Loo's Motions

Raju Korti

Will the day ever dawn?

As a professional journalist brought up and programmed to think differently, I wonder what's the fuss about. I mean shouldn't we Indians thank our learned Deputy Chairman of Planning Commission Mr Montek Singh Ahluwalia for making as insignificant an issue as toilets part of our national consciousness?
For a population that doesn't spend more than half an hour on shedding unwanted load off its system, Ahluwalia's expansive idea of nationalising Rs 35 lakh on the renovation of two toilets has obviously given a severe constipation to "right thinking" people. But first things first.
I do not know whether Ahluwalia has ever availed the services of the toilets, the kind of which dot the vertical landscape of Mumbai. Two things might happen if he has done that. Either he may have sprinted away from the place with the speed of Carl Lewis or probably soiled his pants even before he could take the right posture. And this I say with due respect to the man whose wisdom has constricted to the more-than-narrrow walls of the toilets used by the honourable members of the Planning Commission.
I have been observant enough to catch expressions that clearly tell you that people are holding on to their bladders or bowels, desperately to head for the comfort of the toilets in their house. I can tell you, its quite a daunting ask given that people commute for sometimes more than two hours in Mumbai's crazy life.
Of course, Mumbai is generously disposed towards its struggling populace. For those who stir out out of their house early morning and return late evenings, the metropolis has a number of Sulabh Shouchalayas (easy access toilets) to relieve them from their revolting tummies. So far so good. But such is their maintenance -- a euphemism for condition -- that you throw up a fit and decide to scurry for your home instead. The more desperate ones come out with a face of a lifetime's experience. To add insult to injury, these toilets hypothecate their services "to the courtesy of a corporator or MLA". You live in a country where you have to thank your leaders for allowing you these small mercies.
But even Mumbai, who our leaders from time to time keep assuring will become Shanghai some day, has the same earthly charms to offer as our ubiquitous ruralside. All those who have lived in Mumbai and are condemned to travel through its suburban trains will know what I mean. Not all those sitting by the window shut their eyes of exhaustion. You need to be commute-hardened and gutsy to witness a line-up of migrant squatters shedding their natural manure and upholding the cause of  environment in an otherwise concrete jungle that Mumbai is often billed as.
The diversity is intriguing. An institution that cannot be accused of having planned anything concrete in its chequered existence, fights shy of using its existing toilets that our natural squatters can't even dream of while lesser mortals are inured to be in the lap of nature. Little wonder, the stink on money being squandered on toilets is bound to linger.
I recall once being part of a popular leader's entourage. Twice Maharashtra's chief minister and presently a union minister -- by a strange coincidence handling a portfolio that's relevant to this subject -- he was then in the Opposition. Midway, most people in the retinue, including our leader, got the natural urge. So all of them got down from their cars to provide man-made Urea to the roadside trees. Nature sure is a great leveller. It got an humble (!) journalist and a top leader to unzip barely five feet away and look at each other askance and with a sly, knowing smile.
So without sounding like a socialist, I would like to request Mr Ahluwalia in all humility that he must make a matching allocation for the "other" toilets as well. Else, it will be our Mumbai and their Shanghai.      

Phir Bhi Dil Hai Hindusthani. That was Raj Kapoor for you.

Raju Korti

Circa 1974. My first dekko of Raj Kapoor was part perchance and part choice. Untill then, I had happened to file past the famed RK Studios in Chembur umpteen number of times without ever being poked by the curious admirer in me to meet the man so often described as the "Greatest Showman" of film industry.
RK was then flush with Bobby's unprecedented juke box office draw and the launch of his son Chintu (Rishi) and a certain Miss Petitite Dimple Kapadia. A perpetual grin lighted up his face and reached right up to his sea blue eyes. The reason wasn't far to seek. The man had virtually gone bankrupt pampering his old dream of Mera Naam Joker, a heavyweight theme that nursed heavyweights. As one who knew better than anyone else in the quicksands of the fickle film industry, RK had failed to guage public pulse with the result that Joker failed to amuse the masses. Bobby was thus a case of desperate situation brooking desperate measures. But it wiped out RK's losses for good. Not that he was averse to experimentation. RK had given ample evidence that he could be sensibly inclined with meaningful cinema like Boot Polish, Jaagte Raho and Teesri Kasam.
RK ushered me into his office with his trademark smile stars usually reserve for their smitten fans. He soon realised I wasn't one and got more matter-of-fact. Actually, I had never looked at him as part of the legendary trinity of Dev Anand and Dilip Kumar. RK wasn't a style icon and didn't have the kind of urbane charisma of Dev. Nor did he put on show the weighty disposition of Dilip Kumar. Off screen, he was just the same lovable, simpleton Chaplinsque tramp who could tug at your heart-strings.
As we settled comfortably to talk about his films and his music, I got first-hand evidence of all those stories of RK being an insatiable glutton. Even during my subsequent meetings with him, I kept wondering how his tummy was flexible to accommodate all that food he relished so much. Every now and then, he would just scoop his index finger from the nearby window to order dosas, wadas, idlis and uttapams. He would also wash them down with Scotch that he would fish out from his coat pockets. And then, his face flushed and sparkling like red wine, he would unspool memories, most of which I knew and had heard.
But RK was as ravenous when it came to movie-making. He would be like a man possessed when he made his cinema. At times he gave the impression that the world didn't exist so engrossed he would get while making a film. He peaked when he would himself go through the arduous process of editing and washing the film. This RK was a complete anti-thesis of the RK people knew. He would shut himself off in the dark room for days on end, often skipping his food and his Scotch. But of course, the moment he was through with the technicalities that sometimes lasted more than a fortnight, RK would fish his pockets for the first swig.
He was, of course, a complete team man and one area he excelled in was music. Stories abounded about how he could harness the talents of composer duo Shankar-Jaikishen. I recall how music aficianados indulged in animated debate on who between the two was closer to RK. I, however, got it from RK himself though he did not say it in very many words.
I am inclined to believe that RK had just that little soft corner for the Gujarati Jaikishen, the handsome take-it-easy man who he thought was cut out for lead roles. But he also had enough head on his shoulders to acknowledge that Andhrite Shankar was the cerebral of the two. He straddled the geniuses of the two without ever losing his upper hand. I still remember how RK was anguished when a certain lady singer was responsible for knocking the hyphen out of SJ. Right from the days of Barsaat and Awaara, RK evinced keen interest in his music. And we all know how it set an entire generation aflame. SJ were to RK what SD Burman was to Dev Anand.
In his expansive moods, RK would never mince words and feelings even when it came to his lady loves. It would be out of place to dwell on those chapters of his life but if one were to learn from his capacity to absorb failures, RK would make a model example.
On his death anniversary yesterday, I went into a flashback. Curiously, I was in the night shift the day he was awarded the Dadasaheb Phalke award by then President R Venkatraman, breaking the protocol and walking upto him to hand it over. Chronic asthmatic, RK was breathless. He never gathered his breath back. More than a fortnight later, the Anaadi who made an entire Soviet Union swoon to his foot-tapping "Awaara hoon.." had lapsed into history. Coincidence willed it that as a editor in-chare of that night shift, I had the misfortune of "cremating" him.