The city on the marsh was dying. Then the grandfathers stepped in
With its crowds, traffic, pollution, and commotion, Lokhandwala Complex had once again become what it had been in 1981. Utterly unlivable. File pic
When my father spent all his life savings to buy a house, it was on a marsh where nothing existed but mosquitoes. They called it Lokhandwala Complex, but the only complex things there were the mangrove swamps. A dirt track led to it, and all around us buildings were under construction on reclaimed swampland. The air was full of dust, and the nights full of beastly buzzing, biting insects. The year was 1981.
But, it was home, and the cheapest my father could buy with his life's savings. Getting there was easy. You turn right at Four Bungalows and hurtle like a fiend down a half-road, headlights blazing. At the end, like the promised land, were the fiendish towers of Lokhandwala's. On full moon nights, luminous white horses galloped across the marsh and camels sashayed through the darkness, swinging their butts and releasing ammonia farts.
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Within years, there were more buildings. Grocery stores and vegetable and fruits vendors, along with their evening cousins, the puchkawallas, had found places to set themselves up. High Point Udipi restaurant and Guru da Dhaba opened their doors, to become landmarks. Jewellers, pharmacists, UP bhaiyas selling fresh milk mildly adulterated with maida, and clothing and shoe stores also sprouted.
But, it was the things that were not there that made our lives hell — no full-time water supply though there was supposedly a pipeline; no streetlights; unpaved roads; neither police nor a station; no traffic lights. No signs of urbanised civilization. Schoolchildren were being run over; crime went unreported and unchecked; roads were bombed out battlefields.
It was a mystery why Mr Padmanabhaiah, the legendary municipal commissioner then, was so uninterested in us. Inter-party politics, someone said knowingly, between the builder and the commissioner. One day we heard the story of the municipal waterman, the person responsible for turning the valve that daily released municipality water into the Complex for a pitiable duration. Turning it right released water, left shut it again.
The waterman was noticed to be hardly turning the valve, thus dramatically reducing the colony's water supply. He had already been corrupted, he admitted, by well-water suppliers, who were paying him to limit Lokhandwala's water supply to their own advantage. However, said the waterman, should you pay me more than they do, then the valve will move ever so smoothly again in the correct direction.
Citizens formed a Vigilance Committee to demand their lives back. They considered and rejected candlelight vigils, protest marches into town, and fasts unto death. The best idea of all came from Paintal, a famous Bollywood comedian, who also lived in our building. It was a masterpiece of passive-aggressive shaming: why not do the municipality's job and fill the potholes? The idea grew, and soon it was agreed: retired seniors in pyjamas and their tender grandchildren would fill potholes.
I did what journalists do: suggested Saturday, knowing that Sunday was a lean day for news. I also called the Times of India, the Indian Express, Zee TV and Doordarshan to tip them off about the awesome event coming up. That Saturday morning, while TV cameras whirred, senior citizens lurched about shovelling gravel into potholes. Miraculously, it poured rain, yielding great footage of drenched elderly citizens doing the government's job.
This heartbreaking photo was on page 1 of all the Sunday papers. Doordarshan's 5 pm news showed an angry resident swearing the R3 crore Lokhandwalans paid in taxes would be deposited in escrow in court. The Housing Minister, a man with a natural skill for fanning flames, corrected this number on the late news, saying it was only Rs 1 crore.
Mr Padmanabhaiah had probably never seen such coverage in one evening for one blasted colony. Mildly disconcerted, he drove north in his car and — so we heard — woke up the Ward Officer and went on a colony inspection tour. When my reporter met him the following Monday morning for an interview, he was ready with files, facts and plans. A detailed development plan already existed and he strutted it out.
On Monday morning, Gorbachev was overthrown in a coup, and Mumbai's Municipal Commissioner decided he should earn his salary. Over the next six months, Lokhandwala's began to blaze like a Christmas tree. Streetlights twinkled, roads were paved, a Dollop's Lop Stop opened and a police station was set up with real policemen who stopped cars and peered inside with torches.
I began getting apprehended every night and had to explain that I was a journalist though, curiously, not drunk. Last year, I sold the house my father had bought for us, since I lived in Bangkok and my parents and brother had passed on. With its crowds, traffic, pollution, and commotion, Lokhandwala Complex had once again become what it had been in 1981. Utterly unlivable.
Here, viewed from there. C Y Gopinath, in Bangkok, throws unique light and shadows on Mumbai, the city that raised him. You can reach him at cygopi@gmail.com Send your feedback to mailbag@mid-day.com
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