is a state of mind that does not concern itself with the state of my bank account. I found a job I loved, made enough to pull through decently and spent some great time, at a great place, with great people.

And then I quit—again. This time, not because I was unhappy; but because I was happy. Happy enough to make some quick introspection and take some more risks.

Has it paid well? I don’t know. Too soon. At the moment, I have lost myself in the wilderness of the unknown. And I repeat, I am happy—which I guess is a good sign.

In the spirit of my sobriquet and the note above, I will conclude this post with a point. And the point of this slightly long winded post is just this—life and happiness had obviously nothing to do with either my law school degree or the zeroes on my paycheck. It was in fact a ridiculous idea to actually think that zeroes could bring me happiness. They were after all zeroes. 

Most of us know this. And this post is essentially a pointless reiteration of information that is about as pervading as Facebook.

In a sense, our tryst with happiness and its core ingredients is like Indian legal system. Everyone knows about it. But no one bothers with implementation. And that is why this point needs to be made despite its ubiquitous existence.

Even if zeroes do matter in our pragmatic existence, they still need the validation of a happy existence. A validation that is largely ignored, overlooked or simply glossed over.  Law firm or for that matter any other place in the world, is a great place to be, so long as you manage to be happy. But if you can’t, no matter where you are and what you do, it is still going to be an increasingly lost cause—an almost childish attempt to convince yourself and everyone else of a false sense of well being. If you can really survive the facade for the rest of your life, it is all fine. But if you can’t, you must remember—there is always a choice.

Your choice!