‘Babuuuu…’
The song starts in a true Mumbaiyya vein, breaks into ‘…babu samjho ishare, horn pukare…’, and with that the three Kumar brothers take us on a merry spin around some now-identifiable-now-not parts of South Bombay in the film Chalti Ka Naam Gadi (1958). Eros Cinema stands tall in the background as we go through peopled streets and watch walkers, workers, shoppers, and idlers negotiate space between taxis and trams. Everything and everyone is on the move. ‘…Yahan chalti ko gaadi kehte hain pyare’, and it seems as if one will cease to exist if one stops. Point noted, and we take the city in stride.
But only until we are plucked out of the fun and thrown head-on into the haunting alienation and angst of Farouque Shaikh as a taxi driver walking the tight rope of inclusion and exclusion as he motors through the city quite soul-lessly in this song from the film Gaman (1978),
‘Seene main jalan ankhon main toofan sa kyun hai,
is shaher main har shaks pareshan sa kyun hai…’
While this song uncomfortably tears at you, Bambai Nagariya from the fairly recent Taxi No. 9211 (2006) does so in quick montages of the city. It is a young, fast tour of Mumbai from Rajabai Tower to Marine Drive, VT, Oval Maidan, Fort, dance bars, people climbing onto BEST buses and trains, moving, throwing things, shoving, pushing, hitting, working, counting money, and sleeping on the footpath. The entire city is experienced at a street level with poignant lines like ‘…sone ki raahon main sone ko jagah nahin hai…’ that evoke Mark Twain’s famous observation on the al fresco sleeping forms on Bombay footpaths, comparing them to “counterfeit corpses”, in his book Follow the Equator.
A still from Iktara
That brings us to the ever-so important concern of the middle class to own a house in the space-starved city. The film Gharaonda (1977) identifies this aspiration and through the song ‘Do deewane shaher mein, raat mein dopahar mein…aabodana dhoondte hain’ shows us a couple at a construction site dreaming about their perfect “home” before tying the knot. The asmani dreams come crashing when they lose their money to the builders and the flat never comes up. Identifiable, right? The dream turns into a nightmare, and the as the mood changes so does the song, to ‘Ek akela is shaher mein…’ tying urban challenge to loneliness in the face of a shattered dream.
But Mumbai does allow space to dream, and rented accommodations become sites for those to take root, often shared by youngsters who flock to the city chasing their dreams. Marine Drive as a site of reflection in contemporary Mumbai comes across beautifully in the song ‘Goonja sa hai koi iktara…’ from the film Wake Up Sid! (2009). The iktara traditionally used to spread wisdom finds its ways into the lyrics of the song as Konkona Sen Sharma’s character connects with her inner self and has a moment of realisation that her flat mate is also her soulmate. The titular Sid, on the other hand, ignorant of her feelings, wakes up and chases his dreams. Two awakenings merge in the frame with the tetrapods softening the tide’s erosive action as the waves gently flow around the table set for two against the sun and the sea.
While the rain makes Mumbai stop today, this wasn’t the case in the ’70s. The rains didn’t frighten or flood; it was made romance, promises, and a turn of season. That emotion is wonderfully captured in the song ‘Rimjhim gire saawan, sulag sulag jaye mann…’ from Manzil (1979), in which Amitabh Bachchan and Moushumi Chatterjee, saree, suit et al, take us for walk in the rains, splashing water at Flora Fountain and Oval Maidan, with the Rajabai Clock Tower and High Court bearing witness to them revelling, completely unmindful of the rain or, for that matter, people under black umbrellas going about their business. They walk on, cling, and indulge in some innocent PDA at Marine Drive, without the cops or the moral police breathing down their neck. The song freezes the romance and magic of Bombay in the rains.
The romance lifts as we shift our gaze into the 9:10 a.m. Western Railway local train from Bandra to Churchgate in Baaton Baaton Mein (1979) and watch the love story of Tony and Nancy unfurl over the song ‘Suniye, kahiye…baaton baaton mein pyar ho jayega’. Through the song, we get a peek into the unique visual and cultural landscape of Bandra and the lives of the Catholic community. Albeit stereotypical, we trace Tony and Nancy’s love developing in local trains and through dates at Bandra bandstand – before the big film stars nested in here.
Interestingly, what no song, not even the recent one from Aashiqui 2 (2013) ‘Chahoon mein ya na…’ or the loud, lavni-style dance with Vidya Balan as a kolin ‘Mala Jau de’ from Ferrari ki Sawari (2012), could do for Worli koliwada, Coldplay did with Hymn for the Weekend. They got eyeballs on this narrow stretch of land that lies between Worli and Bandra, celebrating its capacity to hold on to a Koli way of life despite the developers knocking on doors. The colourful temple towers, bylanes, and the band playing against the backdrop of sunset, sea, and trawlers stays in the mind’s eye.
You can dance to the tunes of the city a la Amitabh Bachchan in ‘Yeh hai Mumbai Nagariya tu dekh babua’ from the movie Don (1978), pointing out the various contradictions the city is made of, or you can be your ‘muqaddar ka sikandar’ and take on the city. The city makes all such allowances as people continue to bet on it. It manifests itself as a haadson ka shaher for the ones who cannot adapt to its pace and people, but for the ones who can, the song changes seamlessly from ‘Aye dil hai mushkil jeena yahan…’, the Bombay classic from CID (1956) to ‘Aye dil hai aasan jeena yahan…yeh hai Bombay meri jaan.’ You can’t help but fall in love with Mumbai. It has no laundry list of rules. It is infectious, and it is said that once you start living in Mumbai, working in Mumbai, you cannot live anywhere else.
You just have to sing the song right…
— with arrangements from citystory.com
