Preface: JK, relax because I’m not going to come after you with my fully-loaded AK-56.

Authored by Suketu Mehta, Maximum City delivers more than it promises. Eminently readable, like a fast-paced thriller, I managed to ruin two nights of sleep to finish it. As the cliché goes, “there’s hardly a dull moment” in this book. Mehta peoples this book with such variegated characters and themes that it is almost impossible to believe it is a personal chronicle of his experiences with Bombay (not Mumbai) the City and Bombay the Human. At the end of the book, you come away feeling that Bombay is definitely a Human Being in itself rather than a city comprising humans.

The book begins with Mehta’s longing to rediscover his lost “personal geography.” He returns to Bombay after about 20 years to trace the changes in the city he has left behind. And the changes are truly sweeping. Which kind of opened my eyes to the concept of change. The changes which seem to be sweeping seem to you to be so when you view them after many years. Yet you barely seem to notice it when it happens around you, as part of your daily life. I can testify to this from personal experience, having lived in Malleshwaram for more than 25 years and now located 25 Kms away from it. Each time I visit Malleshwaram–once a month–I see a new change, which seems striking. Mehta is more shocked, nay angered by the changes that have taken place: his anger is rooted in the cultural, racial, and political aspects of the change. The “ghatis” — a derogatory term applied to local Maharashtrians–in his view, have taken over the cultured neighbourhoods in which he and people of his standing have lived.

The book’s other merit lies in Suketu Mehta’s clever style of introducing tidbits of Bombay’s history without making the account dry and boring. From the history of how Bombay the City came into existence to a famous blast at the Gateway of India (caused by explosives stored in a ship) to the genesis of the wreteched Rent Control Act which is a perennial source of housing problem and heated debates to the tale of Mumbra Devi to the evolution and growth of the Shiv Sena, the historical tapestry is simply delightful to read.

The appeal of Maximum City also lies in the fact that it is personal. As JK rightly points out,

In this book, the author is not a distant spectator, but gets involved with the characters in the book.

He gets involved with the characters in the book and becomes a character himself. I can imagine how difficult it must have been for him to write this book. When you keep meeting characters as varied as prostitutes, beer-bar girls, and hardcore gangsters, day in and day out, the encounters don’t fail to play emotional havoc with you. As an instance, you may end up empathizing and sharing for example, a murderer’s conviction. This reminds me of Nietzsche who said, when fighting with monsters, take care lest you end up becoming a monster yourself.

The book is divided into several major sections, each focussing on distinct and unique aspects of Bombay: Shiv Sena, Bollywood, the Mumbai police, the Underworld, Prostitution, and Spirituality. These exist in any big city but what distinguishes them from other cities is their uniqueness found only in Bombay. Suketu Mehta both confirms certain widely-held myths and shatters certain others. For example, I didn’t know that one of the major contributing factors to Bombay’s urban crowdedness is the result of the misdeeds of a handful of powerful builders–the Rahejas are just one of them–who thwarted a well-thought plan to improve Bombay by expanding housing settlements to the West. Also the fact that several “sharp shooters” of the underworld often change allegiances from this don to that only for cash, and not out of loyalty or conviction. Or the fact that Sanjay Dutt’s character comes across as nothing more than a frightened school boy who likes to identify with the “tough guys” in the hope that they’ll protect him from other tough guys/bullies. Mehta traces this attribute to Dutt’s experiences as a school-going boy who used to routinely get beaten by teachers and bullied by his classmates. Hence his fascination with the dons, his passion for guns, and his obsession with bodybuilding, as the author remarks, Sanjay “was built like a brontosaurus.”

His soujourn with Ajay Lal (most names are changed in the book) a high-ranking cop makes for interesting reading. I however, found it hard to believe when Ajay Lal says he has not touched a single paisa as bribe. Blame it on my cynicism or plain mistrust. Yet, it is believable on several counts: Ajay Lal was prominent in unearthing the D-hand in the Bombay serial blasts, and instrumental in solving sensational crimes. His humiliation at the hands of his own department–transfers, inquires, etc–is the price he pays for his honesty. Mehta also exposes the murky details of “criminals in uniform” aka cops who went on a shooting spree, killing even innocent people merely on unfounded grounds of suspicion, shakes you. Overall, the picture you get is that the efficiency of Bombay cops is top class given the severe constraints under which they are forced to work. The author has titled this section as Second best to Scotland Yard, but the characters in this section say it is far superior to Scotland Yard. It is definitely believable.

The message is clear: don’t mess with cops. Because they can use the law to justify murder. On the subject of law, an incident is telling: a Judge telephones Chotta Shakeel to recover a loan! Suketu’s journey into the underworld didn’t really impress me much except for the glimpses he gives into the gangsters’ lives. Perhaps he has gone overboard in romanticizing their lives, recounting their lifestyles, their close calls, their loves, sex lives, bravado, etc in far more detail than is necessary.

To me the most interesting–and moving–portion of the book was the beer bar life. I can devote an entire blog entry to this alone. The lives of Honey, a cross-dresser, and Mona Lisa, a 20ish dancer are very revealing. To borrow from T.S. Elliot, I can only say this much about the beer-bar people: their lives can be termed as the “Human Wasteland.”

Bollywood naturally gets lots of pages. It’s no secret that to a large section, Bombay=Bollywood, although the Bollywoodeans themselves hate that term being applied to the Hindi film industry. The quirks of film making (and the filmmakers themselves) are sometimes, hilarious to the point of being ridiculous. Mahesh Bhatt gets a subtle whipping; hardly noticeable, but it’s there. And Vidu Vinod Chopra, the man who makes films for ulloos (owls) comes across as very temperamental but possessively friendly. He makes a politically-correct film called Mission Kashmir, which initially is a success, but nosedives later. I’ve seen the Chinese torture film and it has nothing to say. Suketu is part of the film’s script writing team. And he testifies to the insipidity of writing the script in an industry where concerns apart from a strong script/story take precedence. And Mission Kashmir deserves the fate it received at the box office. Suketu Mehta unfortunately restricts his Bollywood jaunt to just a handful of people: Vidu Vinod Chopra (lots of pages), Mahesh Bhatt, Tanuja Chandra, Sanjay Dutt, and a passing mention of Anu Malik. I wish he’d dealt with the subject in a little more detail. You cannot find anything really interesting here, a stark contrast with the way he has dealt with the police, underworld, and the Shiv Sena.

The theme of Bombay being the city of dreams gets full attention in the book. From Girish, a struggling computer programmer to Babbanji a juvenile poet living on the streets, these “ordinary” characters have very poignant stories to tell. Their lives enmeshed with the larger life of Bombay, the Human is stark, gripping, and very real. Girish comes across as a frustrated, yet very empathic soul. His sole mission in life is to “bring up others,” that is, to better others’ lives. His resourcefulness in securing jobs for even strangers in need is indeed astonishing. So is the character of Babbanji, a very young dreamer who forsakes another Wasteland Bihar to pursue his dreams of becoming a poet. His welcome acceptance of a life of sleeping on the pavements, his single minded determination to versify the lives of strugglers, and his refusal to take a job that saps his poetic energies endears us to him. Something in this boy’s character touched a raw nerve in me. In an irony of sorts (it’s best read), Babbanji returns to his native.

As to the flaws of the book, there are several. For one, the author frequently dons the role of a judge passing a sentence without fully understanding the case. I mentioned earlier about the stuff where Suketu says the ghatis have taken over Bombay. To elaborate, the author’s blame for Bombay’s degeneration squarely lies on this “ghati” aspect and the Shiv Sena. He comes across as an over-zealous evangelist of Secularism. The chapters on the Shiv Sena provide a highly partisan account of the Bombay riots–for example, his affinity to the Srikrishna Commission Report–while he seems supremely detached when he gives an account of the gangsters and other people involved in the Bombay blasts. He writes with disapproval his perceptions of the conversations he had with Sunil, a Shiv Sena leader while he doesn’t do the same after speaking to some of the Muslim brethren involved in the blasts. His acerbity is more than revealed in the pages that record his meeting with Bal Thackeray. He says to this effect: “… the man who is more than anybody responsible for the ruin of Bombay.” For the record, I detest everything Thackeray stands for. My grouse is that Suketu should’ve presented the case from both sides of the coin.

What I was equally surprised with is one aspect of research. The buildup of ideas, and in fact, the overall presentation of the book speaks volumes about the breadth and depth of his research. Yet, one omission is glaring: he relies entirely on the news reports and analyses of the secular Indian media without bothering to read alternate viewpoints; or if he’s read them, doesn’t reproduce the same in the book. He trusts the usual suspects: Teesta Setalvad, Javed Anand, and their ilk. This is not to suggest that anything they say is automatically false, but given their record, a closer examination is required–which our author hasn’t evidently cared to do.

Another flaw in the book is the author’s seeming obsession with the underworld. It is definitely dangerous (and fascinating to some) territory and Suketu Mehta has done an admirable job at great personal risk but he gives a larger-than-life impression of the shady characters. It doesn’t take a genius to reach the conclusions he has reached: that these guys share the same insecurities, fear, and have the same, “normal” human weaknesses, but to devote tens of pages to this is pointless. The feeling that the writer is trying to convince something is palpable: he stresses on their religious lives, their abstinence from meat and sex, and other “virtues” repeatedly.

Perhaps, the greatest let down of this book is the final chapter on a wealthy diamond businessman who turns to Jain asceticism. While there are some interesting tidbits–mostly cultural and ceremonial–the entire section is long-drawn with no clear meaning or message. He echoes a popular but misconceived notion about Jainism being a violent religion personally. The misconception again, is a product of viewing the religion from West-tinted glasses. Jainism calls for a good deal of self-mortification: hair should be pulled out from the roots to prevent its regrowth, obtaining food by means of begging (the alternative is of course, starvation/hunger), walking barefoot, not walking on tar roads… a whole list of prohibitions. These are merely the toddler steps en route to reach the final goal of Salvation, the means to the end. When you therefore look at the criticism, it is evident that it is directed at the means, not the end. The list of self-mortification acts is aimed at purifying the mind, to remove violence in thought and deed. And you come away wondering, was this chapter necessary at all?

This defect percolates to the closing of the book, which I felt was a let down. The author gives us few meaningful insights, but nothing new, or nothing which has not already been said by this or that article or book.

Maximum City on the whole is an eminently readable book if for no other reason, but for the canvas the author has chosen and the wonderful pictures he has painted therein. Its deliciousness also lies in the fact that he has personally experienced what most of us only dream of doing: exploring the darker side of an animal of a city; it gives us a voyeuristic pleasure.

Enjoyable, really.

Tags: Books