Gandhi Market

- By Janaki Krishnan

I welcome Saturday - a day I get to spend time with my two working daughters. We discuss children and maids, go out shopping, eat and unwind. Yesterday, we went to Gandhi Market in King's Circle - a market set up soon after India's independence to rehabilitate refugees from Sind and Punjab.

There are about 200 shops in the market. Initially it was just a cloth market catering to the lower middle class, but today the market offers everything - vegetables, leather goods, artificial jewellery, decorative hair clips and many other household items. It's definitely a woman-centered market!

Though the market is housed inside a single-storied concrete structure, the real fun and excitement begins long before you reach the gate. The entire footpath surrounding the market is a shopper's paradise. Small sellers selling readymade garments for kids, innerwear for ladies, napkins, towels, imitation jewellery, churidar sets, etc. line up on either side. Pushing through the crowd enjoying the multi-coloured dresses for children is itself a happy experience.

It is an open secret that bargaining starts at 50% of the price quoted by seller. In olden times this market catered mainly to the lower middle class. However, today Gandhi Market has grown in size and variety and also offers quality stuff. Very intricately embriodered designer sarees suitable for bridal wear are sold.

However, the majority of people enjoy an evening buying stuff from the small stalls outside the market, at throwaway prices.

As we approached the gate, I stopped near a pavement shop selling colourful embroidered salwar suits. Just when my daughter tried to click a photo, the owner, a young man of thirty, came and stood near me saying, "Maji ke saath mera bhi photo nikalo" (Please click my photo along with your mother!). He touched my feet for blessings. We all smiled and for a moment he felt like one of us. 'That is Mumbai' I thought. There is a free spirit where all are equal irrespective of one's station in life.

We stepped into a shop selling sandals at fixed rates. I just sat on a stool watching people going in and out. A young lady (she appeared to be educated and modern with short hair and a trendy look) came in and picked up a black and white sandal, tried it and put it back. The shop owner (who was also the salesman) gave her three more sandals, of different patterns, colours and price. She tried all three and quietly walked away without buying - probably satisfied with the very act of wearing them for a short while at no cost! The shopkeeper, cool and calm, unmindful of his wasted labour, turned his attention to his next customer. She was a saree-clad woman, very different from the first one, and looked like someone from a lower income group. But within a couple of seconds, she made her choice, bought an expensive shoe, and walked off.

As every good salesman knows, it's all a matter of chance, and even people who step in casually may go home with a bagful of purchases. The Mumbai salesman's patience is legendary (especially in saree shops!). In the major saree markets, you will find salesmen always encouraging you to see more and more of their goods. "Dekhne ka paisa to nahin lagta behen", they say with a smile. "Costs no money to see". They will do their best to present all their goods, tempting you with one offer after another, until you find that one saree you absolutely cannot resist! Mumbai is a shopper's haven, yes, but is also the the marketing capital of India. I'm quite sure no other city in India can match the sales and service levels that Mumbai shops offer.

Finally we came to the jewellery section. Glittering stones of all hues set in traditional as well as modern designs, to match every outfit and every occasion, were displayed with the board 'SALE 50% REDUCTION'.

We were almost tempted to buy some ear-rings, but we were running out of time, so we returned home. We had spent nearly two hours in and around Gandhi Market, and the faces of smiling, hardworking sellers continued to linger in my mind.

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This article appeared in DNA Newspaper on Jun 6, 2011

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Bombay Sandwich

by Aishwarya Pramod

Bhelpuri and vada pao may rule the world of Mumbai street food; but I think the Bombay Sandwich manages to hold its own quite well :)

Everyone I know likes them – hot, toasted, full of sliced vegetables, melted cheese and spicy green chutney.

I’m not really sure why it’s called a Bombay Sandwich (I googled it and found no explanations), but I think it’s probably because the sandwich as a major staple of street cuisine is only found here in Mumbai. I’ve eaten these sandwiches at Elco Arcade in Bandra, at a little stall outside my college building, at a stall in Matunga Market, in Gurukripa Restaurant in Sion, and near Podar College... And they’ve all been deliciously filling. :)

I’ve noticed that these sandwiches tend to be almost exclusively vegetarian. I suppose that’s part of the definition of a Bombay Sandwich. And there’s usually a fixed set of veggies that go into it – cucumber, tomato, potato (very important), onion, beetroot, capsicum. And the bread is always soft and white, no fancy healthy alternatives like brown or multigrain.

Some sandwich-walas add their own special twists to the sandwich. The one near my college, for example, tops his sandwiches with crunchy sev; really nice! The one near Podar College offers chocolate and cheese sandwiches, which seemed popular among the students.

The Making of a Bombay Sandwich

Spread the slices with butter, green chilly-coriander chutney, and red garlic chutney. Add fresh crunchy cucumber slices....

...thick wedges of boiled potato, and sprinkle generously with sandwich masala (a KEY ingredient). This sandwich-wala perhaps makes his own masala. When asked, "Bhaiya ismein kya hai?" he said "Ismein toh jahaan hai" :). But one could recreate this sandwich at home using sandwich masala from Kapol or Tid-bit.

Add onion, beetroot (ooh, colourful) and a ton of grated cheese...

Tomato, more masala, and finally it's ready to be toasted...

... using this contraption-thing (we have one just like it at home).

It comes out hot and golden-brown. Cut into pieces, top with more chutney, more grated cheese, or both.

Delicioso!

Oh, but I cringe to think how calorific (AND unhygienic) it probably is. Kidding, actually I don't care, I’d eat it anyway, anyday :)

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This article also appeared in Chorus+Echo, a UK-based website that

curates and publishes interesting cultural stories from around the world

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With Caroline Quentin in 'A Passage Through India'

- By Deepa Krishnan

This week I'm feeling like a TV star :)

I was on iTV in the UK, in a show called A Passage Through India. The show had a celebrity hostess, Caroline Quentin, and she travelled through many cities, including Mumbai.

Episode 2 of A Passage Through India, iTV UK

I took Caroline around Mumbai in a taxicab that had been specially arranged for the shoot. We were both wearing maroon, and the red upholstery of the cab gave it a "this is India" look.

How do you like my "Sonia Gandhi" saree? :) :)

The saree is actually a khadi cotton, that I bought from Sundari Silks in Madras. And aren't the pearls gorgeous? They're from Cochin, a gift from my husband on our last Kerala holiday. The ear-rings are from Delhi. So the only thing "Mumbai" about this is my saree blouse and my lipstick!

In the initial part of the programme, we drove around the city must-see's and I gave her an introduction to the origins of the city and how the East India Company finally arrived here.

After the initial driving around, we went to see the city's bazaars. This is Caroline and me at Chor Bazaar where I was talking about two of my pet themes, recycling and the never-say-die spirit of Mumbai's migrants.

Car parts and metal recycling near Chor Bazaar

Sharing a laugh over hair colour and male vanity

Caroline is absolutely lovely; she is warm, outspoken, funny and intelligent. A total delight to be with. We had loads of laughs; some of which made it to the show, and some of which didn't (thank god). In this part of the programme, we were discussing what colour hair we preferred in men :)

We also went to Mangaldas Market, where we found this family shopping for a wedding.

Caroline Quentin at Mangaldas Market, doing her thing - making everyone laugh!

There were two cousins, both getting married the same day, and both girls were at the market looking for their trousseau. Everyone was very friendly and they all had a good laugh at Caroline explaining how she did the dandiya-raas at Navratri.

We found a lot of stray dogs in Bhuleshwar and Chor Bazaar. Caroline loves dogs; she has 4 dogs at home; so we talked a bit about the problems of having such a huge stray population, and about local non-profits that work in the area of stray dog welfare. Later in the show, she went off with a vet to see Welfare of Stray Dogs in action. She also went to see Mallakhamb being practiced; and she went shopping with a Bollywood starlet and learnt some dance moves.

Towards the end of the show, we went to the Taj for drinks. It was a hot day, and this was a welcome break from the bazaars.

"Mumbai's heart lies in its bazaars", I'm saying.

All in all, a fun day spent with a lovely lady; and a chance to showcase my city, minus the usual cliches. I quite enjoyed myself!

Welcome summer

By Janaki Krishnan

Mumbaikars welcome summer for many reasons - happy holidays for children, travel plans for the family, and of course, Alphonso mangoes for everyone.

For me, summer is not just these things, it is also the season of the Jackfruit, Queen of Fruits, with its lovely yellowish soft flesh and unparalleled sweet taste.

Jackfruit extracted and ready to eat (Matunga Market)

My earliest memories of this fruit go back to the 1960's when I was in the seventh standard at SIES School, Matunga. As soon as the school closed for summer, we would start packing to go to our native village in Kerala, where my grandparents lived.

A month before our arrival, my grandfather would begin preparations for our visit. He would select the jackfruit tree that bore the sweetest fruits, and earmark the best fruit for us. "Don't cut this", he would tell the servants. "It is for my grandchildren from Bombay."

The day we reached Kerala, he would make preparations to pluck and bring down the ripest fruit. Jackfruits can be huge; and we children found it fascinating to watch a big fruit weighing 20-25 kilos being brought down carefully from the tree. A rope was tied around the fruit, and it was lowered down slowly to avoid damage.

Jackfruits at Vashi market. There are some giant ones at the bottom left.

Once the fruit was lowered, it was then brought into the house with all of us 8 children trailing behind it. First the big fruit was cut into two. Then, as we watched in anticipation, it was cut into smaller, more manageable pieces. Finally, the "nose" of each piece was cut to loosen the fibres that bound the fruit together; and each child was given a piece.

Before we could dig into the fruit, my grandmother would emerge from the kitchen with coconut oil to protect our hands from the sticky "chakkini" (thin long fibres holding the hidden fruit inside). Once the oil was applied, we were then finally free to handle the fruit. The pleasure of removing the chakkini, finding the delicious fruit, removing the seed, and then finally popping the soft sweet fruit in your mouth is a heavenly experience! Today's children may perhaps consider it a laborious procedure, since they are products of the fast-food age. But in those days, even my youngest brother (who was just 4 years old) would not allow our grandmother to do it for him.

Delicious fruit hidden inside the fibrous chakkini

By the time we finished gorging ourselves on the fruit, servants and other poor people of the village would come to buy the seeds for making vegetable curry. They would pay 2 annas for a big measure of seeds; but there would still be many seeds for our own use in cooking.

The thick, thorny outer skin would be cut into smaller pieces. We children would take the pieces and feed the cows and buffaloes. Thus every part of the fruit would be used.

Our adventures with the jackfruit didn't end with this. The next day, an unripe jackfruit would be selected; and deep-fried to make jackfruit chips. The day after that, another fruit would be used to make jackfruit papadam, and another for jackfruit jam, both of these for us to take to Bombay.

Almost every day that we stayed in Kerala, the menu would include jackfruit (chakka). Most often, it went hand in hand with mango (manga). Chakka kootan and manga pachadi. Manga sambar and chakka poduthual. Chakka pradaman. Chakka Erisheri. Chakka Neyappam.....an endless list of inventive dishes would include the jackfruit.

Idichakkai poduthual, made from jackfruit seeds (from Moorthy mami's kitchen)

All these summer joys came to an end when my grandparents moved to Bombay, for my grandmother's treatment at Tata Memorial Hospital. But the jackfruit continued to make its presence felt. My mother would buy jackfruit every year on Vishu, and she would make these dishes afterwards.

Most of these dishes are just a fond memory now. I do not have the skill (or the enthusiasm!) of my mother, to try my hand at various jackfruit recipes. If I do buy jackfruit, the easiest thing, I have discovered, is to make chakka poornam. Cut jackfruit into small pieces, add fresh coconut and jaggery, cook it for 15 minutes, and add ghee at the end. The taste is lovely; it can be eaten plain; or as a sort of spread with white bread; or even an accompaniment to a dosa. Try it!

Posted by Deepa on behalf of Janaki Krishnan

A Sunny Morning at Sewri Fort

- By Deepa Krishnan

I have been going often to Sewri these days, now that flamingo season is here.

But today, I also took the opportunity to climb up to Sewri Fort with my friend Sancia. I had forgotten my camera, so these photos are from my cell phone.

It was 8:30 a.m., and the sun was just starting to warm up the fort walls.

The fort interested me, because it is very much part of the city's history. It belongs to the heady "pirate" days on the Bombay coast, when wars were fought for control of Mumbai as a trading post.

Sewri Fort was built by the English, to protect their interests in Bombay. A carved stone over a doorway says 1736; but battles were fought here even before that.

The Siddis attacked and conquered Sewri in 1689. The also overran Mazgaon, and raided Worli. Check out the much tougher looking Siddi fort here; my daughter wrote about it when we visited. Safe in their invincible fortress, the Siddis, known for their naval prowess, were a force to reckon with.

Spurred by defeat at the hands of the Siddis, and threatened by the Marathas and other European powers, the East India Company went into a building flurry in the second half of the 1600's, raising fortifications all over Bombay.

Sewri Fort was one of them. It wasn't a useless investment. When the Portuguese attacked in 1772, the attack was repelled from Sewri Fort.

Here is a pictorial timeline of Mumbai's forts

(those that are still standing today):

As you can see, lots of forts were built in the second half of the 1600's. Most had fallen into disrepair in the last 300 years. In the last 5 years or so, the government has begun to "restore" these forts. The ones that I have coloured in blue have been "restored", but it is so insensitively done that it makes me wince.

In the photo below, you can see the original stone steps going up to a look out point. Concrete has been poured over the curved decoration of the steps, to create a cement "banister" for these steps. A concrete wall partly covers the original stone arched door (where I found the carving of the year). What were they thinking??

50 sepoys manned this fort; and it had 8-10 cannons, looking out toward the sea. There were living quarters, and ammunition stores. Today, all the bunkers are concrete, although some attempt has been made to keep the shape in line with the original construction.

We climbed up to one of the view points to look at the harbour. The tide was retreating; beneath us we could see mangroves; and amidst the retreating water, there were flamingoes feeding.

We went down and got some close up sightings of the birds. Today the sighting was really fantastic; we spotted what must have been at least two or three thousand flamingoes. The juveniles stood in little brown and white groups, and the adults stood in much larger groups of pink. Apart from that, I saw gulls, stints, kingfishers, egrets, herons and what not. But without my camera, I couldn't get any decent photos :( sorry!!

Eventually I got hungry; and Sancia also needed to go to church. So she dropped me at my mom's house, where an excellent breakfast was waiting. Dosa, chutney, sambar and molagapodi. And filter coffee to top it all. Bliss! I wish all Sundays were like this :)

Flat tyre on the Vashi highway

By Deepa Krishnan

We were returning from a wedding in Pune, when the car began to veer and drag a bit to the left. The front tyre had gone bust. We asked a truck driver where we could get it fixed, and he pointed to a repair shop about 500 metres away.

Vashi highway on a glorious sunny afternoon

The 'Puncher' Shop with its rubber tyre advertising

I was surprised at how long it had been since I had last visited a puncture shop. Ten years, I think! You know, this is what happens when you employ drivers, and stop taking the car out yourself. You kinda stop doing these little things, and before you know it, boom! you're sitting in a little ivory tower, and you don't know what's happening out there any more.

I discovered, for example, that there were now these new-fangled things called tubeless tyres. Don't laugh, dammit. I didn't know!! When I last looked, tyres were filled with thin rubber tubes, the tubes were full of air, and that's how cars worked. Now apparently, these tubes have disappeared. No longer can you turn a tyre inside out and wrest a skinny tube from its innards. No longer can you fill these tubes again with air; and send the car merrily along it's way.

Instead, you fix a flat tyre with an entirely different set of tools.

The first thing you need, is a strip of this deceptively simple looking stuff.

This is a tough, chewy rubbery-leathery thing that sticks to your fingers if you let it. It's basically a plug.

The next thing you need is this T-shaped tool, with a needle. And you need a tube of vulcanising fluid.

Now for the repair itself. Snip a small strip of the rubber plug, shove the needle through it; and then put this vulcanising fluid on it. Then you grab the handle with both hands, take a deep breath, and shove the strip it into the problem spot. See the guy in the photo below?

Our repair guy was around 16 years old.

There was an assistant as well, a little kid with a bandana.

So what happens - chemically speaking - is that the vulcanising fluid works on the strip, and converts it into a permanent hardened plug. (Or at least, that's what I think!). The little kid's job was to keep the air-pressure in the tube constant, so the plug would set well.

The Apprentice.

He took his job seriously.

There were other neighbourhood kids as well, watching.

Mom and Dad waited outside.

The neighbouring shop-owner kindly gave them space to sit.

Inside of our repair shop. I have *no* idea what most of these things are.

What I do know, though, is that these things are there for a reason. *Some* car, *some* day, will be rescued by some weird contraption that can only be found in this mess!

Seriously, why do cars have to be so complicated? :)

For example, what on EARTH are these belt-thingys?

More mysterious gizmos.

What is that U-shaped thing hanging from the ceiling? Or is it not U-shaped? Should I announce a prize for anyone who can actually name all these things?!!

Anyway - the whole repair thingy took about 15-20 minutes. I tried chatting to the 16-year old; but he was cagey. I'm from Calcutta, was all he would say. I let him be; there are a lot of illegal migrants from Bangladesh near the Vashi area, and I did not want to probe further. He was making a living in a tough world...I wished him well, and went on my way.

Girls unite! Nothing to lose but your chains!

by Janaki Krishnan

I am a regular reader of the Tamil magazine Mangayar Malar (you can find it in the bookstands at Matunga, but most Tamil people in Mumbai have it home-delivered).

Mangayar Malar is a women's magazine that covers various topics - real life anecdotes, interviews of successful people, religion, recipes, etc. Among the most popular sections is a monthly forecast (using rashis). There is also a matrimonial column.

Mangayar Malar - Dec 2010 issue

Among the many real-life stories in the magazine, there was one story about a Brahmin priest from a small village. This priest has four sons, ages 45, 42, 39 and 32 respectively. All four sons are unmarried, and the priest has been having a hard time finding a match for any of them.

The priest bemoans the fact that no one is willing to marry his sons, although they are good men. Girls want money and status, according to the priest, whereas his sons can only offer a simple village life.

Kanyiar Manam Maruma - will girls change their minds?

The writer of the article has invited comments from readers, asking whether we are now living in an India where girls want material pleasures more than anything else. Why are today's Indian girls chasing money, asks the writer. Do they not know that a happy marriage is not about material things? Or is it that today's girls are educated, have jobs of their own, and are therefore increasingly unwilling to get married?

Thirumana Malar - the "marriage special" section of Mangayar Malar

The writer's questions set me thinking about my recent experiences in the "marriage market". In my spare time these days, I help my friends in matching the horoscopes of their sons or daughters with prospective brides or bridegrooms.

Once the horoscopes are matched, the girl and the boy talk to each other. Here are some of the questions that girls are asking before accepting the boy:

1) After marriage, are we going to live with your parents? (a good question in space-starved Mumbai!)

2) Will you look after my parents in their old age? (especially when she is the only daughter)

3) Shall I give a part of my salary to my parents after marriage (probably for repayment of a PF Loan that the father has taken for meeting wedding expenses!)

At the end of the day, I feel this is a positive trend in our society. All these years it was a man's world. A young man, whether educated or illiterate, healthy or disabled, handsome or ugly, asks for a "fair", beautiful, smart, homely, educated girl, along with dowry. After marriage, the girl is the property of the husband and the in-laws, often exploited physically, mentally, emotionally and financially.

I am happy that the situation is changing; that girls are losing some of the traditional chains that bound them in the past. These changes have touched only a fraction of Indian society. It is high time we wake up and discard these harmful attitudes towards women.

Cosmopolitan Mumbai

I was telling someone about how cosmopolitan Mumbai is; but other than anecdotal stuff, I found it very hard to prove! I mean, how does one convince anyone of something like that?

Then we came across this dentist shop in Dharavi:

The signboard was written in four languages - English, Hindi, Tamil and Urdu. I didn't have to say anything more! :) :)

Why Mittal Patel is one heck of a lady

Some days ago, I met Mittal Patel, a very determined young lady from Ahmedabad.

Mittal is a journalist by profession. But for the past 5 years, she has been working with the nomadic and de-notified communities of Gujarat, trying to get them access to basic rights. In doing so, she's taken on two of the biggest challenges in India - the bureaucratic system, and the caste mindset.

Mittal Patel

It was my neighbour Rashminbhai who introduced me to Mittal (or Mittal-ben, as she is called by most Gujaratis).

At Rashminbhai's invitation, I spent an evening at Amulakh Amichand School in King's Circle, watching Mittal tell her story to an audience of 100 people.

Mittal talking about nomads. The speech was in Gujarati.

I was so fascinated that the very next morning, I went over to Rashminbhai's house, and spent three hours chatting with Mittal. Over many cups of chai (and Rashminbhai's delicious farsaan), I listened to more details of her work.

It was quite an education.

The nomadic tribes of India are spread over multiple states, primarily Maharashtra, Rajasthan and Gujarat. In Gujarat, they number around 4 million, and this is the target group that Mittal has sworn to support (that's roughly the population of Singapore or Ireland, by the way).

One nomadic family with their cart. All their belongings will typically fit into the cart.

Gujarat's nomads are not one single community (there are over 300 communities listed in the government list). They follow different religions, practice different occupations, and have different customs and beliefs. The Dafer people, for instance, are typically employed to guard ripening crops. The Saraniyas are knife sharpeners. The Kangsia are bangle sellers and traders. The Nat and Nataniyas are performers - bards, musicians, acrobats, dancers, fire-eaters and so on. The Vansfoda work with bamboo and sell bamboo products. The Vadis are snake charmers; the Madaris work with monkeys.

As Mittal rattled off one community name after another, I was struck by the one thing that all these communities have in common - their traditional way of life is either dying, or dead already.

Television and cinema have largely killed the demand for traditional entertainment. Legislation has killed the livelihood of those nomads that work with animals. Plastic has replaced bamboo and other materials. And so on. In the past, people in a village waited for the nomads to show up on their annual routes, trading goods, services and entertainment. Now, there is no demand. So the nomads are quite literally, out on the streets, reduced to begging and theft for their livelihood.

No takers for acrobatics.

As if the loss of livelihood was not enough, the nomads have another big problem: As far as the government is concerned, they don't exist. I'm not kidding. The nomads have nothing, no birth certificate, no ration card, no land deeds, no school admission record, nothing. Not a single piece of paper, to prove they're part of the Indian population.

What this means is that they are completely left out of all government schemes. Take NREGA, for example, which promises work and an honest day's wage to anyone who wants it. Even if a nomad woman says she wants work, she can't get it. Why? To be eligible for NREGA you need to be a resident of a village. But village panchayats routinely refuse to let nomads be registered as part of the village population. They're nomads, right? They don't belong! So what if they've lived on the outskirts of a particular village for 20 years. They still don't belong! In fact, Mittal tells me that when she goes looking for a nomadic settlement, villagers typically do not even acknowledge that it exists.

Saraniya settlement on outskirts of village. This is no man's land, typically on the boundary of two villages. So neither village owns up to the settlement.

Apart from this, old prejudices and caste issues also kick in. Some nomadic communities have traditionally been labelled thieves. Most are from the lowest rungs of the caste hierarchy, with zero respect from other, higher castes. There is also the fear that if they are formally acknowledged, they will stake claim to government benefits.

Net net - the nomads are left out there in the cold - with neither the government nor the village recognising their existence. Not surprisingly, Mittal's biggest effort is firstly, to get every nomad a piece of paper that says, Hey! Look at me! I'm here! I am Indian! I'm Gujarati! I live in this village!

This ought to be simple, but as anyone who has worked with government machinery in India will tell you, it's staggeringly difficult in practice. In the first place, the whole thing requires forms to be filled and submitted - and how does an uneducated nomad do that? Mittal told us a quirky story about how she tried to help a middle-aged nomad with filling a form:

Mittal: Janunath, where were you born?

Janunath: I'm not sure. You write what you think is right, Mittal-ben.

Mittal: But how can I just cook this up? At least tell me something more about the areas where you roam, so I can write something sensible.

Janunath: I don't know, Mittal-ben. Ask my mother.

Janunath's Mother: We go to many places, Mittal-ben. I don't know where we went that year when he was born.

Mittal: Fine, I'll write something or the other. OK, Janunath, tell me what your age is.

Janunath: 18

Mittal: 18? Are you sure? You look older to me.

Janunath: I don't know, Mittal-ben.

Mittal: Do you have children?

Janunath: Yes, four children, here they are.

Mittal: Ah, so this one is the oldest? He looks like he is 14!!

So Mittal gives up asking questions, and she estimates everyone's age by looking at the age of their oldest child! And thus the form is filled for the whole clan, with approximate age, approximate place of birth, and so on :)

But form filling is only the beginning. The next problem is that the form verification process requires the village panchayat to certify that the details are correct. This is, of course, next to impossible. So Mittal and her team have to keep shuttling endlessly between the government and the panchayat office, patiently coaxing people to do what is right.

Without going into all the painful stories, let me just say that it is STUPENDOUS achievement, that Mittal Patel has finally got voter id cards issued to 20,000 nomadic people.

Way to go, Mittal-ben!!

That's not all. She has lobbied and got the Gujarat Government to pass a new State Resolution, which gives nomadic/de-notified people land rights. In the first year of allotment, 502 plots of land have been alloted to people who previously had no piece of earth to call their own. Mittal has started "tent-schools" for nomadic children, conducted "group marriages" to help reduce the burden of wedding expenses on nomad families, rescued nomadic girls from prostitution, and taken on many other social issues.

Honestly, I can't think of a more difficult challenge than trying to change the way "society" thinks. And I can't think of a more frustrating task than to get the big slow blundering bureaucracy to do something different. But Mittal has taken both these challenges head-on, and proved that it can be done.

When you meet people like Mittal, you end up feeling like you simply have to do something to help. You can't just sit there and let someone struggle against huge odds. I've started by contributing from my company's profits to Mittal's NGO; and next April, I'm planning to work on training and providing employment to some of her nomadic women. I'm looking to make a trip to Ahmedabad soon. Anyone who wants to contribute is welcome.

Discovering carrom at Chor Bazaar

- By Deepa Krishnan

I was walking along Chor Bazaar when I spotted these carrom coins. Nostalgia grabbed me, and I stopped in my tracks.

I played a lot of carrom as a child. Summer holidays were usually filled with competitive carrom games, and I suddenly remembered how we'd emerge from the games with white and powdery fingers.

I looked around, to see if I could find the carrom board. Ah yes, there it was, stacked up casually against another stall.

I was tempted to take the board home. God, but I used to love this game!

When I was growing up, there was a carrom club in the building where we lived (although "club" is probably too grand a word for it). The game was played in a small garage in our building, mostly by guys, but there were a few women and girls as well.

Each evening, we'd wait for grown ups to push up the garage door, so that we could troop in and set up the heavy carrom board. Four of us would sit at each game, one on each side of the table. Other kids (the poor latecomers!) would gather around, watching the game, waiting for their turn.

There was not much conversation, really, beyond the game itself. In fact, the game was everything. The only things you heard were small little expletives, or frustrated groans. We lived for the pleasure of the perfect shot, and praise from a keen audience. "Great shot!"..."Too good, yaar!" and so on.

As the evening progressed, the older folks, back from the office commute, would come and join the game. Younger kids would get shooed off the game, to make way for the older "dadas". The younger ones wouldn't leave though, they'd just stand around watching the older gang at the game. A single yellow bulb would come on, lighting the board as it grew darker. At seven thirty, the kids would go home, while the older ones played on.

The game was played intensely. Players had reputations to live up to. Mr. X was good at straight shots. This other guy, Mr. Y, his backshot was perfect. Z was a 'thumbing' champ. And so on. Every year, we'd have competitions, and reputations would be made and broken.

When I left Bombay for Calcutta (to get my MBA degree), I discovered to my delight that there was a carrom board at IIM Calcutta. So carrom continued to be part of my life for another two years.

Then I got married, and discovered that carrom was played in my husband's family as well. I remember some long ago afternoons, playing carrom with his cousins. Of late though, there have not been any games, as most of the cousins have dispersed.

I've stopped playing now, more's the pity. The last time I played was five years ago, when we moved into a new apartment in Bombay. There was a carom competition here, and on an impulse, I enrolled my name for it. It was fun, and I even won the darn competition.

I should really start playing again. Game anyone?