I’ve lived in Bandra 10 years. It has become unwalkable in this time. It wasn’t always so.
In the year of our lord 2000, you fought your way down Hill Road, but then you ducked into St Andrew’s. You pretended, to the people at the Virgin’s statue, to be a worshipper, went past the church looking right, at the faces of people praying for or against, or you took that little path on the left and looked at the names on the gravestones. Same.
Having read the notice board (weddings – none, funerals – one, baptisms – two, choir), you exited from the back gate a little before Salman’s house, responded to the old Muslim’s weighing-scale if you had been good that week, or, more likely, walked on.
And you could actually walk on.
The promenade hadn’t been completed then (I’m not entirely sure whether it had been begun). There were no spectators, and nobody had broadcast their children into open space. Shah Rukh hadn’t bought Mannat, there was no Barista, no Cafe Coffee Day. Land’s End wasn’t yet a Taj property, and you didn’t get X-rayed if you went into it, or if you moved on to inhale at the Fort.
Today the hordes are forever on the promenade in their battle formations; don’t they have barracks to return to?
The outnumbered sounded retreat.
Carter Road and Pali Hill fell soon after to members of the middling-class, their infants squirting about your ankles, aunties in churidar-sneaker sitting on benches, vested girls who walked fastly by you preferring iPod to iContact. Wraiths in polyester burqa, narielwallah mounding his trash, hand-clasping Hindi men, noise.
Turner Road ships them here, and then back. Unending crack of car-horn: alarms sounded by sentries alert to nobody around them.
It’s all worse.
We used to like the promenades, but they attracted the wrong people. We’re convinced they’re a mistake. Bandra was made beautiful by these strips of rock. The mobs, unable to civilise themselves, their neighbourhoods, have taken our share.
– Aakar Patel
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