My mother was born in the quiet coastal village of Saronda, 120 km to the north of Mumbai. It was a provincial birth that Ma is not proud of: with barely a thousand residents, the little hamlet is hardly a bustling centre, and since the nearest hospital was a good 20km away, my great grandmother expertly cut the umbilical cord and got Ma's lungs going with a sound thwack, on the large four poster bed where she was probably conceived. My grandparents were born, bred, and swapped surreptitious love letters in this tiny village before they did what all ambitious young couples do: emigrated to a poky little flat in a grimy city and struggled to raise four children. It was a trying, tedious life, hanging precariously on the brink of genteel poverty. So when there were rumours of a possible Japanese attack on Mumbai in 1942, my hugely pregnant Nani couldn't think of a safer refuge than home. Today, after all these years Saronda is still very much the boondocks: a little cluster of houses crisscrossed by little cobbled streets. Bullock carts are the most popular form of transport, unless you count the dusty, rattling State Transport Buses that sometimes deign to stop at Saronda's dilapidated bus stand. The nearest high school is a brisk thirty minute walk to neighbouring Nargol, the nearest hospital is still 20 kms away, and the post office is housed in a derelict, leaky building that used to be the "Pavillion." Here Saronda's dashing Parsi studs once practiced their paces on sunny Sunday mornings while their parents drank toddy and arranged discreet matches with the local maidens. Now most of that aristocracy has gone, abandoning its crumbling mansions. And a new generation of studs hang out at the Pavillion: surly young men in acid washed jeans and singlets, who hitch a ride to the Sanjan Talkies 7 km away, to catch the late night porn flick. Electricity came to this village only ten years ago; before that, an ancient lightwallah would climb a rickety bamboo ladder at dusk to painstakingly light two flickering street lamps with a burning taper. But when electricity finally came to Saronda nearly a century late, it changed the timeless rhythm of life forever. And television changed the rest. While few village hausfraus have ventured beyond Mumbai, thanks to Star TV, they are experimenting with Ludhiana Chicken and Hyderabadi Biryani. And the little market that once sold squashed brinjals and rotting carrots imports French Beans and Cauliflower all the way from Sanjan. Next to the market, Ganpat the Grocer sells bottles of tepid Coke and melting Amul Cheese Slices that smell of unpolished grain and bathsoap: there is no fridge in Ganpat's 5ft by 3ft shop, but his son Vijay, who has done a two month crash course in business management at nearby Vapi, is setting up Saronda's very first supermarket (with its own fridge and self service counters) in the family's spare bedroom. Vijay is a smart boy. His wife is smart too: metric passed with a diploma in typing. She is also hugely pregnant and wants to deliver her baby in a smart Mumbai clinic. But Vijay's mother is having none of it. "What's wrong with a home delivery?" she wants to know. "Haven't we brought our own children safely into the world?" And so, next month, when the pains start, Padma will have her baby in a four poster bed above the hall. Much like my Nani did half a century ago. Diya Parakh contributes a weekly column to these pages.
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