Breathless in Bombay

by Murzban Shroff

  When she heard this, she felt like she was being dragged into another world—a Dantean world from which there was no return. Yet it was sweet, soporific, and numbing, like it was all she ever wanted. Like her soul had found its sphere.

  There was one painting on the Bhagalpur blindings, one on Latur (the earthquake), one on Bhuj (the devastation), one on Orissa (the famine), one on the share bazaar scam, with a jowly modern-day demon dominating and shaking the stock exchange like King Kong incensed and people falling off, plunging to their deaths, while in the background politicians gave speeches, their fingers raised, their paunches stiff and bloated.

  She stopped at two paintings that gripped her: that of a man sitting alone, drinking, before a stone wall, the face of alcoholism trapped in its own insurmountable prison; another of a giant excavator looming over a solitary hill with skyscrapers behind, the eradication of green zones in a fast-concretizing city. She clutched at the one of a sickle suspended like a noose, the story of a thousand farmers, killing themselves over failed crops and poverty.

  With each painting, he had some tidbit of information for her, some fact she did not know, and she marveled at this hard disk of information in his head, and the magnitude of feeling in his heart, and the keenness of eye and the magic of hand that allowed him to capture all this, fluidly, lavishly. She had never met a man who she felt was so erudite, so sensitized. This made her feel warm and excited, as if she were on the brink of some impossible discovery, some uncontainable happiness that would well up and explode in her, washing away all her longings.

  Partly out of euphoria and partly out of nervousness, she suggested a joint, the first cut, if there was any left. He smiled and said why not; it was great to meet someone like her, someone who had kept her bohemian traits carefully preserved, who hadn’t sold out to the rigors of working life, which was death according to him, a state of abominable compromise.

  They drank, they smoked, they waxed eloquent over the first cut, and they got nostalgic over the fifties phase in Indian cinema and the sixties and seventies in rock music. They ached for the world that did not know, did not see, and soared to a level where they saw nothing but their own thwarted version of life, and yet inwardly, distractedly, they grappled with an excitement that rose and licked at their hearts and minds. At 1:30 A.M. they hugged, kissed, and pledged. In that small room, with the paper lantern swaying, and the light throwing shadows about them, and the trees outside crossing their branches like devout soldiers taking a muscular oath, in that room a world opened up. A world bigger than what each of them had known. Or anticipated.

  They sat down for dinner at 3:00 A.M. Before that he excused himself, saying he’d like some time to himself in the kitchen. She watched television while from the kitchen came sounds of vessels being banged around, and after some time she got a whiff of aromas that stirred her senses and made her realize how hungry she was.

  He called her in to a veritable spread: a cheese and mushroom omelet, light, golden, and swollen; a dekchi of coconut fish curry, looking red and malignantly spicy; a stew of okra, potatoes, and capsicum served in a pan with wooden handles. There was also a bowl of long-grain basmati rice, and dal with a tadka. Her mouth was watering as she sat down. He smiled and pointed to the food invitingly, as if he’d guessed what was on her mind, as if the whole meal was one big conspiracy to delight her.

  The table was small and rickety, with just enough space for the two of them. He apologized, saying they’d have to eat there, in the kitchen, because the smell lingered and got into the upholstery otherwise. She saw he had cut slices of onions on a plate and placed glasses of water next to their plates and near his own plate was a glass of vodka filled to the brim. She wondered how he had done all this, in the state of mind he was, and she marveled at him, this bachelor artist who seemed to have his life so figured out. His life and his art—in this sweet little den of his.

  Eating silently, happily, she yearned to belong to his world. She yearned to see him shape his paintings with mighty strokes and his meals with the same instinct of cool, effervescent genius. She wanted to be a part of it. She wanted to sit down to dinners like this every evening. She wanted banter, chatter, and the warmth of home-cooked food, and then someone to hold her and lead her to bed light and dizzy; she wanted this over cold leftovers, take-out dinners, and the monologue of a television blaring. She wanted what she thought was achievable. And she whipped it to a fairy-tale conclusion in her mind.

  CABS, SCOOTERS, CARS IN A RUSH; the signal: a steadfast green. Swirls of traffic sweeping in and merging. Then honking. Then cursing. That failing, empathizing. What to do? This was South Bombay, the rush hour. Everybody in a hurry to get home. Everybody in a sweat to reach their destinations. And some just to get away.

  She was at that part of the road where the traffic kept coming, where people waited in queues, along the divider. She did not know why she had taken this road, why she was here at all, standing as part of a crowd. All she knew was she was out walking. And she was at a crossroad, waiting. And from there everything looked dangerous, capable of running her into the ground.

  SHE’D MOVED INTO his Bandra flat, giving up her paying guest accommodation in Lokhandwalla. It was his idea, with him saying they’d save on the rent, the electricity, the phone bills, the loneliness, the commuting, now that they’d found each other. Yes, yes, yes, she’d gone, springing into his lap, straddling him, pulling at his cheeks, licking his nose, biting it, nibbling at the soapy-sweet flesh on his throat, then pulling back embarrassed. Before moving in she’d taken care to call the Salvation Army and dispose of clothes she’d outgrown. Things like her mattress, curtains, rugs, stools, freezer, chest of drawers, sofas, and a centerpiece—all this she sold to the zaripuranawalla, forgetting in her excitement to bargain. With the money she got she bought crockery and provisions for three months. She had no clue what his finances were: did his paintings support him, or was there an alternate source of income? She thought it would be premature to ask. Besides, their love was what mattered. There was a lifetime ahead to find out other things—and what did it matter what came up, as long as they were together?

  She’d brought over a few of her personal things: books, CDs, curios, shells, beer mugs, coasters with happy-hour witticisms, and old New Yorker magazines, heaps of them. She had a thing about its covers, about the vibrant art that leapt out, the use of colors to depict an idyllic world. He read a few issues and said he preferred the cartoons; the wit was what impressed him, that and the non-fiction. The movie coverage gave him heartburn; it reminded him how many films failed to make it to Indian shores. And reading about the plays, he could envisage the scope of Broadway, the beauty of its spirited performances. He looked wistful when he spoke of the art exhibitions, and she swore in her heart that she’d save enough for a trip for the two of them. Those were the days when she could afford to dream. The dreams appeared distant but achievable. Like wooly white clouds they could spirit her away, unlike the dark thunderstorms of her black box, which only served to weigh her down.

  She asked his permission to pin up posters of Bob Dylan, Pete Townsend, and John Lennon, sepia-tone versions in close-up, and he was delighted, for them he counted as his friends, his guiding lights from another age valid eternally.

  In month one she bought a microwave, in month two a dishwasher, in month three a DVD player. She changed the faded blue curtains in the living room to a bright brown-and-maroon check. She put up plants in corners, plants with beds of sweet-smelling mud, and these she tended and watered daily. She bought three side tables and on these she placed lamps with soft ethnic shades. In the center, she placed a Kashmir rug—the warmth of rust, with a border of white tassels. On it, she placed a center table, with an exquisite glass top, resembling a palette. All these changes transformed the place. He was delighted with the centerpiece and said the house looked lived in now; earlier it had looked merely occupied. He smiled and said he felt almost married; this was as close as they’d get to it. Bef
ore she could ask what he meant, he said he was cooking them a dinner to celebrate. They would start with corn and cheese baskets, chicken croquets, a lime mousse salad, and all this would climax in a desi version of Chicken Xacuti. She sighed at the sheer incongruity of flavors, yet she knew that if anyone could make them coexist he could.

  They worked at the meal together, and occasionally she’d stop and look at him for approval. She was glad to assist in the making of this splendid feast and felt proud that he allowed her to do so. Later, as she savored the flavors, the love of ingredients that came through in every bite, it seemed like all of heaven had moved in with them and that nothing could ever sully their dream. She noticed he liked to cook more than eat. He’d look at her while she ate, while she heaped on helpings and slurped at her fingers. He’d sit watching, smiling through hazy gray eyes. His own food would remain untouched, and when he’d nibble away it would be in between sips of vodka.

  Mornings, she’d wake up early, her calls starting from 7:00 A.M.—an incessant ringing about actors, props, locations, dates planned and canceled. She’d rush from the bathroom, stammering out answers through a toothpaste-clogged mouth, and he’d groan and roll over, stuffing a mountain of blankets over his head, and he’d mole in and stay there hidden and catatonic. He’d sleep like this till early afternoon, till the sun would trickle in through the iron grills and warm his face, till his throat would parch, his stomach would cringe, and he’d feel like a piss from his distended bladder. Then he’d force himself to rise and, making himself a mug of coffee, would retire to the couch, with the newspaper, and while reading he’d smoke a joint. Then he’d decide whether to stare moodily outside the window, or to return to bed churlishly, or switch on the television and rail at the idiocy happening there, or simply fly to his canvas and vent—out of inspiration or anger.

  Mid-afternoon she would call, and he would listen to some talk about some actor playing hard to get, or some location not working out, or some slut of a starlet offering herself to the producer. The producer was always willing, and she was sure that he was screwing in the office itself. She knew by the look of the girls who emerged that they’d been laid. There’d be a look about them to suggest they’d bagged a break. He would listen to her and go, “Hmm, hmm, hmm,” and she’d know by that whether he’d had his coffee and smoke, or he was painting, or he was in the throes of a depression. She could make that out in the first few minutes, and she’d temper her talk accordingly, so as not to add to his chaos, not to disrespect the artist in the man. A few times she found him slurring his words, and she mustered up the courage to ask whether it was the vodka—that early.

  She made up her mind to talk to him about it at the right time, without making a big deal of it. It was too early to start picking holes. She didn’t want to appear a nag. She didn’t want to sully her world, admit that the first crack had appeared.

  Over time she discovered that he had a strange theory about working, earning, and spending. He believed that the pursuit of money was vulgar and vitiating; it led you to strange deceptions, strange delusions that strangled the real self, the soul of man. Real art must find its own outlet, he said. To market it was despicable. To go out and sell was nothing short of desperation. For an artist it would represent a fall, and for him, death.

  She didn’t ask how he got his money. She knew he lived frugally. He didn’t go to restaurants or pubs. “Those places are not for us,” he’d say. “They are for the mentally impoverished, who don’t know what to do with their lives.” He had a thing against restaurants, too, how they hyped up their prices, how they gypped on quality, and how there were fools who knew this and yet went—so empty and dead their lives were.

  She missed her Koliwada prawns, her Hyderabadi fish, and her tandoori crab at the fish joints and her occasional drink at Cloud Nine in Bandra, but she said nothing. He was an amazing cook, and he insisted on cooking daily, but he wouldn’t hesitate to ask her for money, saying he needed it for provisions. He did this after the twentieth of every month, and after some time she made it a point to leave the money out, so he wouldn’t feel embarrassed. She’d leave two hundred rupees on the side table next to the phone, and sometimes a little more if he said the vodka had run out, or there was a score happening, some primo stuff from the foothills of Manali. The first cut didn’t excite her anymore. She realized it was a daily habit for him, a means to shut out the world. He’d smoke at his window, or while painting, his joint in one hand, a glass of vodka at his side, his eyes glazed, his lips curled in a mock ironic smile.

  NOW THE TRAFFIC HAD SLOWED, stopped, a burgeoning sheet of hot metal flowing in cool colors. Vicki readied herself to cross. In her state it was important not to be stuck; she’d been that way too long, and today was actually her way out. She mingled with the walkers and crossed obediently, looking over her shoulder, and it occurred to her why she was there among them, why she needed their presence, their panic, in front, at the side, shoulder-to-shoulder, and bottom-close, even that! She was scared of being alone. Being alone was being evil, which is what had happened back home—alone, unwanted, bypassed by life itself.

  But would she have thought like this if she had continued living with Nandkumar, in his quaint Bandra flat, going mushy eyed over warm dinners and art films and turning a blind eye to his many obsessions, his artistic aversions that stood between them and a normal life?

  THE MONEY CAME from his father in Deolali, his father who had settled there, gardening, golfing, practicing yoga, hobnobbing with officers from the army, his father, once a terror and now mellow, who’d abused him as a child, as a frustrated insurance man who couldn’t get people to insure their lives easily and who’d vented his frustration on his son, because the boy was dyslexic but didn’t know it and because a fortune had to be spent on getting him through school.

  His father would do it with a cigarette, while his mother would watch and say nothing. She wasn’t that kind of woman, that kind of wife who’d raise her voice. He wondered sometimes whether she’d felt anything, whether she had a voice that screamed and revolted from within, and if so, why she’d never exercised it, or why it had failed her when he needed it most.

  He’d recollect how a remark written by a teacher on his report card would get him called to his father’s room, the one he and Vicki were using now, where they slept, snored, and copulated, and there the old man would draw him into his arms, with a smile, and at the side the cigarette would be lying lit on the ashtray. He did not recollect his father smoking otherwise; he did not recollect him drinking or shouting them down;his was a slow, annihilating abuse, cold, clinical, and scientific, reserved for those he lived with. He didn’t remember his father having friends ever; he didn’t remember them visiting their relatives on festival days. Once in a while his mother took him to visit some cousins in Mulund, and before that he was warned what to say and what not; he was not to discuss his grades, his learning difficulties, or the fact that he had flunked twice.

  In the ninth standard, when they started on the ICSE portion, the school had called them and asked that he be transferred to a special school for dyslexics.

  His father was embarrassed. He threatened him with consequences if he ever gave out that he was in that school. According to him, that school was for delinquents, and what would the world think—that he’d produced a slow, non-functioning child? The good part was an art master who had spotted his talent, unearthed it among the confusing miasma of numbers and theories. Mr. Borkar encouraged him to partake in art competitions outside school; he pushed him to paint at home and in school, and to retain his sanity in a world of pain, ridicule, and torment.

  In the first year of college, he won an art competition organized by a child-care organization, which promptly commissioned him to do their annual calendar for a sum of ten thousand rupees. He felt proud when he received the prize, and he felt sickened when his father was called onstage to say a few words on the future of the child. As his father walked onto the stage, he walked ou
t of the auditorium and lit a cigarette, and after the first few drags he crushed it in the palm of his hand. The mark could still be seen: a dot of frail, pink baby-soft skin, a peephole into what lay beneath, a reminder of what had never healed, never would, and could rupture anytime.

  When Vicki saw this, her heart went out to him. She hurt for the childhood he never had and for the monstrous disfigurements he had inherited. His reluctance to venture out, to face the world, to compete, to come through—all this had been taken away by the bogeyman of his childhood, by the man with the cigarette who kept asking why he couldn’t be like the rest. Why he didn’t understand. Why he didn’t pass easily. Why he was such a failure, a miserable liability to them.

  Nandkumar Chaurasia had no answers. Not then, not now. In his heart there was a perpetual dread that he was a failure. It had taken Vicki months to understand this, months of seeing him at close quarters, languishing on his soft, white bed, staring at the fan in smoked-out stupor, waiting for inspiration to drive him to his canvas, or something in the newspaper to send him to his palette, and when he got there he would weep tears of paint and shades of angst, and the victims he painted were not always the ones that mattered but the ones within, his own demons, and the women he showed sold or subjugated indeed had the face of his own mother.

  Vicki realized he didn’t mind taking money from his father. He said that was all the old man had to offer; it was punishment for his sins, redemption for his soul. He was only helping to save his father from a life of damnation, a private hell of remorse and retribution.

  His mother had been kept in a home. She’d had two strokes, was reduced to a wheelchair, and had lapsed into a state of speechlessness, marked, diminishing, and more foreboding than in her earlier life. She remained like that till she died, till they placed her on the burning logs and her head exploded with a series of snaps. It reminded Nandkumar of the firecrackers on Diwali, which he could never enjoy. And the smoke reminded him of the cigarette circling before his face.