no more wrought than the simplest of iron railings. In the morning, he picks up his boss and drives him ten minutes to his office. Nine hours later, he has to be back at the same spot to retrieve him. In the interim, he twiddles his thumbs or takes a nap in the driver’s seat.
His only other fixed task comes at four o’clock in the afternoon, when he has to drop off the maid at MahalaxmiRacecourse. He waits in the car as she walks the dog. Occasionally, his employer might just have meetings outside the office or require a lift to the airport. Babu’s napping may also have to work around the odd errand, such as dropping off a suit at the cleaners or stocking up on dog food.
The nights are different. If his boss is heading out, then Babu will often stay late to ferry him home. He’ll eat at a pavement cafe as his boss wines and dines. His knowledge of the city’s top eateries (‘Did you try the smoked salmon at Olive?’) and hottest clubs (‘Prive, Fridays. China House, Saturdays’) outstrips that of most guidebook writers.
All this for a base wage of just over eleven thousand rupees a month. With his Diwali bonus and overtime, he might add an extra three or four thousand on top. That makes him better off than most in the slum. The average income of his neighbours is around eight thousand rupees, Babu reckons. Still, in a city with some of the highest property rents in the world, his salary doesn’t stretch very far.
Indians – poor Indians especially – are unnervingly direct about their incomes. On that initial drive back from the airport, Babu had interrogated me about my income. I answered evasively. Journalism, he resolved, was a poor career choice. I struggled to disagree.
Unperturbed, he offered me in return a full breakdown of his personal finances. His largest single expenditure is his rent, which sets him back two thousand rupees per month. Babu gives his elderly parents a similar figure ‘for rations and all’. An extra one thousand goes on their medicine. At home, he has the children’s schooling and extra tuition to cover, plus the food and electricity bills. Jyoti, meanwhile, is anaemic and has bleeding gums that require expensive treatment. She’s also just started on a weight-loss programme. The course requires a half-kilo jar of diet supplement, at one thousand three hundred and fifty rupees each. ‘She’s lost one kilogram in a week,’ says Babu, evidently pleased with the result. Other than that, he spends fifty rupees every day on petrolgoing to and from work. Occasionally he buys beer, although he claims to ‘hate the alcohol’. He usually skips lunch.
‘By the tenth of the month, you are finishing the money. On the fifteenth or twentieth, you ask for advance from your boss. Because money doesn’t wait. It has to spend,’ he’d concluded philosophically.
During our morning ride to the slum, Babu had been in typically expansive mood. Weaving down the thinning peninsula, the born-and-bred Mumbaiker pointed out the tourist spots. Victoria Terminus (‘built by the Britishers, actually’), Churchgate station (‘one million commuting people every day’), the University of Mumbai (‘India’s oldest university’), the Session Court (‘today the crime is too much’), Old Maiden (‘for the playing of the cricket’), the Lawn Tennis Association (‘for the playing of the tennis’).
Parallel to his official tour ran a more personalised commentary. He’d shown me the office block at Nariman Point where he’d had his first job, pulping fruit at his cousin’s juice kiosk. He’d pointed out the evening college by Metro Cinema where he’d studied English. I’d been taken past the bodybuilder’s gym in Colaba where he’d exercised as a younger man (‘You know Shantaram , the book? The author used to train there actually. Madonna went once. Her picture and all is on the wall’). We’d briefly parked up at the apartment block in Kuffe Parade where he’d met Jyoti. She was
His only other fixed task comes at four o’clock in the afternoon, when he has to drop off the maid at MahalaxmiRacecourse. He waits in the car as she walks the dog. Occasionally, his employer might just have meetings outside the office or require a lift to the airport. Babu’s napping may also have to work around the odd errand, such as dropping off a suit at the cleaners or stocking up on dog food.
The nights are different. If his boss is heading out, then Babu will often stay late to ferry him home. He’ll eat at a pavement cafe as his boss wines and dines. His knowledge of the city’s top eateries (‘Did you try the smoked salmon at Olive?’) and hottest clubs (‘Prive, Fridays. China House, Saturdays’) outstrips that of most guidebook writers.
All this for a base wage of just over eleven thousand rupees a month. With his Diwali bonus and overtime, he might add an extra three or four thousand on top. That makes him better off than most in the slum. The average income of his neighbours is around eight thousand rupees, Babu reckons. Still, in a city with some of the highest property rents in the world, his salary doesn’t stretch very far.
Indians – poor Indians especially – are unnervingly direct about their incomes. On that initial drive back from the airport, Babu had interrogated me about my income. I answered evasively. Journalism, he resolved, was a poor career choice. I struggled to disagree.
Unperturbed, he offered me in return a full breakdown of his personal finances. His largest single expenditure is his rent, which sets him back two thousand rupees per month. Babu gives his elderly parents a similar figure ‘for rations and all’. An extra one thousand goes on their medicine. At home, he has the children’s schooling and extra tuition to cover, plus the food and electricity bills. Jyoti, meanwhile, is anaemic and has bleeding gums that require expensive treatment. She’s also just started on a weight-loss programme. The course requires a half-kilo jar of diet supplement, at one thousand three hundred and fifty rupees each. ‘She’s lost one kilogram in a week,’ says Babu, evidently pleased with the result. Other than that, he spends fifty rupees every day on petrolgoing to and from work. Occasionally he buys beer, although he claims to ‘hate the alcohol’. He usually skips lunch.
‘By the tenth of the month, you are finishing the money. On the fifteenth or twentieth, you ask for advance from your boss. Because money doesn’t wait. It has to spend,’ he’d concluded philosophically.
During our morning ride to the slum, Babu had been in typically expansive mood. Weaving down the thinning peninsula, the born-and-bred Mumbaiker pointed out the tourist spots. Victoria Terminus (‘built by the Britishers, actually’), Churchgate station (‘one million commuting people every day’), the University of Mumbai (‘India’s oldest university’), the Session Court (‘today the crime is too much’), Old Maiden (‘for the playing of the cricket’), the Lawn Tennis Association (‘for the playing of the tennis’).
Parallel to his official tour ran a more personalised commentary. He’d shown me the office block at Nariman Point where he’d had his first job, pulping fruit at his cousin’s juice kiosk. He’d pointed out the evening college by Metro Cinema where he’d studied English. I’d been taken past the bodybuilder’s gym in Colaba where he’d exercised as a younger man (‘You know Shantaram , the book? The author used to train there actually. Madonna went once. Her picture and all is on the wall’). We’d briefly parked up at the apartment block in Kuffe Parade where he’d met Jyoti. She was
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