Lights. Camera. RCNM.

It was a regular Sunday. This day which is supposed to be a non-working non-earning day for the job-holders is perhaps the most beneficial day for Asha, as her face is lit with elation every time the traffic signal changes its colour from green to red. Caked in cheap rouge,  kajal , powder and lipstick, she was dressed in ill-fitting blouses and colourful saris in a parody of womanhood, just like others of her clan, as they roam the busy marketplaces in groups, terrorising pedestrians, hustling for ten or a hundred rupees. Well, yes, Asha is not one of your average beggars on the street. With a male voice shouting expletives, palms meeting in a trademark clap, she goes to all those drivers stuck up in traffic, who will part with their cash sooner than be treated to the sight of her lifting up her sari and flashing a lot of which was unusual. “ I don ’t like doing all this at all!” she sighed as it was again the time for those daily conversations she was going to have with her daug

He would pass by the same route every day. He had an income merely just enough for him. His job was not fixed and he lived in a small room outside the city. But naturally, nothing for him was affordable in the city. He would travel miles on his cycle and come to office every day. Never was he late. Evidently, he was just passing out his days by following the same routine and having nothing to look up for. Is that what you would say? Well I would disagree. He had the most precious gift in the world. A few months ago, he was waiting at the signals just a few minutes away from his office. There was probably an accident which had taken place because the cars didn’t seem to move ahead at all. He was getting restless as he was getting late for his office. He started looking around for a way to get out of the massive traffic. He managed to get his cycle on the side and tried to pave his way over the footpath. Just then he came across a small girl and a lady with pale faces and rug

It was still green. Her eyes on the signal and her foot on the brake, she ignored the honking cars behind her. The traffic rush was maddening at this hour and in a way, so was she. 3…2...1 The signal turned red. Her foot shifted to the gas pedal and the car shot forward amidst a whirl of screeching and honking. The car twisted and turned, missing the other vehicles by a hairsbreadth. Two blocks later, seeing another green light, she screeched to a halt.  Besides her, he sighed. “Why on earth do you do this every time? Putting yourself in danger isn't going to bring her back.” Stone faced, she kept on her eyes on the traffic signal. Her foot itching to press down on the gas, she impatiently waited for the light to turn red and as always,   ignored the angry crowd behind her. Just as the col ours changed and the car zoomed ahead, they both heard the tell-tale sounds of a police siren behind them. He groaned. She smirked. Expertly avoiding the

There was nothing unique about her smile or her personality… I still remember the first time I met her : her face was gleaming in the sunlight, tired and exhausted, she reached my car and tried persuading me into buying the roses. I refused and said thank you. She looked at the bottle of water I had lying in my car and asked for a sip. I gave her the bottle and smiled back. After that every time my car would stop at that red light she would come with her bunch of red roses. She didn't want to sell anything to me but would be happy to just find a friendly face to talk to and I made sure I would have a spare bottle of water to give her every time.  One day I decided to buy the whole bunch and she gave me a huge smile. That was not the most beautiful smile anyone would've seen but still it had the power to brighten up my day. I still meet her occasionally and sometimes we exchange only smiles but I guess that's enough... - Rtr Twisha Sanghavi District Edit

The winds started howling, as though the clouds were attempting to breathe life into the dry land. The signal turned red. Her bare feet made contact with the hot concrete roads. Gulping in the heat that pierced through her feet, she stopped alongside her first potential buyer, only to receive a rude hand signal asking her to move towards the road ahead. Lugging around, with all that she could sell, she made her way through rows and rows of cars, but couldn’t sell anything. The signal eventually turned green and she had to make her way back to the humungous tree that was her shelter, waiting for the next round of vehicles. The clouds swayed low, hovering on top of the dry land. There was a heavy downpour. However, in order to feed herself, she had to sell more. A while after, the signal turned red. Just when she was stepping off the footpath and onto the waterlogged road, she saw him. He worked at multiple signals. Every day, he went to work at a new signal, as though starting afr

It’s late evening. A shapeless form lumbers along the sidewalk, dragging a loaded huge trash can. I sit at the front window of a bar taking long sips of my beer, thinking  about my next big story, pretending to be busy with my pile of papers and pen.   The hulk collapses cross-legged on the sidewalk, just below the wrecked traffic lights, facing me. I stare. I think that it’s almost lewd the way the tongues of those battered combat boots lick the pavement. I strike the word “lewd” and search for another. Don’t confuse one kind of dirty for another, I tell myself. Out there in the growing sunlight, layers are shed one by one–shirt opens to reveal another which lifts to expose a sweater; the heap of discarded skins grows–and I can’t help but think “strip tease” even though the wrongness makes me glance around to see if anyone’ s looking. I write: deviant and deviate, so close they must be sisters, one step removed.  But I can’t resist. My transient gaze swings back to wh

Just three colours, it might seem to everybody else, like you and me, But, it meant a lot more to her. Red meant stop, amber meant to fasten up and get ready, while green paved the way to proceed. She cautiously awaited them, and only at proper intervals, did she pace ahead. Who would know that this media professional who had lived an entirely social life, purely ecstatic and fast, would now be needing a prosthetic limb just because she had lost hers in an accident, due to not following the traffic rules? She stopped at the signal, the same signal, reminding her of the blatant past.  She chose to be a little more careful, again, when she saw a little hawker girl selling out her pretty wares crafted especially for children. She had been deprived with the gift to bear children post the mishap, but looking at the articles, simply made her heart melt - She would certainly like to see the pretty smiles of children fancying themselves with the toys. - Rtr Alp

Do you really think that after losing someone, who at a certain point of time meant so much to you, will leave you unaltered? Well, it changed my life for sure. Completely.  “LOOK OUT!” And I jarred awake yet again. Yup. Body clocks are definitely a thing. Time for a smoke I guess. It’s been 6 years and I still jolt awake every night, at 3:03, completely drenched in sweat, with that choking feeling, lost. Though now, after all these years, I’ve finally found a few escapes. And I resort to them time and again. Nowadays, more than often. We had gone for a drive to Marine Drive. Raj was driving. It was 3 A. M. and I had almost dozed off. That is when it all happened. I woke up to the screeching sound of the tires and saw that our car was skidding forward. We smashed against a street lamp and the next thing I know is that I was lying on the footpath with shards of glasses all around me. My vision was getting blurry. Trying to make sense of what was happening

She’d taken the night off for some clarity of thought. Changing into full length jeans and a cardigan felt comforting against the harsh winter winds of Bombay. The sea face at Marine Drive always felt liberating, in a way. “What are you thinking, Afroz? What’s going on in that head of yours?”, asked Daniyal. “You see that tip? That part of Bombay protruding out of the main body, with all that verdure; what place is that?”, she wondered out loud whilst continuing to gaze into the ocean. “That’s the governor’ s bungalow ”, he said. “Oh, is it… I’ll live there once, you know? I mean, ‘we’ will. I’m sure of that”, she declared. “Maybe we will… in another life”, said he as he readied himself to get back to work. “I must go now. They must be waiting for me.” She looked on and finally managed to say, ”Do you have to do this? It doesn’t have to be this way”. He smiled, ‘empathetically’ and walked away. “If only he knew what it meant to wear a low cut blouse and let the pa

A flash of green.  The screen of his ancient Nokia lit up. He answered the call. "Chacha, there's a malfunction on S.V. Road, Santacruz. You'll have to look into it." He sighed, gulped down his cutting chai and prepared to leave. He didn't mind being called "Chacha". He didn't have a name to begin with anyway. As he arrived at the crossroads, he noticed the all-too-familiar chaos. It always amazed him how the malfunction of a single traffic signal could throw hundreds, even thousands, of commuters into disarray. He had been fixing signals since 40 years and was now the go-to man in the Municipal Corporation for any and every issue regarding the 3 ruling lights of Mumbai's monstrous traffic. His proficiency at the job had earned him a lot of respect from his co-workers - which was something he treasured. He didn't have a family to love him anyway. Two traffic policemen arrived on the scene at the same time. Saluting th

She sold superstition and love. On the streets of Mumbai, she lived, she dreamt, she slept, she worked. Her mornings began with yellow and green. Scanning the cars and rickshaws, she’d head for the open windows, sleepy eyed. She’d sell them hope in a string. They would buy it. Superstition was too cheap to buy, anyway. When the sky was a little red and when wants had been ordered for, from the immortal one, they’d hope other mortals wouldn’t hinder the delivery. Hence the nimbu-mirchi .  She’d saunter around looking for the regulars. Hanging the string without a word, taking her change and walking off. With some she’d have to haggle. She always won though. How lower than Rs. 5 can you go anyway? In the evenings, she’d sell some red. She’d   look for the alone man or woman who wasn’t lonely. The ones who had a strange smile on their lips. They were easy to spot. They always bought her roses. That’s how she spent her days. It seemed there were only 3 colours i

I happen to have experienced quite a few heart-touching incidents at the traffic signals. But there is one incident that will be etched in my memory for a long, long time.  I met a few kids near Prithvi Cafe, Juhu. At first when I saw them I considered them as random kids asking for money. But little did I know about what was coming my way in the next 45 minutes. These kids approached me at first and told me that they didn't want money because they would have to handover the same money to his father who would then use it for consuming alcohol and that they think is not be fair as that money would have been given by me for a noble cause. They said they are fine with sharing a plate of dal chawal with each other as they were hungry since morning.  They were hardly 10-year-old kids but the eyes with which they looked at the world really surprised me. I went ahead to buy dal chawal for these kids and while I insisted on buying 2 for them as the owner of the shop

Certain projects almost immediately strike a chord along the process of their conception. 'RED. AMBER. GREEN.' is one such project, crafted by the Rotaract Club of NM College's Editorial team to leave a lasting impression on the readers' minds. It revolves around the lives of those, whose very existence is defined by traffic signals  - the ones that we so simply pass by. The name of this project was inspired by this simple thought that so many lives revolve around one traffic signal. Their livelihood, memories, dreams and all the other elements that act as a mélange to create the life of an individual, are all experienced and nurtured under one signal. It is with immense pleasure that I present to you this blog theme. A lot of effort went into making it - approaching the people, listening to their stories, understand ing their way of life and putting them before you all in the form of teasers. Here’s the final product though; curated especially f

WHAT TO EXPECT INSIDE: I. From the editor’s desk II.President’s note III.Colours IV.Monochrome V. Red. VI.Victims? Probably not. VII.That traffic signal marked her life VIII.Ablutions IX.That blustery day X. Smile XI.Claret XII.The Biggest Salary XIII.Asha