Mayank Chhaya Daily

Some observations about end of Bombay's/Mumbai's Kaali-Peeli taxis

 

Today in Mumbai marked the last day of the Premier Padmini (Originally Fiat) taxis also known as the Kaali-Peeli because of their black and yellow colors.

Although such claims cannot be effectively substantiated or refuted, I am going to make it anyway. It is largely accurate. In the decade of the 1980s, I was arguably the most frequent user of the Kaali-Peeli among the city’s journalists. Unfortunately, my dear friend Shireesh Kanekar is no more around to bear witness to this claim because not only would he have borne me out but even told you a few stories about my cabbing habits.  I want you to accept my word in good faith.

With that as the backdrop, I record the end of the Kaali-Peeli with no particular emotion. As cars go, Premier Padminis sucked. They were like an iron box with four doors, four tires and a steering wheel. In their defense, they were a very hardy vehicle, especially considering Bombay’s/Mumbai’s intense monsoon season. What was hilarious about the Kaali-Peeli was that they created the illusion of moving when in reality it was the city going in the opposite direction out of sheer exasperation. (Literary exaggeration.)

In my 20s, single and earning reasonably well, I was a legend as an obsessive cab user among journalists. I once joked with Shireesh that if I had my way I would hire three taxis, one in front  and one behind just for the heck of it. It may sound foolish but I used to spend more than half my salary on cab rides. I took Bombay’s horrendous local trains only for about four years until 1985. Even during those four years there were any number of days when I used to cab it out. From 1981 right until I left Bombay for Delhi in 1989,  the Kaali-Peeli was my only means of transport.

So coveted was I as a customer for cab drivers in Kala Ghoda near my newspaper office that every evening about half a dozen cabbies would wait for me along the lane near Kandeel Juice every evening. It was like a harem of taxis that I had to choose from. I used to be particular about overall cleanliness but in particular of the seat covers. There were times when I thought that city’s best decked-up cabs used to wait for me to make my choice for the evening. It was only after I had exercised my first right of refusal that  the rest of the hoi polloi was allowed to use them.

I remember I used to be mildly irritated on days when I did not find a clean and well-equipped taxi. There was one where the cabby had only one handle to open all doors and roll down all windows. His wipers did not work on a particularly squally monsoon evening. He had to stop every few minutes to clean the windshield. Eventually, he was so annoyed himself that he unrolled about half a dozen cigarettes and spread the tobacco on his side of the windshield. Quite remarkably, that helped clear up the windshield. I had never known until then that tobacco could keep something clean.

I once joked with A L Quadros, the general secretary of the (Bombay) Mumbai Taximen’s Union that they should adopt a special resolution thanking my unfailing patronage of the Kaali-Peeli. It was when I wrote a feature about Bombay’s taxis, then the second highest in the world, for the Associated Press.

In those days, there were exceptionally few, if at all any, air-conditioned Kaali-Peelis. I suspected that was because Premier Padmini’s terribly weak engine could do only one of two things—either actually run the vehicle or power the AC. It could not do both at once.

It was my habit to offer rides to my fellow journalists as a matter of routine since I was going to take a cab anyway. There were those who lived en route from Churchgate to Dahisar (where I lived for a bit) and then Andheri. These were long and expensive rides. I used to pay about 150 rupees in the 1980s one way to Dahisar from Churchgate and about 120 to Andheri.

The final exit of Premier Padmini from Mumbai’s roads may be a source of nostalgia tinged with sadness for many. For me, not so much even though I used it so much. It was just a vehicle, and it is pointless to anthropomorphize it. I liked it as much as one would like any reasonable convenience.

Now that it has permanently gone off the road, I can pretend be wistful about the Kaali-Peeli. But I would not be convincing at all.

Bishan Singh Bedi beguiled spectators and befuddled batsmen

Cricket for me in the 1970s meant Sunil Gavaskar, Bishan Singh Bedi, Farokh Engineer and Eknath Solkar. Come to think of it, that pretty much covers almost all aspects of the great game.

In Bedi’s passing today at age 77, a big piece of that magic has been erased. On hearing the news, the image that instantly materialized in my mind was Bedi in his flannels and a colorful Patka ambling to the crease and bowling a deceptively lethal delivery. Not only did the ball spin but so did the batsman’s head as well.

What made Bedi even more remarkable was that his runup to the crease was so beguiling as if to cleverly hide the sting that he was about to deliver. Not suspecting lethality in his body language was a fatal mistake so many batsmen, 266 of them to be precise, made during his glorious Test cricket career.

It was amazing how consistently he maintained the length and trajectory of his ball. Between 1967 and 1979 when he played 67 Tests and ten one day internationals Bedi took 266 wickets at an average of 28.71. At his retirement, he was the highest wicket taker for India.

Charismatic and outspoken, Bishan Singh Bedi was a natural cricketing star like so many of his era. The idea that a bowler could claim so many wickets by spinning the ball was quite captivating for me. Bedi, of course, was part of the great Indian spin quartet, the other three being Bhagwat Chandrasekhar, Erapalli Prasanna and S. Venkataraghavan. In the era of menacing fast bowlers from the West Indies, England and Australia these four felt like some great Indian trick.

Watching videos of Bedi’s memorable wicket hauls it becomes even more extraordinary that someone could gently give the ball a flight, length and spin that would look so easy to hit out of the field and yet the batsman just could not. Bedi’s leg spinners often had angles which were bewitching.

The aesthetics of Bedi’s left-arm leg spin to a right-arm batsman are a sight to behold. To be so deadly all the while appearing to be so deceptively harmless was a fantastic talent that Bedi possessed.

Maiden overs, meaning bowling six balls without giving away a single run, was also one of Bedi’s particular skills. As opposed to a fast bowler, who uses speed and swing as his tool, a spinner depends so much on the unpredictability of the way the ball would gently turn either away from or into the batsman.

So much of what Bedi did was through his fingers and wrist without changing the overall body action.

As I said in my Facebook post “Bishan Singh Bedi beguiled spectators and befuddled batsmen.”

Here is to him.

"Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word"

I am reupping, as I have occasionally done, an imaginary interview I had done with Oscar Wilde on his 159th birth anniversary today ten years ago. This was published on October 16, 2023.

Today is his 169th birth anniversary.

***

I sometimes think that Oscar Wilde wrote hundreds of witticisms, aphorisms, epigrams and maxims first and then built his plays and stories around them. Also, many of his characters appear to be Wilde’s alter egos who speak the way he would. They all seem to have been created as dummies whom he would animate with his lines.

On his 159th birth anniversary today, I thought it might be inventive to do a brief imaginary interview where all his answers are quotes from his own characters. There may be some minor rearranging to make them work but by and large they have been used verbatim.

I have added a couple of lines of my own in what some might call sacrilegious intrusion but I think Oscar Wilde would understand. 

The setting of the interview is soon after his release from “gaol” as he prepares to flee to France from England where he was sentenced to three years of hard labor for his homosexuality, in particular his relationship with Lord Alfred Douglas. Imaginary Excerpts:

MC: As you look back at your tumultuous life, which part of your past you wish you could reclaim and relive?

OW: No man is rich enough to buy back his past. Men become old but they never become good. How many men there are in modern life who would like to see their past burning to white ashes before them!

MC: At this stage of your life and career it seems you are quite like a drunkard in the gutter.

OW: We are all in the gutter but some of us are looking at the stars. After all, in this world there are only two tragedies. One is not getting what one wants and the other is getting it. I have experienced both those tragedies. (The last line is mine)

MC: Are you a cynic now that things have gone so terribly wrong?

OW:A cynic is a man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing. Price cannot become value by wearing a couple of diamond rings, mink and mascara. (The second line is mine).

MC: Your homosexuality has prompted the prudish England to treat you as the devil himself.

OW: We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell.

MC: Do you think that the public will eventually forgive you?

OW: Yes; the public is wonderfully tolerant. It forgives everything except genius.

MC: Life seems to have become penurious for you now after such enormous success. How do you think it might affect your natural charms and sense of romance?

OW: Unless one is wealthy there is no use in being a charming fellow. Romance is the privilege of the rich, not the profession of the unemployed.

MC: Do you have much love left now? And if you do, to whom would you give?

OW: To love oneself is the beginning of a life-long romance.

MC: Those who know you well say that you have killed what you loved; your own spirit.

OW: And all men kill the thing they love,

By all let this be heard,

Some do it with a bitter look,

Some with a flattering word,

The coward does it with a kiss,

The brave man with a sword!

And as for those who know me well, they are neither seen nor heard. (The last line is mine).

After months of trepidation, I am coming out as a touchscreen hater

It is official. After months of trepidation, uncertainty and second-guessing myself I am coming out.....as someone who nearly detests his touchscreen phone.

For one, it is too woke for me. At the slightest touch it wakes up and reacts. If the screen is already active, it changes to the next one even with a tiny touch at the edge. I suspect now it changes even when I breathe. Yesterday, I genuinely thought it opened a random app by merely looking at it. I have a strong feeling it may jump out of my hands and start taking morning walks with me, discussing world affairs.

It perceives slights where none exists. Too woke, like I said. I regard myself as preternaturally enlightened and awakened about all human affairs. My phone though seems to surpass me. I think it has acquired consciousness all its own. The other day on my morning walk I tripped over an uneven sidewalk. My phone cackled. Or at least I think it did.

I have decided to go back to the rotary phone where the dial took agonizingly long to turn because of an old, rusty spring as well as layers of grime in its gaps. It might be unwieldy to carry the rotary phone but at least it won't be anywhere close to as woke and sensitive as the one I have now. The only problem is the cable may not go far. Also, I wouldn't be able to surf the net on it nor karaoke. However, I am willing to pay that price to have a device that is not so touch-me-not.

Of Amitabh Bachchan, Peter Ustinov and I

AB by MC

On Amitabh Bachchan's 81st birthday today, I am reminded of the actor, playwright, and director Peter Ustinov, more specifically his delightfully witty autobiography 'Dear Me'. Although it was originally published in 1979, I got to it only in 1990. I was immediately hooked because of Ustinov's effortlessly witty and hilarious writing style. 

I had bought a copy for me sometime in late 1990 and was itching to gift one to someone. That is where Amitabh Bachchan comes in. That Bachchan shared Ustinov's profession was a good enough reason for me. Add to that the fact that I knew that the superstar was a voracious reader.

After an interview with AB sometime in January, 1991 for the New York-based weekly India Abroad and its wire offshoot, India Abroad News Service, I sent him a couple copies of the paper as well as some other newspaper clippings of my wire service story. For good measure, I also sent him a copy of 'Dear Me'. 

As is his wont, AB made it a point to send a formal letter of thanks. In particular, he mentioned that he was reading Ustinov and found it "thoroughly" enjoyable. That was 32 years ago when AB was not yet 50. I had an instinct that he would enjoy Ustinov's wit and evidently he did.

P.S. The headline to this short post accords me too much lumens per square meter or lux. (I refuse to explain whose unit of measurement lux is.)

Of attoseconds, electrons and our irresolvable blurry existence

If you think a nanosecond is unfathomably small at 10 raised to minus nine or a billionth of a second, then think about an attosecond. It is 10 raised to minus 18 or a billionth of a billionth of a second. 

If you want understand electron dynamics, you need to operate at the scale of attoseconds. That's what this year's winners of the Nobel Prize for Physics have been doing. They are Pierre Agostini, Ferenc Krausz and Anne L’Huillier. 

The citation accompanying the prize is striking. It says, "Fast-moving events flow into each other when perceived by humans, just like a film that consists of still images is perceived as continual movement. If we want to investigate really brief events, we need special technology. In the world of electrons, changes occur in a few tenths of an attosecond – an attosecond is so short that there are as many in one second as there have been seconds since the birth of the universe. The laureates’ experiments have produced pulses of light so short that they are measured in attoseconds, thus demonstrating that these pulses can be used to provide images of processes inside atoms and molecules."

Just think about this bit: "an attosecond is so short that there are as many in one second as there have been seconds since the birth of the universe."

To begin with our brains are not equipped to fully process the passage of even one second, let alone a nanosecond, a femtosecond (which is a millionth of a billionth of a second) and then an attosecond. Add to the fact that atoms are the smallest unit of matter. Residing within an atom are electrons, protons and neutrons. It is that electron dynamics that attosecond measurement offers insights into. My point is that it is beyond pointless to grasp this scale because we cannot and yet Agostini. Krausz and L’Huillier did that.

At the atomic level and even smaller, it is no surprise then that our material world becomes a blur within a blur within a blur. Hence, for us it is nonexistent for all practical purposes. So what are we as a life form squabbling and arguing over at our macro scale? Essentially, as a collection of blurry atoms and even blurrier electrons-neutrons-protons we are just entangling our blurs. It does not resolve anything. 

The moral of this post? There is none.