BRT – II

I did not get a chance to respond to the anonymous comment – mainly because I was busy and then I was patting my back for writing so well, that legions of readers are now attracted to my blog and one has left a comment!

Okay, just kidding. The anonymous comment brings out some points of success of the BRT in Mexico City, but unfortunately, does not answer any of the questions posed or issues raised. I will not be very satisfied with the analogy that just because of worked for Mexico City and it also is working well for Bogotá by the way, it will also work for Pune.

BRT has already killed one person – the construction has barricaded some lanes on Satara Road and a tempo and a motorcyclist thought they could defy laws of physics and be in one place at the same time resulting in to a crash that was fatal to the motorcyclist. Okay, so it is BRT’s fault but I fear there will be a few more such incidences and I do say that with some asperity because our traffic sense is going from bad to worse to worst and then some more and our sense of planning at construction sites is also going from bad to worse...you get the point....

A few civic bodies are now asking how both the BRT and our dream of flyovers are going to fit together. Many others are asking would the ability to carry about 15,000 passengers in one direction in BRT be sufficient today and would it be sufficient in next five years. And that is just looking at five years not any farther than that. Now some civic authority (something to do with road transportation, I am sorry, but I do not remember who) is threatening the stop BRT right in its tracks because some prior approvals are pending. Is it just a start of the hardships? Anyone, remember how long the construction of the flyover on Ganeshkind Road has been going on now? Whose purse is the cost of that delayed project coming from? No one seems to be interested in an open debate before the project goes open. It is this that pains me more than the utility of the BRT. Sigh.

Dear Anonymous, if you happen to wander over hither again, will you please elucidate your views more?

Mrs. Smith

Mrs. Smith switched off the TV in the afternoon, bored of surfing from Judge Judy to Judge Alex and not finding them amusing. The crumpled copy of the Times of San Francisco lay on the coffee table. When did this newspaper go from being one of the most prestigious to a full page 3 – she could not help think going back to the days when Mr. Smith and she had discussed the opinions and editorials over coffee on one of the quaint coffee shops in Berkeley. Now, it showed pictures of only Hollywood and Bollywood celebrities. The hot Bollywood actress Padma Chavan and her boyfriend Ganpat Patil had been donning the newspaper ever since they arrived in San Francisco. One producer, Suraj Bhartadya was told by someone that houses on hills of San Francisco, overlooking from I-580, look exactly like the slums of Mumbai seen from the descending plane over Mumbai Airport. He really wanted to shoot in Ghatkopar but ever since the serial bomb blasts, getting permission was difficult. And since Suraj wanted authentic environs for his new movie A Wimpy Heart, he traveled with all his crew to San Francisco. What twisted logic – Mrs. Smith thought to herself. Since arriving here, Padma and Ganpat had taken a trip to the Fisherman’s Wharf, traveled in the BART, tasted sourdough bread and done all the things that Mr. and Mrs. Smith had founding boring.

The phone rang cutting through the quiet of the downtown neighborhood. “Hi Honey, did you eat?” said the familiar voice of Mr. Smith. Since they had had three children, Mrs. Smith had given up her career as Lead Graphic Designer and was a full time homemaker now. Mr. Smith because of his talent and excellent communication skills had risen fast in one of the prestigious IT companies. He was now handling multiple projects with multiple overseas clients. He would come back home very late. “Client calls; managing international time zones and all, you know…there was such a big to do list after the call…” Mr. Smith had sighed only last night. His late nights were really putting strain on their marriage, but his unending love and her devotion withstood any pressure any client could put. Never did he fail in calling her every afternoon.

Mrs. Smith came back to her den. Shiloh was napping in the afternoon. The family poodle had also curled up under the rug on the sofa. Mrs. Smith still had two hours before she would pick up Maddox and Zahara from the school. She opened the volume of Denial and was completely absorbed in it.

The baby monitor hummed as Shiloh stirred. It was time to wake her up and drive to the House of Liberty School that Maddox and Zahara went to in the upscale neighborhood of San Francisco. Maddox and Zahara needed to be picked up on time for their Tae Kwan Do classes. Mrs. Smith got ready, put Shiloh in her Volvo S80 and drove down to the school. The school was buzzing with activity and to her surprise she saw a lot of guards. Other mothers were careening over the barricade and some sort of discussions were going on with very South-Asian looking bulky men. Shamsher Singh Bahaddur was trying to keep the mothers from entering the school. A cat eyed, steroid induced muscled Dheer Raj a.k.a. Tiger was blocking the other door. Mrs. Smith saw the familiar faces of her friends and walked over. She was told, some film with that Bollywood actress Padma Chavan is being shot in the school. All our kids are inside…and they are not letting us in or letting the kids out. Ah, Ganpat – he is so sexy, Mrs. Smith thought, if only Mr. Smith worked out…but her friends were already in tears and that brought Mrs. Smith to the real world. Mrs. Smith squirmed. Maddox has not been eating well lately. He did not eat his breakfast properly…not sure, if he ate his lunch, he must be hungry. And Zahara – the little one gets so excited about the Tae Kwan Do…what if she misses it today. And how long do I have to wait here? Otherwise, I would have got some baby formula for Shiloh. Oh, my God…do these people really have to do this? My Babies…she clasped one friend’s hand and consoled the other lachrymose one. The Principal will do something, after all, he is a man of principles – she heard someone say. But the Principal acquiesced to Shamsher’s demand that mothers move away immediately, for he feared for Padma’s life.

There was a din at the school gates and some mother’s were trying to get past the two bulky guards. But Shamsher and Raj’s muscles were not only steroids…Shamsher pushed the mothers. A friend twisted her ankle in the small stampede. Mrs. Smith heard Shamsher shout – “you bloody…” before she bent over to help her friend. It is good that she did not hear the complete sentence.

The Police were called and they promptly arrested the guards for racial slur. The mother’s were relieved to see their kids come rushing out of the school. The next day, reading The Times of San Francisco, Mrs. Smith learned that Ganpat then met the LAPD Commissioner and said sorry.

Mr. Smith kissed her good-bye and to her, his lips felt like those of Ganpat the hunk!

Why I don’t buy BRT

Traffic woes are sadly common man’s problems. When a dignitary (and I use that word loosely) comes, barricaded roads, police patrolling, manually controlled signals and preferential treatment to the cavalcade precludes himer from facing the problems faced by lesser mortals. We may or may not solve these problems. And whether Tata creates an Indian Volkswagen or Ford makes profit, face it, mass transit is the only way to go forward. This, they say will automatically solve the traffic woes. The moribund PMT in Pune is so bad that even someone living on daily wages does not prefer that mode of transport.

Indian politicians are known for their ingenuity in creating income sources under the table and it is no wonders that that breed in Pune in cohorts with its bureaucratic counterparts would jump on something as lucrative as a Bus Rapid Transit System.

The way the deal was passed – well, it smells fishy for sure. The core point perhaps is not on the merits and demerits of the system, but rather it benefits Suresh Kalmadi and hence Ajit Pawar is feeling sore about it – ideological differences between Congress and Nationalist Congress not withstanding.

But here is a practical problem…the pictures of the scheme and some material that I have read indicate this:

1. The buses will run in the center of the street, two lanes, one on each side, will be reserved for this.
2. Two lanes on each side will be reserved for normal vehicular traffic.
3. One lane on each side will be reserved for cycles and pedestrians.
4. Special traffic lights will be mounted to give preferential treatment to the buses and also to enable the pedestrians crossing roads who use BRT.

Road conditions in Pune are well know…we cannot get a straight road constructed, without potholes and properly marked lanes, then this special requirement for BRT is certainly difficult – not impossible, but difficult to achieve.

Road manners and mentality of Pune drivers is also notorious. The special traffic lights for buses and pedestrians will only bring out jealousy and road rage.

Experts have already expressed concerns that if we plan to have two or three stops in span of a kilometer, it will never allow the bus to go at a high speed, making the Rapid in BRT inconsequential.

And most important, the above plan suggests that wherever BRT goes, we will need a dedicated 8-lane highway. Let’s face it – Pune is not Atlanta. And in the present scenario, if we talk of demolishing existing structures and widen roads, I am not sure how much the BRT project will be mired in litigations, down right hooliganism and corruption.

Puneiets are known as nay-sayers. I have done my part of it! But what pains me is without much debate and expert opinions; a huge investment is being planned. At the end if this scheme is not as successful as it is touted, who pays for it?

Two Obituaries

Sometimes, people get old and die. You feel bad, remember them and then move on with the memories. With a working mother, I spent most of my childhood in company of my grandmother. May be, that’s why I have certain degree of affection for a cotton-saree clad, wrinkled faced, gray haired, thick-glassed women. Two such individuals I know are no more. They both were old and wrinkled but pleasant.

They say you cannot choose neighbors, friends yes, but not neighbors. I guess, at one time we were too lucky to be believed. Gurjar Aji and Manda Tai followed us as neighbors a few months after we moved into a rented apartment. Actually, they lived there for a few years before us, but both were in Canada when we moved in. At 84, Aji was as young as they come. A gem of a person she was always excited about something. A life full of hardships was endured and the swarthy face showed it. Aji’s mother was chronically ill, so Aji dropped out of the school early on. Her childhood gave her opportunities not only to learn to take care of chores at home but also cycling and swimming. After her wedding, she came to Dadar. But low paying salaries and big families were the pain areas. Aji took to tutoring girls in swimming and earned some money for her family. The conditions were tough, but she encouraged her son to get into IIT and never was more proud of him. The son eventually went to US and then to Canada. After Aji’s husband and mother-in-law passed away, she also moved to Canada. A life in new country, along with new people, new neighbors, no friends or relatives around…but she coped well. Until an untimely widowhood of her daughter brought her back to India. She shuttled between the two countries and enjoyed her time in each as much as her health would allow.

It was not difficult to have Aji in excited state of mind. She would be excited about anything – a film, making tea for everyone in the afternoon, chatting with the neighbors, preparing pickles before the rainy season, knitting, new books or clothes. She had a knack of taking people along with her and enjoying life. She would worry about my food if my parents were away and invite me for meals. A visit from her son and grandchildren from Canada brought a sparkle to her eye. Our floor was lively because of her presence. After the duo left again for Canada, the closed door disturbed me every time coming out of the elevator, so used were we to her presence. Everyone knew Aji was old, but no one accepted she would not return. Providence had different plans for her. Eventually we also moved away with a promise to keep in touch. A phone call told us of her departure. Peacefully, as happy as she was always.

The same day, another phone call came in with another bad news. Seeing my father’s number on the caller-id was information enough for me. Another old lady had finally left us for her abode. In my family, she was affectionately called Ranga-Mamee, otherwise only Mamee. She was my father’s maternal uncle’s wife. Large families tend to shorten names! My grandmother’s youngest brother – Shrirang became Ranga to her and Ranga-mama to my father and his siblings, Mama’s wife carried the moniker forward in its feminine format. A fair, tall, educated lady had endured all the hardships in life but remained steadfast. She became surrogate mother to my father and many of my uncles and aunts who came to Mumbai for further studies or jobs. And when the retired life was getting easy, Mama’s early death made Mamee lonely. A broken hip-bone brought a dependent-life style. Mamee never recovered from it completely but dragged on for years. Three years back, when I met her, she was wearing black glasses to protect her cataract operated eyes and carried a stick to help her walk. She firmly clasped my hand and wouldn’t let go for a long time – lost in old days, telling me stories of old times. Old age eventually caught on bringing multiple organ failures – unfortunately one-by-one. A comatose Mamee did not recognize my father when he visited her in the hospital; forget about the care taken by her tired daughters. But I still remember the younger old-lady – a visit to our home once or twice a year would bring lot of joy. Mamee would have stories to tell and affection to shower. For such a pleasant lady, when death took over, he caused a lot of pain…but so was her fate.