The Lost Flamingoes of Bombay

by Siddharth Dhanvant Shanghvi

  Zaira said, ‘The pictures were clever and outrageous and they made me wish I’d been around to watch Samar in his element.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you’ve seen Samar in his element many, many times before,’ Leo said, an edge in his voice.

  Zaira appeared to wither for a moment at Leo’s remark. ‘Are they making a fuss about Malik and me on TV?’ she asked quickly.

  ‘Big fuss, girl! But then,’ Leo said with a wink, ‘you’re hot shit. All the channels are beaming it endlessly.’

  Zaira could clearly imagine the chaotic horde of photographers waiting for her outside her home in Juhu. ‘I just wish they’d go away and cover an issue of some real consequence.’

  ‘Let’s go beat up that big bully!’

  ‘He’s more than just a bully,’ Samar corrected Leo. ‘Malik Prasad has the makings of a certified criminal, and you’re trying to pass him for a frat boy who’s had two beers too many.’ Turning to Zaira, he said, ‘You should go to the press, at the very least. It’s clear Malik Prasad is chemically imbalanced.’

  ‘I don’t want to flatter the creep by dissing him in print.’

  Sitting quietly, watching the conversation whiz back and forth between the talented and the famous, Karan recognized that the real power of fame did not lie in its making someone instantly recognizable but in imposing obscurity upon others; he felt like a piece of furniture in their midst. During a brief pause in the conversation he decided to make his exit.

  ‘Thanks for the drink. It’s time I headed back to my dark room and printed the shots. I really…’

  ‘Don’t tell me we’re not good enough company for you, Mr Seth?’ Zaira said, stalling him.

  He blushed. ‘I’m afraid the opposite is true.’

  Zaira lowered her large bedroom eyes. ‘C’mon now, have another drink! It’s bad luck to leave on the second Bellini.’

  Mesmerized by the melancholy whorls in her sensual eyes and the sultry lilt of her voice, Karan suddenly recalled something Natasha had said about Zaira: single-handedly responsible for raising India’s National Masturbation Index.

  ‘I don’t know where you get your superstitions, but I find them very agreeable,’ he said as he settled into the chair again.

  After Karan was handed another drink, the conversation returned to the subject of Malik’s attack on Zaira.

  ‘Men like Malik can get away,’ Leo said, ‘because the Indian political climate fosters their juvenile machismo.’ To evidence his point, he spread out the morning edition of the Times of India. The Hindu People’s Party, the article said, had proposed a ban on masturbation. ‘Because jerking off goes against Hindu culture!’ Leo sounded exasperated.

  ‘Which Hindu text prohibits masturbation?’ Zaira asked. ‘I mean, I’d seriously like to read it if it’s true.’

  ‘I heard the other day that if the bill is passed then convicted parties will face a jail sentence or a fine of five thousand rupees,’ Karan said.

  ‘But prison is the centre of Planet Jerk-Off!’ Zaira covered her mouth as she chuckled. ‘They’ll be in good company.’

  ‘And if they lock up every masturbator, there won’t be any people left on the streets of Bombay.’

  Karan thought the ripples of rowdy laughter in Samar’s kitchen were like a nervous veil; there was only so much that humour could hide. ‘Surely, the HPP can’t be all that bad?’ he asked.

  Zaira shot Karan a look. His naivety would, no doubt, invite a sermon from Samar’s boyfriend. She secretly called it ‘Leo’s Modern India 101 Lecture’. As she had feared, within moments Leo was passionately lecturing Karan about the Hindu People’s Party, their advent and rise, their monopoly and rampant cruelties.

  Zaira pulled Mr Ward-Davies into her arms for a cuddle, thinking to herself that in the time Leo would hold forth on Indian politics she could mentally rehearse all her lines for her next shoot or plan her wardrobe or, if it was not too callous, even shut her eyes and catch a quick nap. Nuzzling her cheek against Mr Ward-Davies’s domed skull she gave Karan a brave, conspiring smile that seemed to say, Chin up, my friend.

  Karan, on the other hand, who knew little about the history of politics in Bombay leaned forward to hear Leo’s exposition.

  After setting up operations in Bombay in the sixties, the Hindu People’s Party, the HPP, had worked hard to spread their poison across the country, Leo began. In the early seventies the party racked up momentum by promising jobs to the state’s ‘natives’, the Maharashtrians. On the pretext of safeguarding jobs for the sons of the soil, they attacked ‘foreigners’. Migrants from the southern states, even if they had lived in Maharashtra for generations, distinguished by their dark complexion and gentle features, had initially made for easy victims. Later, those from the north, were attacked for ‘stealing’ the jobs from the locals. There were daily reports of young Malayalis stabbed in daylight or entire families forced to ‘go back to wherever it was they had come from’ and of Biharis being beaten senseless by unruly gangs of HPP loyalists.

  In the late seventies the HPP’s violently bright star dimmed a notch when the nation was consumed by a far more scintillating spectacle of despotism: the emergency years during Prime Minister Indira Gandhi’s regime. But the period from the mid-eighties to the early nineties turned out to be particularly fruitful for the HPP. The political mood was decidedly communal now and the HPP expanded ruthlessly, spreading their divisive propaganda on the grounds of caste and religion. To protest the alleged forceful conversion of Hindus by Christian missionaries, an Australian missionary was doused in kerosene and burnt to cinders. The flimsiest of reasons were dug up to incite communal riots in small and large towns across the country, and within hours dozens of families, Muslim and Hindu alike, were wiped out, their houses torched, their daughters raped and sons blinded.

  Meanwhile, the economy was stretching its ravenous mouth for access to foreign booty. Most political parties did not have the nerve to crib about the influx of funds from the West. They did, however, find an easy target of attack: the culture of liberalization. The wicked West, they claimed huffily, would corrupt their children. As self-appointed emissaries of the morality mafia, the HPP’s resident rabble-rousers went on a rampage. They banned a film as it portrayed what they fancifully termed as ‘lesbian tendencies’ and burned down cinema halls which dared to screen it. An Indo-Pak cricket match Leo had been hoping to attend was cancelled on the grounds that Pakistanis were India’s ‘natural’ enemies, rendering such a contest inherently anti-nationalist. A Muslim legend of the art world was forced to go into exile after his paintings were deemed blasphemous.

  ‘In this confused cultural climate a hissy fit over the moral questions does nothing to change the status quo but it sure makes good copy,’ Leo said. ‘Politicians fighting to preserve India’s “moral fibre” find it’s a safe—if utterly useless—subject to amuse the middle class. Politicians have become publicity savvy “custodians of culture” but in terms of policymaking they’re shooting blanks. The real thugs, meanwhile, go unpunished.’ Leo connected his thesis to their conversation: Under such circumstances, Malik, whose father was one of the minor architects of institutionalized corruption in the nation, could be forgiven for assuming it was perfectly all right to smash up a film set or bang his fists on Zaira’s door until he left bloody marks on the wood. ‘After all, Malik has seen gangsters who work for his father’s political party round up to kill the actress who dared to kiss a woman on screen; he’s seen stores torched simply because they dared to sell greeting cards for Valentine’s Day. As far as he’s concerned, running down Zaira’s set is all in a day’s work.’

  With that, Leo was done. He sat back, looking pleased with himself.

  Karan, meanwhile, looked as if he was in dire need of another drink. He glanced at Zaira, who caught his eye and winked at him. Then she looked at Leo and nodded thoughtfully, feigning great interest. Karan grinned to himself, impressed with her acting skills.

  ‘I still believe,’ Samar said
to Zaira, ‘that you should register a complaint with the police. Malik should know you’re not going to let him off.’

  ‘The bloody Bombay police?’ Zaira reminded them that just a week ago one of the constables from the Bombay police force had raped a college student in his cabin. ‘Yeah, sure. I bet they’ll come to my rescue.’

  Leo left Samar’s side, opened the fridge and pretended to rifle through the contents of the cheese drawer; he was glowering in private. No one had complimented his thoughtful analysis. No one had admired how he had connected national politics with Zaira’s troubles. And this was Zaira’s fault; after all, what was more distracting than the presence of a celebrity? He returned to the table with a tub of cream cheese and proceeded to spread it on a cracker.

  ‘I have no idea,’ Zaira said, turning to Karan, ‘why we’re torturing you with my sob story. You’re probably ready to burst from boredom.’

  ‘I’ve enjoyed sitting in and eavesdropping, actually.’

  ‘Well, now tell us something about you.’

  Reluctant and shy, Karan furnished a brief biography: raised and educated in Shimla he had trained as an English teacher in Delhi. ‘But between classes, I’d go to the Habitat Centre to check out the photo exhibits. That’s where I met Iqbal, my boss. He was having a show of his reportage on the ’84 riots in Delhi. When I found he was looking for an assistant I volunteered, just to give something new a shot.’

  ‘And it’s been a consuming passion ever since?’ Samar asked.

  ‘Well, it became an obsession only after I moved to Bombay. Until then, I looked at photography as some sort of eccentric activity that could save me from the boring life of a teacher.’

  ‘So why does Bombay inspire you?’ Leo asked.

  ‘Why do people come to Bombay, I thought, when I joined the India Chronicle here. After all, it is ugly and dirty; it is expensive; its charms are limited. But within weeks of living here I knew I could call no other place my home. Surely, something was attracting millions here, to this city. I noticed that everyone here was running away from loneliness; I saw it on the trains, on the street, in temples, at film premieres.’

  ‘But most people are doing exactly that in any city and at any given point in time,’ Samar said.

  ‘True enough, but it occurs differently in Bombay. Without the distraction of beauty, without the consolation of art, people find respite in each other. Yet the sparks between two people do not qualify as companionship. In Bombay people don’t offer each other too much talk or touch; rather, they look each other in the eye like soldiers, wounded and brave and crazy. And lucky to be alive, if not happy. The power of this city is the mad desire it arouses in you to live an unlonely life.’

  Samar popped an olive into his mouth. ‘How do you propose to capture this quality in your photographs?’

  ‘I have no idea. I can only trust that, as with any narrative, there’s a point when the membrane between the listener and the story tears open, and they become one. I’m waiting for that moment of rupture; I’m waiting for my entry point. But until then I’m keeping my ear to the ground and my eyes peeled. I’m watching. I’m hanging around.’

  Zaira found it hard to believe that the boy before her, in his blue jeans and white shirt, beat-up camera in tow, had thought about the city with such profound, careful attention. ‘I feel the same way about acting,’ she said. ‘The moment I recognize my role in the story, I know I’ll find my voice.’

  ‘And voice,’ Leo said, ‘is art.’

  ‘I agree,’ Karan said.

  ‘Do you go back to Shimla often?’ Samar asked.

  ‘No. My mother, who lived there, died a few years ago. I was an only child.’ He added that he wasn’t in contact with his father.

  Hearing this Zaira’s eyebrows cocked up, but she said nothing.

  ‘And where do you put up in the city?’ Samar asked.

  ‘I’ve rented a room in Ban Ganga.’

  Leo, who had not seemed too impressed by Karan’s story so far, sat up with interest. Ban Ganga fascinated him, he said, with its narrow, messy lanes, the ancient pond at its heart, its lazy, bucolic air completely at odds with Bombay’s diabolic chaos, its mangy swelter. ‘You got a view of the pond?’

  ‘And the sea too—but only if I crane my neck by a mile or so!’ Before he might be tied down with another question, Karan glanced at the clock above the kitchen door. ‘Now, at the risk of breaking the future law, it’s time for me to beat it.’

  Leo smiled; he hadn’t expected such an arch remark from the boy but perhaps the Bellini had loosened his tongue.

  ‘Well, I hope you’ll oblige us with your company again soon.’

  ‘If I should be so lucky…’

  ‘If you’re not in the slammer by then!’

  Zaira escorted Karan to the door. Mr Ward-Davies trotted alongside them with quick, dainty steps.

  At the gate, Karan crouched to pet the whippet.

  ‘He’s irresistible, ne?’

  ‘There’s something so fragile about him. Samar said he was your gift to him…’

  ‘He was a gift to us.’ An unnamed loss glinted in her voice, struggling to be freed. ‘I had a suggestion for your Bombay portfolio. Have you gone to Chor Bazaar yet?’

  ‘Not yet; isn’t it a bit of a tourist trap?’

  ‘You can get a Bombay Fornicator in Chor Bazaar.’

  ‘A Bombay Fornicator!’ Karan was all ears now.

  An impish smile swam up on Zaira’s lips. ‘But that’s only one of Chor Bazaar’s many charms…’ Her left hand reached out to adjust the crinkled collar of his shirt. ‘Who knows what else Mr Seth will find there?’

  That night, Karan lay on his bed, feeling untidy and lazy. The damp walls of his little square room gave off wet whiffs of white limestone; he could hear the rowdy children in the narrow street below as their night-time innings of gully cricket continued unabated under blinkering lamplight.

  Puzzled by the day’s events, he struggled to reconcile the uneven, exhilarating particulars. Each time he shut his eyes the scene of the flamingoes soaring overhead returned to him: not only could he see the darkening sky again, but the slightly demonic thwack of the birds’ wings also draped over him like a dark cloak. Then he saw Samar swimming the length of the pool, and experienced again the tremulous wait and the eventual thrill of the shoot in the lazy light of the late afternoon. His mind treaded quickly toward Zaira, arriving on the grounds in her glamorous shudder of panic, and then to the moment when he had joined Samar and her for a drink. He had been reluctant to join them, assuming they had invited him out of some misplaced sense of charity. But maybe he had been wrong; maybe Zaira had offered him a drink because she did not want to be alone with Samar and Leo, and Samar had insisted on it because he was genuinely taken with Karan’s work. (Here he smiled, against his will, for even though he nursed an unexplained, mute antipathy toward Samar he could not help but be flattered by the attention.)

  What had distinguished this evening for Karan was that he had been treated as an equal among people who were so obviously above him in status and achievement, if not in talent. Before surrendering to sleep, Karan told himself it was best not to assume that such freakish, fleeting moments of intimacy could ever add up to a friendship. Having spent some time around celebrities he knew they were vulnerable to sudden bursts of confession and affection only because most had neither family nor friends with whom to share and evaluate a day’s happenings, and journalists often became the default recipients of their private, perplexed musings.

  Touched by Zaira’s obvious, unqualified loyalty to Samar, he contemplated the provenance of her feelings. Samar and she appeared to be the best of friends, and their affection for each other had the tremor of something like love but without its attendant confusions. Recalling how calm she had become around Samar, he decided that perhaps there was something to the pianist—above and beyond the theatre of the absurd he ceaselessly performed—that he had failed to notice. He was keen to dismiss
Samar as a dandy, but checked the impulse when he remembered how Samar had stayed up nights nursing and feeding an ailing Mr Ward-Davies. Karan’s palms had warmed from petting and cuddling the dog earlier in the day and, now, as the sensation returned to his hands, the image of Mr Ward-Davies flashed before his eyes, reaffirming fragility and innocence on a day that had seemed to promise little of either.

  Slowly, tenderly sleep came to his eyes, and drew him away.

  Two weeks later, Karan met Zaira again at the premiere of her film. Iqbal, who had loved Karan’s shots of Samar and Zaira, had dispatched Karan to the film premiere for more images of the actress.

  Zaira had hardly stepped out of her white BMW when the photographers launched toward her like a juggernaut, snapping away hysterically, crying her name so it rebounded recklessly through the hot, humid Bombay night.

  Robed in an ankle-length white dress with spaghetti straps, Zaira looked delectable but also a shade forlorn. She caught Karan’s eye and smiled at him, walking purposefully closer so he could get a better shot.

  Unfortunately, the photographers too careened toward Karan and in the frenzied chaos one of them tripped over a tripod and came crashing down on him. Before he knew it, Karan was on the floor, flattened under the weight of three other shutterbugs who had lost their balance in the mêlée. Zaira did not get a chance to respond to or even notice what had happened to Karan as her publicist took her by the arm and swivelled her around to present her to a waiting throng of television cameras, and she was immediately caught in the vulgar vortex of pointless sound bites.

  As soon as she entered the cinema house, she dragged her publicist to a corner. ‘What happened to the photographer?’

  ‘Who are you talking about?’

  ‘The guy who was trampled. I know him.’