The new offices are glass-fronted and swanky, dressed to the nines with modern amenities, and are replete with food courts and in-house gymnasiums. Ushers in crisp formal attire welcome you. New-age lifts, voice-overed and eerily mirrored, jump floors in seconds. These glitzy structures are the natural nesting place for the 20-somethings who man major functions of the corporate world.
When I came to Mumbai last year to start working at a recruitment firm, I decided to live in Bandra, since my office was in Bandra Kurla Complex. Needless to say, my workplace boasted all the accoutrements of modern office life. This was in marked contrast to my father's office - he worked in a state public sector undertaking (PSU) for 30 years until he took voluntary retirement in 2002.
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In one corner stood an imposing cabinet whose keys were proudly owned by the errand boy. The cabinet was stuffed solid with giant folders and a humongous dictionary. The Oxford English dictionary, in hardback with a rich blue cover, was a magical reliquary whose heaviness my six-year-old self could barely manage to lift, let alone fathom. I fantasised about spending lazy afternoons in the room, the table and the cabinet with their contents and the vast sprawling factory beyond all to myself, the noise of rich, gooey clay emerging from tumbler-shaped funnels humming in the background.
The table in my father's room had a push switch that was pressed twice to call for the attendant. It was all "ji saheb!" and "ji huzoor!". For the longest time, I thought my father presided over a mini-empire of slavish minions. But underneath the PSU work ethic, there was also genuine affection. I was very fond of the driver, Murali, who was from Kerala and regaled my sister and me with stories from the backwaters.
The hierarchies were fixed. Next to the general manager's room was a smaller room where the manager sat. He reported to my dad. There was another big hall down the passage that housed the typist, the operations manager and the accountant. Beyond the office space stood the majestic ramparts of the factory itself, an old colonial structure conveying a formidable past.
Now the factory is gone. The Madhya Pradesh government decided to close down seven plants in 2002. Gwalior Potteries, the pride of Gwalior, whose products were patronised by royalty and sourced by Unicef, is a dank mass of ruins today. While the land was sold off, a poor investment climate has precluded the setting up of a new industry.
Gwalior itself is a place frozen in time. None of my friends from school lives there any more. Most work in IT companies in Bangalore or Pune, or are graduate students in the United States. The colony I grew up in, Gandhi Nagar, looks exactly as it did 20 years ago. The roads are still unpaved, the electricity wires overhead still stacked together, the grocery shop at the corner still dangles once-forbidden stuff tantalisingly.
The only difference is the inhabitants. The youngsters have moved out, while the elderly occupy delightful houses and wait for news from their offspring. When I went there recently, I met Sanghi aunty, my once-neighbour, who doted on my sister and me when we were little ones. Now she is close to 70 and battling arthritis. When she saw me - after a gap of seven years - it was just like the old days. She plied me with Marwari delicacies and fussed over me. Her eyes glowed.
India has moved on and I am self-professedly a member of the new mobile class. I love my life in Mumbai and can't imagine going back to living in the hinterland. But hidden beyond the swankiness of the metropolis are stories of old India, an India that my generation may be the last to know and fully appreciate. An India of imposing factories and darling aunties. An India that I wish with all my heart I can preserve a little bit of.