Our sauna on wheels shot away from the curb, narrowly missing a vendor with a basket of fruit balanced on her head. She cursed the driver loudly, shaking a fist at him. Rohit had taught me a few curse words, so I knew what she was saying. The cabbie gave it right back to her while Mrs. Lal tried to shush him, her eyes darting to me. I smiled, pretending not to know what was going on.
Pedestrians wove through the slow-moving traffic, not waiting for the light to cross. It was total chaos and I loved it. My life in New York was so predictable, and this mess was so exciting! It was almost like starring in my own Bollywood adventure.
The cabbie imitated a NASCAR driver while we swayed and jerked in the backseat. We slowed to pass a cow sitting in the middle of the road causing a colossal traffic jam. Cars and buses flowed to its left and right but not a soul dared to move it. The seriousness of what I’d done earlier came back to me and I was even more grateful to Mrs. Lal for saving the day.
Rohit poked me, his eyes sparkling. “Dylan, wouldn’t you like to move that cow? You’ll have the grateful thanks of every driver on this road.”
“I wouldn’t dream of touching your revered er … other Mother,” I said, glancing at Mrs. Lal. “She looks comfortable where she is and we will let her be.” I did a namaste as our cab crawled past. Rohit smiled as he punched my shoulder lightly, and I punched back, relieved his bad mood was evaporating.
Traffic crawled like a caterpillar on sleep meds.
“Shall I take inside road, madam?” the driver asked. “Marine Drive very busy now.”
Mrs. Lal murmured her assent and the driver made a few twists and turns, taking us deeper into the heart of Mumbai.
Smog blotted out the sun while we marinated in the humid air tinged with gasoline fumes and the smell of rotten vegetables. Rohit pointed out that we were passing Crawford Market, the largest fruit and vegetable market in Mumbai.
In spite of the intense heat, there was constant movement everywhere. Men with long, narrow boxes on their heads ran alongside the cab, outrunning the slow traffic. Rohit pointed them out, explaining that they were dabbawallas who carried tiffin lunches to the white-collar workers of Mumbai from the workers’ homes. They were so unique that case studies had been done on them at Harvard and they had a Six Sigma certification for accuracy. I was suitably impressed and took a ton of photographs from the crawling cab.
Crippled beggars sailed past on platforms fitted with wheels; cooks sat on the sidewalks frying a variety of foods in large woks, swiping at their sweaty faces with filthy rags. Everywhere I looked, cars and people jammed the streets. I kept snapping pictures, hoping my hand was steady enough. This would make a sweet collection.
Rohit sat back and closed his eyes, yawning widely.
“This place is awesome, Ro. Why don’t you visit more often?”
He peeled a sweaty leg off from the black plastic seat, making a sucking sound. “For this?” he said, pointing at the glistening wet patch. “Give me New York any day. At least all the cabs there are air-conditioned and we don’t have to wait forever for one.”
I peeled my leg off the seat, too. It sounded like a wet squeegee on a windshield. I did it again and again, but stopped when I saw Mrs. Lal’s expression.
“Sorry,” I muttered.
She nodded absently, wrapping the end of her dupatta around her finger, which had turned white. Why was she so on edge? Because of Boa? How horrible was this woman? I couldn’t wait to meet her.
“How much longer before we get there?” said Rohit, exhaling audibly. “I’m melting!”
“New York is hot, too,” said Mrs. Lal. “Please stop whining, Beta. Dylan is handling it better than you.”
That thoughtless comparison earned us both a glare from Rohit. I caught the driver smirking at us from the rearview mirror and glared at him. His smile vanished.
Mrs. Lal turned to me. “If you hadn’t come with us, Dylan, Rohit wouldn’t want to be here for his cousin’s wedding.”
“Thank you for inviting me,” I said. “It’s been fun so far. Right, Ro?”
Rohit took off his glasses and mopped his face with a tissue. “I’ve seen it all. What’s the point in seeing it again? I’d rather explore the rest of America.”
“You haven’t seen your family in three years,” said Mrs. Lal sternly. “And I haven’t seen your manners since we landed in Mumbai. I suggest you behave yourself if you know what’s good for you.”
Rohit gave me another dirty look and I shrugged apologetically. Mrs. Lal stared out the window. She wore large sunglasses, so I couldn’t see her eyes, but her mouth, drooping at the corners, gave her away. I wanted to say something to lighten the mood, but decided to keep my mouth shut. Most of the time I just ended up with my foot in it. I’d spent a lot of time at Rohit’s in the last few months—sometimes for school projects but mostly because I wanted to get away from home. He’d sensed it but hadn’t made me talk about it, and I really appreciated that. Now it was my turn to have his back without asking questions.
The cab dropped us at Colaba Causeway, in front of a building with fading yellow paint. Clotheslines decorated every balcony. I guess people here weren’t embarrassed to hang up their underwear in public. I saw a neon-pink bra, a pair of granny panties, and everything in between. Mrs. Lal ushered us into the cool, dark building. The temperature immediately dropped to bearable. Facing me was an accordion-type metal gate.
“What’s this?” I asked. “No wait! Don’t tell me, it’s the elevator!”
“Bravo,” said Rohit gravely. “You should take a picture.” He winked. The jerk was enjoying my reaction but trying not to show it.
I noticed more blood splatters on the walls by the elevator door. I pointed, wordlessly looking from mother to son. Evidently someone had been murdered here very recently, but neither of them seemed to care. They must have nerves of steel.
Rohit shook his head, looking worried. “More bloodshed. A word of caution—they don’t like foreigners here. Especially Americans,” he added, his voice dropping to an ominous whisper. “You better be careful and always watch your back.”
A cold finger traced a path down my spine. How could Rohit’s aunt live in such a dangerous place without any kind of security or police protection? This was insane! “Maybe we should go home and call Boa instead,” I said.
“What nonsense, Rohit. This is—” Mrs. Lal started to say.
“Ma, let’s go,” Rohit cut in as he jabbed the grimy elevator button. “You know Bua hates to be kept waiting.” There was a loud groan and squeal somewhere above our heads.
“Er … maybe we should take the stairs?” I said. “You know, get the heart pumping, blood flowing. I sure could use the exercise.” The elevator sounded like it was in the final stages of machine cancer. I had no intention of getting on it and ending my life quite so soon.
Mrs. Lal patted me on the back absently. “Not to worry. This was installed during the British Raj. It will still be going up and down long after we’re all dead.”
Not very reassuring at all. “Crap,” I muttered under my breath.
“The building’s only got fifteen floors,” said Rohit. “Even if the elevator crashes it won’t be fatal. You might lose an arm or leg at the most.”
I gulped and wiped my damp hands on my shorts. The ancient elevator came to a stop with a thud. A tiny man in black pants and a black shirt slid open the accordion door. He waited patiently while we stepped into a space that made an airplane bathroom seem massive. It reeked of stale food and the mirrored walls offered multiple angles of my terrified expression.
“Maybe I’ll take the stairs—” I started to say again but it was too late.
Tiny guy slammed the accordion gate shut and plunked himself down on the wooden stool that took up more space than necessary and had the rest of us standing on one another’s toes. “What floor?” he droned in a bored tone.
“Fifth,” said Mrs. Lal.
Fifth wasn’t too bad. People had survived falls higher
than that. I was going to be okay. I exhaled softly. Then inhaled. Big Mistake. I was right behind the elevator dude and the sickly sweet perfume of his hair oil crawled up my nose. I held my breath as the elevator slid past the floors in slow motion.
“Rohit, remember your manners and greet Bua properly,” Mrs. Lal said, dabbing her forehead with her dupatta. “Or she’ll say we’ve become snobs since we moved to the States. She’ll complain to your father, and then I’ll never hear the end of it. And Dylan, you be … just be polite and respectful,” she said. “Okay?”
I nodded, still taking shallow breaths, praying I would live to see thirteen. Thankfully the elevator didn’t plummet to the basement as I’d expected, and we stepped out into a dark corridor on the fifth floor. A lone bulb clinging to a cobweb-encrusted wire emitted a faint light that created huge shadows. It reminded me of the time Frodo and Sam had followed the dwarf Gimli into the dark and dangerous Mines of Moria. It came as no surprise that Boa should reside here, given that she’d already stressed out my best bud and his mom though they had yet to meet up on this trip.
Something skittered past and disappeared into the gloom before I could make out what it was. I was glad I hadn’t shrieked out loud, though my heart was pumping extra hard. We reached a plain white door and rang the doorbell. A wizened man opened the door, releasing a cool blast of air. Boa had an air conditioner. Sweet!
“Hello, Uncle!” I smiled broadly and held out my hand. I’d heard Rohit address his elders as Uncle and Aunty out of respect, even when they weren’t directly related to him. I was going to show the Lals I could blend into any culture, like eggs into cake batter.
“No, Dylan—” Mrs. Lal started to say.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. L,” I whispered. “I know my manners. I won’t let you down.”
The old man, still wearing pj’s in the middle of the day, gaped at me, then scuttled backward. He might have at least gotten dressed given that he was expecting company, but I wasn’t fussy. He could have worn a bedsheet and I was still going to be on my very best behavior.
I stepped forward, arm outstretched, feeling like a dork. He took another step back. This man was seriously whacko. Was I going to have to chase him around the flat just to shake his hand? And why wasn’t Rohit greeting him, too? A sideways glance revealed my friend’s deadpan face and twinkling eyes. I lowered my hand immediately.
“Hello, Rohit. Hello, Priya,” a voice boomed out from somewhere behind the old man.
He shuffled away, muttering under his breath about crazy goras. Mrs. Lal’s lips twitched and Rohit’s shoulders heaved with silent laughter.
“What?” I snapped, still annoyed the old man had refused to shake my hand. It was discrimination. What did he have against Americans that he couldn’t even greet me in a civilized manner? It was the British who had oppressed the Indians for years, not us!
“That was the servant,” Rohit said, his voice shaking with laughter. “I bet no one’s ever greeted him this warmly or respectfully.”
“I tried to tell you, Dylan,” said Rohit’s mother. “But, no problem. Now even the servant knows you’re a very polite boy.”
Rohit’s bua emerged from the gloom—a slim, distinguished-looking lady wearing a sky-blue saree with orange swirls. She had short gray hair, stylishly cut, and piercing light-gray eyes. Rohit’s mother stepped forward and hugged her, then both were talking at once.
“Hello-ji,” she said, turning her laser-beam vision on me. “You must be Rohit’s friend Dylan. Welcome to India.” Rohit’s aunt gave me a light hug and released me quickly as if I might detonate in her arms. Or contaminate her in some way.
“Hello, er … Aunty,” I said, glancing at Rohit. He gave a small nod.
“Hello, Beta,” she trilled back, pinching my cheek. “You look like a boy who appreciates food. You’ve come to the right place!”
I was floored by her insight, though the pinch hurt. “That’s absolutely right, Aunty.”
“Hello, Rohit!” she said, hugging my friend and almost crushing his glasses. “My, just look at you, all dressed up and acting posh! Don’t ever forget your Indian roots, Beta, or your poor aunty who has done so much for you and your family.”
Mrs. Lal’s smile slipped and Rohit’s seemed glued onto his face. I had a feeling we were in for a very interesting afternoon, and not in a nice way.
Boa (with all the hugging and crushing the name seemed so right for her) oozed into the living room, herding us along. A faint odor of ginger and garlic hung in the air. Bright colors bombarded me from every corner. Paintings with Indian maharajahs astride elephants hung on beige walls. Rugs in shades of red and orange lay on the tiled floor. The late afternoon sun slanted through the window, cutting a bright swath on the green cushions artfully strewn on the sofa. Rohit’s aunt kept up a nonstop chatter as we made ourselves comfortable.
“What will you have, Dylan?” she asked. “Limca, Fanta, Thums Up, or Mangola?”
I had no idea if these were food or drinks. I looked at Rohit.
“Seven Up, orange Crush, Coke, or a mango drink,” he said, translating.
“Or a lassi?” Rohit’s aunt added.
Ahhh, lassi. Now that was a word I recognized. I’d tried this sweet yogurt drink at Rohit’s house and loved it. “I’ll have a lassi, please. Thank you.”
“Arrey, what a polite boy,” she said. “Smart choice. Very cooling in this heat. Priya, Rohit, what about you?”
“I’ll have the same as Dylan, Anjali, thank you,” said Mrs. Lal.
“Thums Up for me,” said Rohit.
“Oh!” said Boa. “Indian drinks are not good enough for you now, Rohit?”
Rohit’s elbows twitched by his side and he blinked rapidly. “What is wrong with choosing a Thums Up?” he snapped. “I prefer it to a lassi.”
“Rohit,” his mother said in a warning tone.
“My, my, what a lot of attitude in one so young,” said Boa. “Is this what I paid for, Priya? This rude, disrespectful behavior?”
“Anjali, please,” Mrs. Lal said, her gaze flicking toward me. “We have a guest.”
They all looked at me. I studied my camera as if I’d found a hitherto undiscovered button that would make me invisible.
“All I want is a cold drink,” said Rohit, his voice quivering with anger and growing louder by the second. “If that’s too much trouble, please give me a glass of water.”
“Be quiet, you silly boy,” hissed Boa. “Do you want the neighbors to hear? The walls are paper-thin and most times I can hear exactly what’s going on in Mrs. Modi’s flat.”
For a minute there was silence. Mrs. Lal looked mortified and Rohit’s face resembled a thundercloud. Boa tiptoed to the living room wall and pressed her ear against it. If only she were British, she’d perfectly fit the description of Petunia Dursley, Harry Potter’s aunt who loved to spy on her neighbors.
I finally understood why Mrs. Lal and Rohit had been apprehensive about meeting this particular relative. We hadn’t been here five minutes and she’d pissed off both of them. And what did she mean by “Is this what I paid for?” I hated her already.
“Ramu!” Boa hollered. She had tremendous lung power for someone so petite.
The old man appeared with a towel over his shoulder. He eyed me warily as he listened to Rohit’s aunt order our preferences, and then shuffled away. Boa started chattering about the upcoming wedding and Mrs. Lal jumped into the conversation with relief and gusto. Rohit and I sat there rolling our eyes at each other. Clothes, wedding, jewelry, the bride, the groom, the menu. They kept interrupting each other and I wondered if either of them was even listening.
My brain had already switched off. I fiddled with my camera again, trying not to look too bored. Rohit caught my eye, winked, and yawned loudly.
“Tch, tch, rude again?” Boa said, frowning at Rohit. “Is this what they’re teaching in American schools? What a complete waste of my hard-earned money.”
“Yes,” said Rohit, in a surprising
show of defiance. “This is what they’re teaching, and much more.”
“That’s enough, Rohit,” Mrs. Lal said, her voice icy. “Anjali, maybe the boys could watch TV for a bit? I’m sure this talk must be … um … a bit boring for them.”
“Yes, please, Aunty,” I piped in with my most winning smile. “I love Bollywood movies.”
“Of course, of course,” Boa said, syrupy all of a sudden. “Go to the dining room through there. I’ll send Ramu with your drinks and snacks.”
“Thank you,” we said in unison and fled.
I felt her eyes follow us out of the room. No wonder Rohit’s hackles were up every time she opened her mouth. Even Mrs. Lal’s stress made sense now. Boa had a way of twisting words to make her point. And it was twice now that she’d mentioned her financial support. She made my dad look positively angelic. I finally got Rohit’s reluctance to come back to India to see relatives. The ones I’d met so far were okay, but this one was rotten to the core.
As soon as we’d settled into comfortable chairs, our drinks arrived; mine was a tall glass of frothy yogurt whipped up with salt and sugar, and Rohit’s was a boring Thums Up. I took a huge gulp and felt the sweet, tangy drink slide down my parched throat. The colorful food looked delicious: samosas and chutney I recognized, but there was so much more. There were orange and yellow squiggly things, lots of brown and white balls, and cream-colored squares covered in silver. My mouth watered.
“This looks fantastic … translate,” I asked Rohit, crunching up one of the tidbits.
“What you just ate was a ghatiya. Both orange and yellow ones are made of chickpea flour but with different spices,” he said. “The white balls are rasgullas, the brown balls are gulab jamuns, and that silver-covered stuff is barfi.”
The orange thingamajigs (I couldn’t pronounce the names Ro had effortlessly rattled off) were spicy and required a gulp of lassi to calm my protesting taste buds. The fat yellow worm-looking things with serrated edges were spiced with cumin and were delish, too. I couldn’t believe something that sounded like barf could taste good, but this sure did! My absolute favorites were what Ro told me later were called jalebis: orange sweets coiled like mini-snakes that oozed sugar syrup as soon as you bit into them.
Mission Mumbai Page 3
