Mission Mumbai

by Mahtab Narsimhan

  “Man, they’re loud,” I muttered as a taxi inched past, its driver draped over the steering wheel, horn blaring nonstop.

  “You stay here long enough, you won’t even notice it,” said Rohit.

  At the end of the main road was a long flight of stairs leading to a walkway high above the traffic. I jogged up the stairs, dodging beggars, stray cats, and pedestrians going down. My heart was pounding so hard with the exertion, I opened my mouth to take a deep breath and inhaled a fly. Ack. I coughed till it shot back out, unharmed.

  At the top of the steps I stopped to catch my breath. Dad probably had a tiny point about getting more exercise. The thing was, with my large build, I looked athletic. But ask me to run a lap around a field and I’d be wheezing like a geezer.

  A hint of salt wafted toward me on a lukewarm breeze. “I love this place,” I said, snapping pictures like crazy.

  “It’s okay, I guess,” Rohit said in a cool voice. “It’s somehow dirtier compared to New York. And there are so many more people …”

  I stared at him. “You need thicker glasses, Ro. New York is awesome, but this is different, so … so exciting. Can’t you feel it? Even walking on the sidewalk is fraught with danger,” I said, laughing. “You never know what you’ll step into!”

  “Don’t make fun of Mumbai,” said Rohit, jamming his fists into his pockets. “I warned you it’s not up to your fancy lifestyle back home.”

  “I’m joking,” I said, noticing his pinched mouth. “Why d’you have to be so serious?”

  Rohit shrugged. “Just don’t, okay?”

  I didn’t want to get into a fight, so I shut my mouth. Rohit was the best friend anyone could ever ask for but he could be so sensitive. We raced down the stairs on the other side of the walkway and through a narrow alley that reeked of pee. The walls of the buildings were stained with splotches of bright-red stuff, and some of it had puddled on the road. Blood was everywhere. My stomach churned.

  “Gang war?” I asked. “Don’t they clean up after … the murders?”

  “You’ll get to see the massacre soon. You can’t leave Mumbai without seeing it at least a dozen times. Stay close,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. I wondered if he was serious or if his dry sense of humor had finally arrived from New York.

  “Okay,” I said, my stomach gurgling with anxiety even as I snapped a few pictures of the blood-spattered walls. How could he talk about murder so casually? I’d come to know a lot about Rohit these past few years, but obviously there was a lot more to learn. I was going to pump him for details. I’d never seen a single murder back home, but from the sound of it, Ro was a pro. Cool.

  A couple of shady-looking characters sauntered past, giving me the evil eye. One of them whipped out his cell phone, came right up to me, and took a picture. Hadn’t they ever seen an American before? Apparently not, because they were still staring at me. I drew myself up, channeling the Dark Lords Sauron and Voldemort, and glared at them.

  “Jaldi!” I barked, remembering a word from the last Bollywood movie I’d seen, which I thought meant “go away.”

  They laughed.

  I hurried to catch up with Rohit. “What did I just say?”

  “Fast,” he replied with a smirk. “Stick to English, okay?”

  “How do you say—‘go away’?”

  “Jao.”

  “Got it.”

  We’d reached another main road. Cars zoomed past, spewing fumes and adding to the haze and heat. Beyond this chaos was the Arabian Sea.

  “There it is: Marine Drive,” said Rohit. “Nothing much to see, really.”

  We ran across the road at the pedestrian crossing with at least a dozen other people. Heat waves rose from funny three-sided concrete stones that looked like giant Legos. They lined the wall along the parapet, shining wetly. Rohit identified them as tetrapods, placed there to strengthen the shoreline. At the far end of the curving sidewalk stood two buildings—one tall, one short—windows winking in the sun.

  “Are those apartments?” I stood on the parapet for a better look. A light breeze came off the water, cooling me. It felt so good.

  “The Oberoi hotels, a five-star hotel chain and hangout for the rich and famous,” said Rohit in a flat voice. “I’ve been there a couple of times—it’s fancy and very expensive. I can ask Ma to take us there if you want.”

  “No. Way. I’ve had enough of five-star hotels. I want to experience the real India. Small local restaurants, roadside vendors, home-cooked food is even better! Also, Mom’s paid a load of cash for all my vaccinations. Might as well see if they work.”

  Rohit didn’t answer but I knew exactly what he was thinking. My family was rich and it bothered him. I wanted to tell him that I would have traded my life for his, to have parents who paid attention to me for once, but I knew he wasn’t in the mood for a lecture. Not after Mrs. Lal had given him one. Instead, I clicked a picture of a seagull diving into the water with the Oberoi hotels in the background, hoping it would turn out as good as it looked in real life.

  “What’s with all these pictures all of a sudden?” asked Rohit. “I didn’t see you go nuts with photography back home.”

  “Is there anything you’re passionate about besides food?” Dad said. His voice was low but there was an edge to it. He was in a bad mood.

  I glanced at Mom. She’d caught it, too. The fragrance of a well-cooked pot roast filled the air. I wanted to eat, not argue.

  “I love photography,” I said. “That’s why I’ve been asking for all this equipment on my birthdays.”

  “How will that improve your life?” Dad asked. “You’re young and you need to be healthy. Like me. I bet I could outswim you. We could go to the pool right now and I’ll prove it to you.”

  “I’m not unhealthy, Dad,” I said, trying not to snap.

  “Here’s an idea …” he started to say.

  Unfortunately I’d heard that idea before … only a few hundred times.

  “Why don’t you take up soccer? I could give you a few tips. After all, I was varsity captain, and it paid for my college education.”

  “Dad, you know I hate soccer! I love photography and you asked me what I’m passionate about.”

  “That’s not really what I meant,” Dad grumbled.

  “Neil, he’s going to India next week,” Mom said. “Can you leave him alone for now? We’ll discuss this … and other things when he gets back.”

  Dad stood up. “We’re not done talking about this, Dylan. No son of mine is going to waste time and money on useless things.”

  Mom drained her almost-full glass of wine. I shoveled a forkful of pot roast into my mouth, looking anywhere but at him. Dad sighed and walked away.

  “Earth to Dylan, come in, please,” Rohit bellowed in my ear.

  “If Earth doesn’t shut up, he’s going to be taking a swim, fully clothed,” I managed to say calmly. I was desperate to talk to Rohit about Mom and Dad and the increasingly bitter fights they were having but somehow I kept putting it off. If I didn’t talk about it, maybe it would go away. I knew I was being a baby but I wasn’t ready to deal with it yet. I hurried to change the topic. “Speaking of swimming, is there a beach around here? A couple of laps in the water will help me work up an appetite.”

  Rohit grimaced and pointed. “Chowpatty’s that way. You seriously want to go? The water’s not clean. No one swims there and in fact I haven’t seen anyone paddle in it, either.”

  “If Frodo had been this negative, he’d never have left the Shire,” I said. A quick paddle in the water was just what I needed to cool off. Rohit, too, by the look of it. “I want some pictures, so come on already.”

  “Why? You still haven’t answered my question.”

  “Later. Come on, race you to the beach.”

  “In this heat? No thanks.”

  “Party pooper,” I said.

  “Loser,” he replied and turned in the direction of the beach.

  Without company, sprinting was no fun. I walk
ed, making a mental note to get some exercise in later. The sidewalk ended abruptly and we stepped onto sand.

  A stray dog trotted up to me. Immediately I dropped to my knees and folded my hands in a namaste. I’d show these guys that even though I was a foreigner, I could follow customs and traditions. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice!

  Rohit grabbed a fistful of my T-shirt and yanked me to my feet. Not easy for someone a third my size and weight.

  “Wha—”

  “Stand up, you idiot,” said Rohit. “People are laughing at us. What are you doing?” His face was red and I knew it wasn’t just the heat.

  “Your mom said all animals were sacred so I’m paying my respects.”

  “Not stray dogs,” said Rohit. “You could get bitten and end up with rabies.”

  As if on cue, the dog bared its rotting yellow teeth, saliva oozing from the corners of its mouth. Flies buzzed around a festering sore on its shoulder. Laughter from passersby ringing in my ears, we hurried on, just a hair short of galloping.

  “Only cows, okay?” said Rohit. “Also the king cobra, but only if it’s been defanged or you’ll die a painful death in under a minute. You could include squirrels, too,” he said, warming to the subject, “but only the ones with three stripes on their backs. They’re supposed to have been blessed by Lord Rama for helping him build a bridge to rescue his wife. But you can safely ignore buffaloes, monkeys, and pigs, and never touch dogs, cats, or rats unless you want rabies. Got it?”

  I sorted out the menagerie in my head, the holy from the unholy, while screaming crows circled overhead as if mocking me, too. Vendors in colorful carts lined one side of the beach, which had a fair bit of debris lying around on the sand. It was absolutely empty. We’d be lucky to find a towel-size bit of free space on a hot day at Coney Island or Long Beach. Waves crashed to shore and I couldn’t wait to get in.

  “Wow, Ro, look at it. We have the beach all to ourselves. Doesn’t anyone in Mumbai like to swim? Last one in is a loser!”

  “No, Dylan, wait,” yelled Rohit. “Don’t …”

  But I refused to listen to his negative comments again. I was hot and the water had to be cooler. A little trash wasn’t going to stop me. I kicked off my sandals, wrapped my camera and Rolex (Dad would kill me if I ruined it!) in my T-shirt, and raced to the water’s edge. I heard Rohit yelling at me to stop, but I ignored him. For once, I’d be able to tease him for being second.

  I waded in to my knees, scooped up some water, and slapped it on my face. And immediately gagged. Something that had no business being in the water was now in my mouth—a wad of soggy paper that looked disturbingly familiar. I coughed and it shot back out into the water and sailed away. I looked down. My pale legs were pockmarked with bits of brown goo. Riding on an incoming wave were plastic bags, seaweed, rags, and more brown blobs. My nose told me exactly what they were. I shot out of the water at warp speed. Frodo was going to be pummeled to pulp and Sam wouldn’t come to his rescue—because Sam would be doing the pummeling.

  Rohit was sitting on the sidewalk, shoulders heaving, laughing so hard he was crying.

  “How … how could you not warn me?” I demanded, scooping up handfuls of sand and rubbing my legs with it, trying to take shallow breaths. I shoved my camera and watch at him, still wrapped in my T-shirt. “Don’t drop them.”

  “Welcome to Chowpatty Beach,” he gasped, flicking his glasses and hitching his shorts, looking like a shortsighted duck flapping his wings. “People … um … have a habit of throwing things in the water and some of the homeless use it as an outdoor toilet. No one swims here. I did tell you to stop.”

  I had nothing. All I wanted to do was go back to the flat and shower. For once no one bumped into me on the sidewalk and even the stray dogs gave me a wide berth. I galloped home as if chased by the ghostly Ringwraiths.

  ROHIT’S MOM TOOK ONE SNIFF AS I WALKED IN and pointed to the bathroom. I was shutting the door when I heard her admonish Rohit. Again.

  “Did you not tell him that the water is polluted with raw sewage? If he’s swallowed any …”

  “Ma, I tried but he didn’t listen,” said Rohit. “He’s fine so stop yelling at me! A little water won’t kill him.”

  The water wouldn’t but what was in it might. I couldn’t wait to scrub my mouth with soap and brush my teeth.

  “I can’t be his babysitter all the time,” Rohit continued in a pained voice. “He has to use common sense some—”

  The rest of it was cut off as soon as I shut the door but the annoyance in Rohit’s voice was unmistakable. I knew he hated being told off, especially in front of an audience. And this was the second time today.

  Note to Self: Don’t alienate your main ally out here. Listen to Rohit—at least once a day if possible.

  Lunch was amazing. I figured that since I had run up the steps at Marine Drive and on the beach, I’d burned enough calories for seconds. Maybe even a third if you counted the race back to the flat. I helped myself to dal, rice, chicken curry, and cottage cheese with spinach. Mrs. Lal looked pleased. As long as I worked in some exercise daily, I’d be fine.

  I downloaded the pictures I’d taken in the last couple of days onto my laptop. They weren’t too bad. The background was a bit blurry on a couple of the Marine Drive shots and in some the composition sucked. I’d gotten a good shot of the cow’s profile but her eyes weren’t visible. That would have really rocked the picture.

  I wondered what my idol, Ari Valokuva, a Finnish photographer who’d settled in New York, would have done. He was world-famous and his picture Solitude—a lioness standing on a rocky outcrop, silhouetted against a fiery sunset—had been nominated best wildlife photograph of the year. And hours of trekking and waiting in barren lands for The Picture meant he was super fit, too. One day, with hard work and some luck, I could be as good as he was. I’d love to see Dad try to find something wrong with Ari.

  After lunch Mrs. Lal announced we were going to visit Rohit’s bua. For a second I had visions of a large boa constrictor dressed in a saree, strangling me to death by way of greeting, or giving me a poisoned kiss on the cheek with a forked tongue. Noticing my puzzled expression, Rohit explained that bua was the Hindi word for “father’s sister.” Even though Mr. Lal was arriving from New York a few days later, his sister couldn’t wait to see us and had insisted we meet her right away. Mrs. Lal’s announcement was met with a lot of eye-rolling on Rohit’s part as he has mimicked his bua. Mrs. Lal quickly glared at Ro and fluttered around, visibly nervous. What was up with them? And just how scary was this boa lady?

  “Are we taking the bus?” I asked as we walked out of the lane to the main road. I’d seen red double-decker buses rumble past, BEST written on their sides. The buses had no doors and people jumped on and off while they were still in motion. I’d caught a glimpse of a ticket collector standing by the door as one inched past. He wore faded khakis and a short-sleeved shirt, clacking a metal tong against a box slung around his shoulder as he handed out tickets. I was fascinated and wanted to snap some close-ups. This place was rife with great photo ops!

  “No way,” said Rohit, shaking his head vigorously. “I’m not traveling by bus.”

  “Why not?” Mrs. Lal and I asked in unison.

  “Too crowded,” he said. “We won’t get a seat this time of day. If we’re going to be crawling in traffic, might as well do it sitting down.” His eyes had a steely look that his mom and I both recognized—he wouldn’t budge on this. I had to admit, though, his logic was irrefutable.

  “All right, we’ll take a cab,” Mrs. Lal said in a pained voice. “Living in the States has really spoiled you, Rohit. You used to love traveling by bus. You’d race to the deck and grab the seat right in front. And now just look at you!”

  Rohit rolled his eyes, sneaking a glance at me. I knew why he was doing this. I wanted to smack some sense into him and tell him to stop trying to impress me, and stop feeling ashamed to take public transportation. So what if I had a car an
d driver at my disposal in New York? We weren’t there now and I would happily have taken the bus for the adventure of it, and the pictures.

  “Ma, that was years ago,” Rohit said. “I’m sure Dylan would prefer a cab to a smelly bus. Right?” It was a question, but the accompanying glare made it very clear there was no argument.

  “If they’re called BEST, there must be something special to them,” I said.

  Rohit snorted.

  “BEST is short for Brihanmumbai Electric Supply and Transport,” Mrs. Lal explained. “The local bus can be a bit uncomfortable, but you decide, Dylan. You’re our guest.”

  I didn’t want to take sides between my friend and his mom. I wished Mr. Lal would get here soon so I could stop getting caught in the middle.

  “I’m fine with either,” I said.

  “Traitor,” Rohit muttered under his breath.

  “Idiot,” I replied softly.

  “So, what’s your aunt like?” I asked as we walked.

  “Okay,” he said, his tone implying the opposite.

  Now I really wanted to meet this boa character. We’d been smothered by friends, relatives, and old neighbors of the Lals since we’d landed in Mumbai. No one called first—they just came. I’d already met tons of Rohit’s cousins, aunts, uncles, and one pregnant relative even introduced me to her baby bump. I also met his cousin Nisha, the bride-to-be, who was beautiful. I couldn’t say the same about her husband-to-be, Sanjay, who looked like he’d escaped from the ape house at the zoo. Every Lal was super nice.

  Back home, everyone called before they came over. I saw my extended family maybe twice a year and even then the parties ended with hurt feelings, tears, and sometimes fistfights. I sighed, wondering if my moronic friend would ever figure out just how lucky he was.

  We ended up hailing a black-and-yellow cab, its driver honking furiously just so he could crawl an inch ahead of the car beside him. It was not air-conditioned, but since the wait for another could have taken forever, we decided to take it anyway.