"Aye Dil Hai Mushkil Jeena Yahan
Zara Hat Ke Zara Bach Ke, Yeh Hai Bombay Meri Jaan
Kahin Building Kahin Traame, Kahin Motor Kahin Mill
Milta Hai Yahan Sab Kuchh Ik Milta Nahin Dil
Insaan Ka Nahin Kahin Naam-o-nishaan
Zara Hat Ke Zara Bach Ke, Yeh Hai Bombay Meri Jaan
Kahin Satta, Kahin Patta Kahin Chori Kahin Res
Kahin Daaka, Kahin Phaaka Kahin Thokar Kahin Thes
Bekaaro Ke Hain Kai Kaam Yahan
Zara Hat Ke Zara Bach Ke, Yeh Hai Bombay Meri Jaan
Beghar Ko Aawara Yahan Kehte Has Has
Khud Kaate Gale Sabke Kahe Isko Business
Ik Cheez Ke Hain Kai Naam Yahan
Zara Hat Ke Zara Bach Ke, Yeh Hai Bombay Meri Jaan
Bura Duniya Woh Hai Kehta Aisa Bhola Tu Na Ban
Jo Hai Karta Woh Hai Bharta Hai Yahan Ka Yeh Chalan
Tadbeer Nahin Chalne Ki Yahan
Yeh Hai Bombay, Yeh Hai Bombay, Yeh Hai Bombay Meri Jaan
Aye Dil Hai Aasaa Jeena Yahan
Suno Mister, Suno Bandhu, Yeh Hai Bombay Meri Jaan
Aye Dil Hai Mushkil Jeena Yahan
Zara Hat Ke Zara Bach Ke, Yeh Hai Bombay Meri Jaan."
Bombay. Bombay of the 50's. A place and time of which i was part of neither. And yet I have memories. Memories manufactured by celluloid dream merchants. Memories coloured by sepia polaroids.
A time of innocence. Even at its cynical best. Lost.
Really, who today, would lament,
"Kahin satta, kahin patta kahin chori kahin res
Kahin daaka, kahin phaaka kahin thokar kahin thes"?
Who would mourn,
"Kahin Building Kahin Traame, Kahin Motor Kahin Mill
Milta Hai Yahan Sab Kuchh Ik Milta Nahin Dil"?
Most would find it utterly risible! The more sensitive sorts, would, at most,look back at the olden times, heave a nostalgia-tinged sigh at the romance of yore...
And one can hardly blame them. Had the poet himself been around, he would have been bewildered and lost in his own city, probably chewing his words! Atleast the goons of his times were rooted in the city, not in some faraway Dubai, with nary an attachment with the throbbing pulse of Bombay, its jaan.
The 50's have gone. Taken away Bombay with it. Bombay of the Parsis; Bombay, whose own sound was that of the swish of the Arabian and the click-clock of the horse-hoof, whether on the derby field or on the phaeton down Marine Drive; Bombay that the film-wallahs were slowly turning into the magic-dom of tinsel town; Bombay, where high Anglicism coalesced easily with plaebian rusticity, both offshoots of the new industrial culture...
Lost. Gone forever. Dreadful sorry, Clementine.
4 comments:
i have been to bombay only once, and did not stray beyond the kala Ghoda-marine drive arc. but that is irrelevant. what remains is still the queen's necklace at night and the mild, almost lullabish, bustle of the arabian sea almost immediately beneath your feet. at 12 at night, with the worli sea face at the front lit up with neon dots on long thin aluminium posts, and with no one to tell you no, you have the entire sprawl for designing your living dreamscape. i believe in the spirit of bombay, so what if the flesh is weak? let's create more and more bombays in the mind.
by the way, I guess you have seen khoya khoya chand lately? and are majorly into guru dutt?
I am into guru dutt...not majorly, though...no, i havent seen the movie, nor have i ever been to Bombay!
I am into guru dutt...not majorly, though...no, i havent seen the movie, nor have i ever been to Bombay!
Post a Comment