“But how?” asked Rohit, who’d stuck his head out the window and was trying to get a glimpse of the main road beyond the lane. “I don’t see any cars moving.”
“We’ll walk to the main road and cross the bridge to Marine Drive. From there we’ll have a better chance of getting a cab to take us to the hotel,” said Mr. Lal calmly. “Worst-case scenario, we’ll walk to Oberoi Towers. It shouldn’t take us more than an hour.”
“Walk?” I spluttered. “It’s a swimming pool out there!”
“Now do you see why I tried to force you to take professional swimming lessons with me? This isn’t the same as swimming in your pool,” Rohit said and winked. He saw my face and came over to pat me on the back. “Don’t worry, we’ll all help you stay on your feet. Just keep your mouth shut so you don’t swallow a rat … or something worse.”
My stomach suddenly felt queasy and the second paratha I’d eaten climbed up my throat, threatening to make a reappearance. I was glad I hadn’t gone in for a third.
“Don’t scare him, Rohit,” said Mrs. Lal. “It won’t be so bad, Dylan. The water will not be higher than your waist yet. You’ll be able to walk quite easily as long as you follow our instructions.”
“And our clothes?” I asked. “We’ll get there soaking wet.”
“Who said we’re wearing clothes?” said Rohit.
“What?” I squeaked, as visions of wading to the hotel in my birthday suit flashed through my mind. Then I saw the upward curve of his mouth. He’d punked me again.
“Monsoon wedding organizers have it down to a science. There’ll be changing rooms at the hotel. Though honestly, Ma, why can’t I stay at home with Dylan and watch TV? He doesn’t want to go, right, Dylan?”
I was torn. If I played it safe, I might never get another chance to see or photograph an Indian wedding. One thing Dad had drilled into me was to always open the door when opportunity knocked.
Then there was this crazy downpour, the fact that I swam like a drowning rat, and the realization that I might not be the only drowning rat in the water. All eyes were on me. I saw disappointment in Mrs. Lal’s, amusement in Mr. Lal’s, and pure mischief in Rohit’s. I made up my mind.
“Let’s go,” I said. “I’m sure I’ll manage with all of you helping me.”
“Okay, everyone,” said Mrs. Lal. “Gather your party clothes and shoes and put them on the table. I’ll pack them in a plastic bag that you will carry on your head, above the water. Wear shorts, T-shirts, and flip-flops. Nothing fancy,” she said, looking straight at me.
I got the distinct impression we were embarking on a dangerous mission; man against nature. Only time would tell whether we, or the floods, would win.
Within fifteen minutes we were ready. All our clothes were double wrapped in plastic bags. The Lals had gifted me a cream-colored silk kurta-pajama to wear at the wedding and I had no plans to let the water ruin it. I’d also wrapped my camera in three layers of plastic and hung it around my neck. Even though I didn’t need any more pictures for the competition, I didn’t want to leave it behind. There would be lots of photo ops for my portfolio and I didn’t want to miss any.
“Hold it, Dylan,” said Mr. Lal just as we reached the door. I stopped.
“You can’t wear those,” he said, pointing at my Nikes. “They’ll be soaked as soon as you step outside. Wear a pair of Rohit’s rubber flip-flops.”
I stripped off my socks and shoes, and stuck my feet into the flip-flops Rohit gave me. The rubber part between my big and middle toes felt weird. At every step, the flip-flops slapped my soles, threatening to fall off. But it was that or ruin my expensive shoes. I squared my shoulders and nodded.
“Ready?” asked Mrs. Lal, her eyes steely.
“Ready,” we replied in chorus, then picked up our respective parcels and trooped downstairs.
“Okay, people,” said Mr. Lal. “We’re going in.”
Water flooded the building’s foyer and lapped against the bottom two stairs. More debris floated past lazily and collected in the corners. A horrible stench hit my nose and I took a shallow breath, trying to keep my breakfast down. I’d wanted to see the real Mumbai and now here it was, right at my feet.
“Let’s go,” Mr. Lal said and stepped into the muck. Rohit’s face was scrunched up, as if in pain. His elbows twitched as he threw me a quick glance. Then he stepped in. Mrs. Lal followed. Something furry floated by. I stood on the steps, frozen. This was beyond gross. I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t.
“Come along, Dylan,” said Mr. Lal. “We don’t have all day while you study the water. Best not to think too much. Wade in.”
From the corner of my eye I saw something brown surface, then dive back into the murky depths, creating a ripple. I took a deep breath and stepped in. The water was cold as it crept up my legs, all the way to my knees. We sloshed to the entrance and out into the lane. The water crawled up to my waist.
“Crap!” I said. “Can’t we hire a boat from the marina?”
“We should have packed an inflatable raft,” said Rohit, flicking his glasses up and looking around with a gloomy expression. He was wearing the spare pair his mother had carried, and they seemed even looser than his previous pair that had shattered.
“Excellent idea,” I said, trying not to shriek as something brushed past my ankle.
“Enough with the commentary,” said Mr. Lal. “Move.”
He took the lead and we waded to the end of the lane and out onto the main road. We passed kids splashing around in the water. Adults shuffled past with parcels tied on top of their heads, leaving their hands free. They walked confidently as if this was normal. Which I guess it probably was during the monsoon season. This would have been an awesome photo op, but I was so worried about ruining my camera; I couldn’t risk unwrapping the plastic around it. And it was tough keeping my balance with a bundle of clothes perched on my head and flip-flops threatening to drift away at every step. The rain came down hard and within seconds I was drenched from head to toe. Mrs. Lal had told me not to bother with an umbrella or even a rain jacket. That stuff was made for civilized rainfall. Not the savage fury that pummeled Mumbai for three months every year.
“Ughh! Something touched me!” I yelped.
“Keep walking,” said Rohit. “And don’t look at the water. It’ll only slow you down.”
Cars parked along the sides were submerged up to their door handles. More debris floated our way. I tried not to think about what it could be. Mind over matter. Focus on the goal. Though, now that I was here, I really wished I’d stayed home. I would rather have starved than wade through garbage water.
“Keep to the center of the road at all times,” said Mr. Lal. “Follow me and do not stray to the side.”
It reminded me of Gollum’s warning to Frodo and Sam as they took the shortcut across the Dead Marshes to Mount Doom. Don’t follow the lights, Gollum had said. If I weren’t feeling so miserable and cold, I would have laughed.
“Why?” I asked. “What about the traffic?”
“There won’t be any traffic today,” Mr. Lal said. “Forget cars, not even a truck could get through the side roads today. You’re safe if you stay in the middle.”
And he was right. Lots of people moved past us, keeping to the center of the road. I had to admire their tenacity. No matter what the weather—scorching heat or massive downpour—nothing fazed them. As I struggled on, I realized just how lucky I was to be living in America. I took so much for granted. One thing I was sure of: If I made it out of this downpour alive, I’d whine less about things, especially the weather.
The bloated body of a dead cat suddenly popped up in front of me. I yelped and swerved.
“DYLAN, watch out!” yelled Rohit.
Too late. I lost my balance and plunged into the filthy, murky water. I flailed around and opened my mouth. Big Mistake. A plastic bag sailed in. I gagged, throwing up and swallowing at the same time. Blackness clouded my vision. This was it. The End. Goodbye, Mom, Dad, Ro. I lo
ve you all.
Suddenly there was light and I could breathe again. I drew in a lungful of air, shuddering and shivering, wiping water from my eyes, blinking hard. Rohit still held a fistful of my T-shirt as he stared into my face. In his other hand was my parcel of clothes as well as his own.
“Dylan, are you all right?” Mrs. Lal shrieked. “Speak to me!” Her face was as gray as the water around us.
Rohit let go of my shirt but stayed close. “Are you okay?”
“I’m … okay,” I managed to gasp. “Lost my balance, that’s all.”
“Good thing you were in the middle of the road,” said Mr. Lal, his voice grim. “There are uncovered manholes along the sides. Idiots from the local municipality open them for repairs and forget about them. The rains come and they’re hidden. Many people, especially kids, have died because they got sucked into the manholes. Once they’re in, there’s no getting them out till it’s too late.”
I felt like throwing up again. What if I’d been at the side and Rohit hadn’t pulled me out in time? By now my ghost would be exploring Mumbai’s sewer system. How had this weakling managed to hang on to someone three times his weight? I hugged him tight, not caring about the strange looks I was getting from passersby.
“Are you okay to go on?” asked Mrs. Lal in a shaky voice. “Or should we go home? I am so sorry you had to go through this, Beta. The monsoons can be pretty rough for someone experiencing them for the first time.”
My heart still beat erratically in my chest and I wanted to sob. I looked at the expectant faces around me, waiting for a decision that would ruin this day or make it a memorable one. They’d traveled thousands of miles for this wedding. But they were willing to forego it for me.
I’d gotten so used to taking care of myself back home that at first my decision came quickly. We should go back to the flat and forget this suicide mission. But I couldn’t. I forced myself to smile. “Did Frodo and Sam give up when the journey became dangerous? Did Harry Potter, when he was lost and alone in the Forbidden Forest? Onward, I say!”
The bedraggled Lal family smiled as one, their hair plastered to their heads and faces streaming with rain. I loved them and could not have asked for a better fellowship on my mission to Mumbai.
“You’re a very brave boy, Dylan, and a thoughtful one, too,” said Mrs. Lal. She patted my cheek. “My Rohit is lucky to have you as a friend.”
“I think it’s the other way around, Mrs. L,” I said as cheerily as I could even though I still felt sick to my stomach and really wanted to wash out my mouth with Lysol. “But please don’t tell Mom about this um … mishap. I’ll tell her myself when we’re home.”
Mrs. Lal nodded and I could see she was relieved. Rohit linked his elbow with mine. “You’re staying with me every step of the way, bro. You’re banned from walking these streets alone during the rest of our stay.”
I nodded, the warmth of his arm in mine giving me the courage to start walking again. It didn’t even matter that I’d basically been banned from more activities in these two weeks than I had in my entire life back in New York.
WE REACHED MARINE DRIVE WITHOUT ANOTHER near-death incident. The flooding wasn’t so bad here and only a foot of water covered the road. Within ten minutes an empty cab crawled past. We stood in the middle of the road till the cabbie was forced to stop. We piled in, ignoring the driver’s angry protests that the seats would be ruined.
“Oberoi Towers,” said Mr. Lal. “Jaldi karo and I’ll give you a generous tip.”
The driver gave us a suspicious look through the rearview mirror. Tipping aside, we weren’t decent enough to enter a McDonald’s, let alone a five-star hotel. I really wanted a shower. There was no way I would let Nisha or any of the other guests see me this way.
As soon as our cab reached the hotel, Mr. Lal paid the driver, tipped him, and we all hurried to the door. It was already 11:45 and the groom’s wedding procession was expected by noon. The doorman looked us over from head to toe. I’d lost a flip-flop when I’d fallen. Bits of dirt and hair were plastered to my bare legs.
“No beggars,” he said coldly.
I stared at him, stunned. No one had ever turned me away like that or called me a beggar. Rohit’s twitching started up and Mrs. Lal’s face turned beet red. I looked down at my clothes and honestly couldn’t blame the guy. I wouldn’t let us into the hotel looking like we did.
“What rubbish,” thundered Mr. Lal. “This”—he gestured to his clothes—“is because of that,” he said, sweeping his hand at the rain.
The doorman looked at us in confusion.
“Do you know who I am?” Mr. Lal said, standing tall. Water dripped from his shorts and ran in rivulets down his scrawny, hairy legs and down to his flip-flop clad feet.
“Er … no,” said the doorman. Though by his alarmed expression, he was probably thinking lunatic.
“I am Lal. I know the general manager of this hotel, his boss, even the local MP,” Mr. Lal roared. “I will make sure you lose your job if you don’t let us in. Right now.”
“Sorry, sir,” said the doorman, looking thoroughly uncomfortable. “But you cannot go through the main lobby looking like that. Might I suggest the service entrance?”
People were stopping to stare at us. I felt like crap and was seriously thinking about diving behind the large potted plant at the entrance while Mr. Lal argued with the doorman. Mr. Lal sure was taking the man-mouse challenge issued by Mrs. Lal seriously; I’d never seen him this angry. Just then a car drew up. The rude man pushed us aside and rushed forward to open the door. Out stepped Nisha, wearing a gold-and-red saree, looking like a goddess. If a manhole were around, I would have jumped in voluntarily.
“What happened to you?” she asked in a soft voice. “My God, you all look like you’ve fought the Mahabharata just to get here.”
“Something like that,” I said, though I didn’t have any clue what she was talking about. A gust of wind whistled through the covered walkway and I shivered.
“We couldn’t get a cab so we had to walk partway,” Mrs. Lal explained, trying to smooth her hair and wipe her face with a wet handkerchief.
Mr. Lal was still arguing with the doorman when Nisha’s father emerged from the car, tucking his cell phone into his pocket. “Let them in, my good man,” he said, pressing money into the doorman’s palm. “They are all part of the wedding party, caught like chickens in the rain.”
Without any other arguments, the doorman let us into the lobby. Now the air-conditioning chilled me to the bone. Luckily Nisha’s father had booked a few extra rooms at the hotel for guests who wanted to shower and get dressed. We picked up key cards from reception and hurried upstairs. Mr. and Mrs. Lal took one room; Rohit and I took the other. I couldn’t wait to wash off the street garbage clinging to every inch of me but I let Rohit go first. He’d earned it.
I stared out the window at the turbulent Arabian Sea crashing against the parapet. The tetrapods stood strong under pressure, just like my friendship with Ro.
Within fifteen minutes we were in the banquet hall, cleaned up and decked out in our silk outfits. We looked so good I insisted on taking selfies with Rohit and his parents.
“Let’s go find the buffet,” I said to Rohit. “You know, just to check on it, before things get started.”
My senses were assaulted as we circled the banquet hall. The fragrances of perfume, incense, and food mingled in the air to create an overpowering smell. The sheer number of colors and patterns was dizzying. Sunglasses should probably be handed out at Indian weddings, just like they do with 3-D glasses at movie theaters back home.
I took a few pictures, wondering when it might be polite to start digging into the food. The walk to Marine Drive had made me hungrier than usual.
We saw Boa in the distance, in a bright-red saree, and immediately walked in the opposite direction. Neither of us wanted a run-in so soon, even though I knew at some point she was going to hunt Ro down and bully him.
“Dulha aa raha hai,�
�� a cry went up. “Dulha aa raha hai!”
“Translate,” I said to Rohit as we followed the crowd to the large windows lining the banquet hall, overlooking the street.
“The groom’s arriving,” said Rohit. “You should find this interesting.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s not coming by car.”
“You mean he’s wading here in shorts, too? Cool, now I don’t feel so bad.”
Rohit pointed to the window. “Look.”
There was Sanjay, on a tired white horse draped with a red-and-gold cloth that was bleeding color. The horse’s butt and legs were tinged with red as if it were wounded. Bedraggled revelers danced behind Sanjay, trying to look cheerful despite the downpour. On either side was the band, wearing soaked red uniforms and hats fitted with mini umbrellas, playing Bollywood tunes while sloshing through ankle-deep water. They were so loud, I could hear them over the rain and through the thick glass windows.
Though an umbrella was attached to a weird contraption on the saddle, Sanjay was wet and looked super miserable while he tried to smile and wave at us. I almost felt like I was at the zoo, staring at an exotic animal.
“Poor guy,” I said, clicking a couple of pictures. “Couldn’t they have come by car just this once?”
“Tradition, dude, tradition. A little rain doesn’t bother us,” said Rohit, polishing his glasses for a better look. They slipped out of his hands and he stooped to retrieve them. “The groom always arrives on a horse,” he said.
“And now, he’s leaving,” I said.
“What?” Rohit straightened up and jammed his glasses onto his nose.
The horse was galloping through the soaking wedding procession. The umbrella had fallen off and was now floating upside down in the water while Sanjay held on to the horse’s mane for dear life. His relatives raced behind him, yelling for him to stop, but he wouldn’t, or couldn’t. I noticed something large and brown swinging at the end of the horse’s tail but before I could get a better look, or zoom in to take a picture, they had disappeared around the corner.
Mission Mumbai Page 18
