Life at the Juhu Versova Naka

The Juhu Versova naka is (like all others of its ilk) a noisy and eventful confluence. Identity wise though, it has always been a bit quirky. Some years ago, a tiered and landscaped garden with green grass and fountains sat regally in the centre. Maintained by the Lokhandwala Builders , the circle, perhaps logically, was named in their honor. All very well, though as it turned out , Lokhandwala Circle was a few miles away from Lokhandwala Complex, with Four Bungalows in between. And unlike the dual name American cities like Cambridge and Rochester ( oceans away from their English namesakes), this circle was sufficiently close to its Complex counterpart to confuse most first time visitors to the area.
Then, in a traffic streamlining initiative, the circular garden was razed to the ground. In its place was installed that red, orange and green presiding deity of all urban movement- the traffic light. Free right turns and free left turns were now rigorously administered. Traffic policemen in the area suddenly turned prosperous.
Today the naka is somewhat uncertainly referred to as Juhu Circle. It sprawls over as many as six roads. One corner encloses the empty concrete spaces of a BEST bus depot, the other makes its way down to Mithibai College. Yet another goes down gulmohar tree lined double carriage roads, past star’s bungalows and spacious apartment buildings.
The naka is a little world in itself- the modern day equivalent of the village banyan tree- the home airport in the areas hub and spoke system. Always noisy and always lively. Two newsvendors hawk their wares from one corner- wooden newsstands filled with newsprint and glossy Elle’s and Outlooks. Peripatetic policemen in perpetual attendance on the traffic lights. Little balloon children who skip around on the pavement . Sometimes they sell colorful talismans – pale yellow lemons strung with a series of slim green chillies and sometimes they sell toys and sometimes they sell republic flags. A wizened old woman who taps hopefully on every car window. You know she lives here on this naka, you see her every day. The other families too - their pots and pans on the sidewalk, their clothes put out to dry on the road dividers . The news vendors, the policemen and the seller of spurious books – they all go home every evening , but these poor people , the new age urban nomads , many miles away from the villages of their birth , are perhaps the only constants in this traffic filled transit space.

This appeared in Mumbai Mirror September