Joy Maharashtra

Imagine had it not been for today 51 years ago, Maharashtra would have been playing footsie with Modi's Gujarat. On May 1, the separation of the two states took place bifurcating the old Bombay state.

The success of Maharashtra is that the Gujaratis have been such an intrinsic part of it and not just financially, although that is a factor. Mumbai is undoubtedly the fulcrum. It isn't the heart of the state; it is the pair of legs - toned, sleek, long but with calves that curve with mischievous intent, and as the legs cross you get a peek into what it has always wallowed in. Basic instinct.

Of course, Maharashtra is more, and I can think of so many memories.

My Puneri sarees bought from a small shop in Lakshmi Road, often the local nine-yard one that I'd use to get extra pleats as well as add to the choli blouse, buying bhakarvadi, riding the Deccan Queen, eating at Dorabjee's, picking up Shrewsburry and ginger biscuits from Kayani's Bakery and watching 'Ghashiram Kotwal' on its last legs with the original cast as a guest of Dr. Mohan Agashe, who just minutes before he was to perform the lead role of Nana Phadnavis was sitting at the ticket counter.

There was the Osho Ashram and long before I went in, I had watched a man in saffron robes meditating with open eyes at the park- limpid eyes that could be meditated upon. I was called back and returned to the real world of Maganlal chikki saved from Lonavla.

There was the village in Mahad where I had gone with some NGO, and we sat in this huge room on a frayed chatai with men in white topis discussing important matters. We spent the night at a nearby guest house and heard dogs barking. In the village there was a beauty parlour and many young women wore sunglasses; their hair was braided and tied with colourful ribbons. I saw the puppet makers, the dancers, the women who cooked in the light from gas lamps.

There was me hitching a ride on a truck because there was no public transport beyond Uran to get to the rehab place in the interiors where I wanted to pay a surprise visit.

There was the meal of thick chapattis with dry dal and garlic chutney, sitting on the floor with women who were once sex workers.

There was the government circuit house that smelled of old jasmine strings worn by the women who had danced for our fat cats the night before. And then there was fried eggs with soggy toast at 6 PM overlooking the lush greenery that only the privileged can afford.

There was a cinema hall in a small town where we could sit anywhere. No popcorn here but hot batata vadas and chaha (tea).

Tea. Cutting chai that is cooked till it looks mean and dark and is then offered in a saucer, the better if it is chipped.

There was Satish at Ganeshpuri who trapped aliens from Mumbai at the bus stand but introduced me to the cheapest and most delicious thali. There was me ordering poha, palak, roti and puranpoli and shrikhand along with 'rice plate' only to realise that rice plate had almost everything. At night he lustily danced to religious music. His plea was to get him a chance in Bollywood because he could shake his pelvis like Mithun Chakraborthy. He was stuck on Disco Dancer.

There is Bollywood. Nothing comes close and nothing can be further from it. Like Dharavi, it has a little of everything and everyone. It lives on other people's dreams. It lives for the day but will outlast the years without growing old.

I open the cupboard and spot the green and maroon saree and can feel the jostling of people in Dadar where I bought it from and the taste of dahi misal I had eaten later at TT Circle still lingering in my mouth . I touch the soft cotton fabric and it has my history woven in it. The history of a day that doesn't fade.