Scenes from a city abroad

Singapore. Some scenes, some thoughts below. Comments, as always welcome.

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Too sleepy to check out Changi Aiport. We’re now on our way to our hotel. Groggy, red-eyed, first impressions of Singapore. Long roads with loads of cars, all kinda cars. What speed are we going at? 100kmph? On city roads, what’s the deal? Am I dreaming or was that an angel I saw flying past in a Mini Cooper? Fast, but not furious.

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Freshed up at hotel and out on the roads. I’m head over heels. What a city. The control freak in me implodes. I want to relocate here right now. I can’t believe there’s any place in this world where everything is so damn orderly. It’s too much to handle, really. Everything’s so clean, squeaky clean. I mean, why is everything so lush green here? (Updated: Here's the answer). There are plants and trees sprouting out of everywhere. Everywhere. I mean outside my hotel, on every street, corner, nook and cranny. All concrete and loads of jungle.

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Malls. Lots of large malls. They call it Orchard Road. You can shop here forever. Which is something I don’t get. I mean, how much can you shop? Clothes, perfumes, jewelry, leather…How long can you spend there? Wife isn’t listening to me. But hang on, what’s this shop? Says “Bookbinder Designs, Sweden”. Such exquisite stuff, diaries, calendars, pencils. Must see. Must go. Must buy. Must shop.

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“It’s the Truman Show, yaar” drawls a friend, puffing clouds of cigarette smoke. Huh? “Oye, I tell you. You look at each road at any given time. You’ll see the same car, taking the same turn, going to the same place. It’s all staged. There’s cameras everywhere. They’re watching you.” Too much coffee. But for a minute, he spooks me.

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So, we’re waiting at the corner of a junction hailing a cab. Waiting and waving at cabs. Wife nudges, points to a small line of cars that’s formed in front of us, out of nowhere. They’re all calmly waiting. Huh? Duh? Wife whispers – “They’re waiting for us to cross”. Inadvertently we were standing at one end of a small zebra crossing. So, they’re waiting for us to cross. We hop over to the other side, barely four steps. Calmly the cars pass us by. These guys, they actually give way to people to cross the road. Faint.

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The first Airbus A-380 was delivered to Singapore Airlines that day. On TV it’s the Prime Minister himself, addressing an event. Before I start scoffing (you know, what’s the big deal?), I catch the phrase “… in our relentless pursuit of excellence…”. I’ve never heard a nation premier talking about pursuit of excellence. Now, I’m feeling like the tourist I am from a poor, third-world, developing country visiting a developed one. Ticker below moves across “Mumbai Sensex: all-time high”. Am feeling a bit hollow.

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At Night Safari now. I’m marveling at how these guys have done it. We’re in a tram with a guide explaining everything. We pass a rhino here, a lion there. Oohs and aahs rippling across. Louder ones at the amphitheatre with the nocturnal animals show. Hosted by nice, funny, trainers entertaining the audiences. And I’m thinking, ain’t this cool? This is what tourism is about. Making life easy and fun for tourists, make them go ooh and aah. You know, few animals, some fire-eating tribal dances, food joints (they’ve got a Ben & Jerry’s here). These guys are just brilliant, they’ve got it all figured out. I mean, there’s nothing particularly spectacular about the whole place. But they’ve put in focused effort, planning investment and packaged it as must-see Singapore. And it is, it is worth the visit. I’m thinking, what have we done with Kazirangha, Bandavgarh..just to name a few? More hollowness.

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In conversation with friend. Idle touristy chat, I’m telling her “You know, someone once told me, long time back..pata nahin when, school, college, naukri.. that these guys throw vessels in the air to keep their names. Bartan phek ke naam rakhte hain.” Friend says “Haan suna tha. Not funny any more, na?” Silent nod.

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I’m driving across the streets, seeing all the cleanliness, efficiency, order, discipline. We don’t hear a single honk – and I mean it, not a single honk – in all our time there. The cars, all of them, shine as if they’re new. No scratches or dents. So, I’m taking it all in. From nowhere I remember that Laloo-Japan PM joke (read the last one here). Not funny any more.

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Walking across Clarke Quay. Vibrant, party atmosphere everywhere. People milling around, unwinding on a Friday night. Out on the streets. All dressed up and everywhere to go. Loads of trendy restaurants; there’s one based on a hospital (people sipping from an IV, chairs and tables themed on hospital beds. We go “Morbid”) and there’s even an oxygen bar. There’s this whole line of restaurants with seating extensions near the quay-side. Spanish restaurants, guitars strumming away. All in the open. I think I get the term “nightlife” now. Cross over to Boat Quay, which, I’m told is the poor cousin to Clarke Quay. Dinner at a “desi” joint. Friend says, best kaali dal in all of Singapore. Very, very yum.

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And before I know it, too soon, I’m back in Bombay. There’s an Indica cool cab in front of me. One single word emblazoned on its back windshield. “Jesus”. Around the corner, three traffic cops talking to each other, some wearing tired expressions. Their day’s just over. Or just begun. Moving out of the airport. Across the slums, its dandiyas. Huge posters with bloated netas and a small place for God. Crowds of people thronging the dandiyas in those slums, colonies and chawls. Some watching, some dancing the night away. Lines of people, crowds of people, circles of peoples.

Dandiya. Mumbai. Jesus.

I’m home. Back home to the crazy, crowded, corrupted, congested city. Enough of Singapore detox. This is Bombay. I’m drugged to its delusions. Addicted.

“Itna bhar de, ki khaali kar de”

This city I tell you.