He was sweating profusely, repeatedly wiping his forehead with a handkerchief in his left hand. With the right hand he would take off and put back his thick, square-frame glasses after rubbing the sweat dripping off his face with the sleeve┬аof his check shirt. He was standing on the kerb. Time and again he would bend forward slightly, looking towards his right. Obviously he was waiting for someone. He was the┬аsame age as my dad.
I had recognised him; many others standing around me would have also known the popular broadcaster Ameen Sayani. Instead of the┬аproverbial “face that┬аlaunched a thousand ships”, his was the baritone that launched a million songs. I was all of 20, an outsider in the dream-city called Bombay, alone and unsure; trying to find my bearings in my first job selling high-end scientific calculating machines to naval dockyard and some scientific institutions in the city. It was the month of June. Monsoon had not hit the city yet. The abnormally high humidity levels were driving the folks to the edge. His shirt was soaked-wet. Unhappy with the weather he looked up, fanning himself with the kerchief.
I looked at him and smiled. I don’t know why I smiled but I know for sure that he smiled back. Hesitantly I walked the six or seven steps to him and bent down as if to touch his feet. He held me from my shoulders and pushed his sweat-soaked-hand in my hand. We shook hands squeezing and wringing his wet kerchief. A bus pulled up and we drew back our hands. We boarded the bus from Santacruz. We only had seven minutes of conversation before he got off at Bandra. His was a familiar voice that went on air every wednesday with Binaca Geetmala and also charmed us with dozens of radio commercials each day. He was ‘going to meet a record company official’, he said. We shook hands again before he got off.
The news of his passing away was an aide-memoire of meeting the man-with-a-golden-voice that humid day. In a sense he too was one of my heroes but I never expected to meet my hero on a bus stop. Thanks Mr Sayani for filling our lives with moments of music and joy, may you now find Lord Himself in your audience.┬а
Mr Ameen Sayani passed away on 21 February 2024 in Mumbai, India.
Ameen Sayani, composite artwork from an image taken from internet.
Lifting myself from under the sheets; or pulling out of a Jaipuri, a duvet, a razai, or a clutch of soft-warm arms┬аis a curse┬аfor the first 120 seconds of the day. I only want to be interacting with┬аthat┬аsomething special┬аwhich had enveloped me for the night.┬аFor the next ten minutes I don’t┬аwant to be seen by anyone nor do I want to see anyone while I offer thanks and prayers to Ra-Horakhty, the combo of Egyptian gods of light and heat.┬а
A glass of water later and a walk out to the terrace having said my greetings to the seven horses that pull the royal chariot of Surya, the only thing I want to smell and see is a cup of hot coffee.
Minutes later, I am still blurred and spaced out – the hair as if an eleven thousand volt current cut through my body from north to south – the eyes still puffed up; the cheeks still red in part and off-colour in other areas slowly sucking the colours back from last night’s half a bottle of rum. The next thing I want to see in my hands is the book that was delicately placed on the headboard last night.┬а
The feet, by then, have found the rhythm, the eyes can now focus, the saliva lined with poison now craves for another cuppa. Sensations having returned to all faculties┬аin turn┬аtingle the ear which feels an instrument, a pencil, entangled in the hair scratching the neck. A scab hurts. Ghosts of┬аundecipherable┬аnotes swim in the crinkled scraps that I fish from under the sheets.┬аRiding the morning┬аbreeze, lyrics┬аof romantic score┬аfloat in тАФ tootle-too of a flute reminds me of ‘Noisy Poems‘ by James Reeves.
The notebook comes alive.┬а Looking at the yellow dahlia┬аblooming┬аin the pot┬аI remind myself,┬а‘there is a┬аlot to live for and celebrate’.┬аI don’t pluck the pretty flower, instead I offer the pot and say, ‘So what if Valentine’s┬аDay is gone – the spring is here, send me a kiss’.
Having picked up eight titles for Ma from a Hindi publishers’ stall I realised it would not be possible for me to carry them in my two hands or lug them on the shoulders as all three were overbooked. I had already bought 23 books. (This is one event and place where I splurge and don’t feel guilty.) As the latest lot of books had been paid for, I didn’t want to disappoint the publisher by returning them. The lady, the publisher that is, was standing right next to me and had figured out my dilemma. She had not only helped me select some titles but was gracious to introduce me to an author and ask her to sign a copy for Ma. Looking at me she said, тАШyou could leave the books here for now and pick them up as you are leavingтАЩ.
Was Jesus talking about a visit to the book fair when he said, тАЬTo carry oneтАЩs own crossтАЭ!
The ladyтАЩs offer was some relief but not the solution to my problem. This was an unplanned and unscheduled visit to the Book Fair as I happened to be in Mandi House for some work. Our driver was absent yesterday who normally doubles up as an enthusiastic visitor to the Mela with me. This time around I had to find a way to offer a sacrifice for the obsession.
At subsequent stalls I enquired if they would dispatch the books to my address if I paid them upfront. The answer was an emphatic No with the head bent down unable to face the reader. At many other stalls too my request was turned down. Brozo and Ola services wanted the books to be brought outside to the gate. Desperate, I was cursing the Mela and the uncouth publishers; a few of them claiming to be anti e-commerce platforms.
I sighed, the good old times were great, publishers were eager to book orders and dispatch later; 30% discount and no postage was the done thing. During the 80s Jhalli Waalas and Collies roamed around the Fair with their cane baskets ready to transfer the booty to any available transport outside the Maidan. Tea and snacks stalls lined up next to Hansdhwani Theatre and the Lake were always helpful in storing the bulging bags of books. Alas, so much is lost with time including the humble cup of regular kadak chai. There is not a stall around the halls which sells strong desi chai.
Wednesday was an easy day for the mela. Bereft of crowd publishers were sitting and yawning. The English paperback churners were, as usual, busy with wannabes to be seen with a certain author. Other than Hindi, other Indian languages were missing, however, what was selling was the magic of Lord Ram. Illustrated colourful volumes on every conceivable fraction of his life and times were stacked up at every tenth stall. There was one that was selling “Bolti Ramayan“, playing dohas from Charitmanas. Marigold garlands and jamun leaves adorned some stalls – incense was burning in front of a title in one of the stalls and a battalion of salesmen were out to lead you to the “spiritual path” with their books. Strangely, missionaries were conspicuous in their absence though what one found in abundance were authors, particularly of the genre called poetry.
Many a reading sessions and ‘meet the author’ events were happening with little audience paying attention to them. Forget the book, a selfie with the author is more important. The best attraction for the selfie-loving-lot were the Arabs and the Sheikhs at Saudi Arabia pavilion. There was a long queue of young and old Indians lined up at the large SA pavilion waiting to take a selfie with the white abaya-wearing Arabs smiling in their chequered red keffiyeh. Give me one reason why someone should be taking a selfie with a group of unknown Arabs, especially knowing well that they don’t even support the Palestinian cause any more. On the other side of their stall I realised тАШDates were the BaitsтАЩ. BTW the Arab nation is the partner country in this year’s fair.
Indian Council of Historical Research (ICHR), the nodal body to document history in the country has put up a large pavilion with the theme ‘Jammu, Kashmir & Ladakh Through the Ages: A Visual Narratives of Communities and Linkages’, which, not surprisingly, has very little space for Islamic or Buddhist heritage of the region. Models of shikaras over a dry lake welcome the visitors. Agar firdaus bar ru-ye zamin ast – where is it I ask?
I wish the NBT had distributed free copies of the Constitution of India to the visitors instead of spending money planting hordes of selfie points with the mahamahim showing a copy of the Constitution. I hope and pray that the people of this great nation preserve and defend the sacrosanct text behind the black cover. There was no avoiding the Orwellian face which was everywhere together with the signs that said, рдЖрдк рдирд┐рдЧрд░рд╛рдиреА рдореЗрдВ рд╣реИрдВ .
However tiring and frustrating, so what if book prices are going through the roof, and who cares if quality international publishers are missing; the mela is a mast place to spend a couple of days at the beginning of spring. One ends up bumping into old friends and getting nostalgic about that book fair where we had dreamt of Pushkin, Chekhov, and Nabokov, where we had recited Sylvia Plath, Ezra Pound, Harper Lee and Dostoevsky; where we sang of peace and тАЬImagine all the peopleтАЭ was our anthem. Ah!
For me, the find of this mela was Promenade Books, an independent publisher of classic literature who have chosen to bring back books that are scarce or out of print. A young Abhay Panwar at its helm is an all-in-one machine doing everything for his nascent publishing house, all by himself. Impressed not only by his choice of titles but also by the cover designs and the production quality I spoke to the charming lad at length. A dropout from St. Stephen’s Delhi, Abhay is almost serving a notice to publishers big and small with his quality and pricing. The enthusiastic and well-read young man explains in detail about each title/author he has produced. Wishing you all the luck Abhay. Best wishes till we meet in the next Fair.
Anas is his name. ‘Anas’ means loving, affectionate, friendly. Look at the size of his collection bag, I call it ‘a cauldron of love‘. It is not his love for cleaning other people’s waste but the love for his family of six who he has to feed. Anyone would┬аbe jealous┬аof a┬аwarehouse of those proportions. It is only 8 in the morning, for him ‘the day has just begun’ and ours is only the third lane in his ‘ first round’. Anas Mahmood is the garbage collector of our neighbourhood. A permanent smile stays pasted on his face.
Anas has cuts on fingers of his right hand. He says, “people are careless, they leave broken glass and other sharp objects in the bags I empty.” He has a separate place under the cart for ”kabad, gatta, bottles and plastic”, those and “discarded packaging helps me make about 80/100 rupees extra per day.” Since Covid people order a lot of stuff online and as a result I get to collect a lot of discarded packaging.
‘Winter is over’, he says, ‘Bosant is coming and this is the time of the year when I am hit by┬аjukham‘, he sneezes and coughs as I step away. I will be fine by Holi, just a month away.’ A dead beedi is dangling between the two middle fingers of his left hand. Taking it to his lips he lights it. Coughing and laughing in turn he moves in and out of the driveways of the houses where garbage bags are lined up. Aren’t you scared of catching an infection? I ask him. ‘Tell me what else to do?’, he questions. No one pays him for garbage collection – neither the residents nor the developer of Millennium City or the municipal authorities.┬а┬а
“рдмреАрдорд╛рд░ рд╣реЛ рдЬрд╛рдУрдЧреЗ – рд╡рд╣реА рд╣рд╛рде рд╕реЗ рдХреВрдбрд╝рд╛ рдЙрдард╛рддреЗ рд╣реЛ рд╡реЛ рд╣реА рдореБрдБрд╣ рдкреЗ рд▓рдЧрддреЗ рд╣реЛ – рдЫрд┐рдГ” A woman reprimands him from the first floor balcony of her house. Shaking his head and brushing aside the warning, Anas pushes the cart ahead to the next house. Anas, I recall was also the name of a┬аcompanion of Prophet Muhammad (PBUH). ‘Anas ibn Malik’ was known for his loyalty and service to the Prophet and is considered a role model for humanity.
Ankahi. Unsaid. 
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