—Kanavla! my mother sang. She’d sometimes crave this Marathi sweet back home: ghee-rolled dough stuffed with coconut, sesame, almonds, and, of course, a liberal dose of sugar. (This was India, after all, where even sugar was prepared with a liberal dose of sugar.)
—Four hours to make twenty-four pieces … with Sangita’s help! my aunt nodded, expertly ladling the last puri onto plate. —Four hands!
—Where did you say you keep that key again?
—Don’t even think about it, Tai! my aunt clucked. —The day will be here before you know it.
Jingle of the magical mystery door and Akasha now appeared, setting Zepploo’s cage by the grille and joining us at the table. My uncle raised his eyebrows questioningly at her.
She nodded in reply. —It’s coming along. I can see he’s considering it.
—Akasha takes the chaklee outside a few times a day to see other birds flying, my uncle explained to me. —To help him heal. A kind of exercise in sankalp. When your intention, focus, is so pure it manifests itself in the tangible world.
—So … like be careful what you wish for, you mean?
—More often, who you wish for, Akasha replied matter-of-factly. —But yes. In this case: the desire for flight. And safe landings. I like to position him in the window as well so he can aspire to greater heights.
—Ah, like the hill? I asked. Zepploo did indeed seem to be contemplating that humdinger of a highland in the distance.
—Um, excuse me, but it’s in fact a sixty-five-million-year-old freestanding columnar basalt monolith, ya, Akasha gently pointed out. —Dimple Maasi, a simple sankalp exercise to demonstrate: Please concentrate on a number. It will appear in your eyes, and I shall focus my intention and tell it to you.
—You’ll read my mind … in my eyes? I laughed.
—Where else? The brain is connected through nerves, and the nerves to the eyes, so the brain sends a signal through the network till you can see it on-screen. In fact, I can read your mind in any part of your physical being. But eyes are the easiest for a beginner like me.
My mind was teeming to the point I simply couldn’t choose a number.
—Take your time, Akasha said kindly, nodding to my plate. —Go on. Eat.
Eat made me think of ate. Eight. The eight of us eating the bicultural meal awaiting us: Marathi-Gujarati. Maasi had prepared my and my mother’s cravings — learned directly from my grandmother, who was a distant memory of a snug big-bellied embrace: mutton curry, cauliflower subzi, and puran puri. And my father’s Gujarati roots were honored as well with a lavish spread of his childhood staples: limbdi-and-cumin-flecked bowls of kadhi, bhindi bhaji, kand puri, khichu and makhan (the creamy post-churning pre-butter that myth claimed Krishna was so fond of he’d steal it).
—Aaray waah, Meeratai! he rhapsodized, spreading the makhan onto a crunchy chunk of khicchoo. —You must have been Gujju in a past life.
—I remember all your favorites, my aunt replied. —It was I, after all, who assisted our mother in cooking for you whenever you came to visit my sister.
—And what was my dear wife doing in the kitchen during all those visits, then?
—Stirring where stirring was not required, lifting lids as if she knew what to look for, and mostly swooning.
—Meera! my mother scolded her. —I most certainly was not swooning! I was too tired from medical school to see straight in those days.
My aunt nodded. —Of course. You had loftier things to think about.
My mother rolled her eyes, but I noted she was taking seconds of the fried bob-gobble bread herself.
Me? Thirds. Of all. And much to my delight, spicy was spicy here! My eyes watered, sinuses cleared for life; it felt so good to … feel.
—Oh … my … gods! I cried passionately.
—Personally, I love Taco Bell, Akasha remarked. —I went there in Atlanta with my parents. And Subway.
—In Atlanta, too?
—No, ya. The Andheri branch. Quicker to get to when you need a fix.
She paused, pensively.
—You know, they say if you eat Mentos with Coke, you die. But I tried it and nothing really happened.
My aunt looked at her impatiently, my uncle fondly. Then he trained that fond regard on me.
—So, Dimple, what would you like to see — photograph — while you are in Bombay?
—I don’t know, I said. —I guess … the real India?
—That you will not find in Bombay.
—Well. The real Bombay, then.
—This, said my aunt, gesturing to us, —is the real Bombay.
—Sitting in traffic trying to get to the real Bombay is the real Bombay, Kavita smirked.
—Crawford Market? my father joined in. —Dimple, remember we went together last time?
—I do. Loved it. But still, they were trying to sell me apples from Seattle.
—Sure bizarre, intoned Akasha dramatically.
—It wasn’t bizarre, just …
—Chor Bazaar, Sangita translated. —It started as a place where stolen goods were sold. It means thief’s market in Hindi.
—And Urdu, Akasha added, and then continued, perplexingly, in French. —A marché aux puces, marché aux voleurs des antiquités. Flea market. Antiques. You can get anything there!
Sangita nodded. —Mings, Muranos …
—Sleigh bells, barbells, phonographs, and clocks stuck back in time! Akasha raved. Then she leaned in and whispered, —There’s a saying that whatever you lose, you find at Chor Bazaar.
This piqued my interest. There was this elusive track, a favorite of his father’s, Karsh had been seeking. Might it be here?
—True, Sangita agreed. —Deepak’s driver once bought back his cell phone from there. And got a much better deal than what he originally paid for it.
—You must let us know and we will organize with Arvind to drive you wherever you like, Dimple, my aunt proposed now.
—Thanks, Maasi. But I was kind of thinking of being more on the ground. I mean, in New York I always take the subway or walk. So I thought I’d — wander. Maybe try the train.
A collective gasp.
—Not the train! my aunt exclaimed.
—What happened to the train? I asked.
—It is too crowded, Dimple, Maasi explained. —And they are not in their proper mind-set, some of these people. They will sit on you.
Sangita edged in. —And if you are not in the ladies’ compartment? Beware your backside.
—Or even in it, Kavita said mischievously. —Still … Victoria Terminus? Breathtaking.
I’d heard. I figured it would be a long shot to get Karsh to come along, given what had happened to his father, but you never knew. Perhaps it would afford a kind of closure?
—Take a car there, my uncle suggested.
—A car to the train? I laughed.
—Seriously, Dimple, Akasha said. —It is one of the busiest train stations in Asia, with three million commuters passing through daily. So I’d advise picking up some protective footwear on Linking Road…. And be sure you can do the Train Dance.
—Which is?
She jumped to action, engaging in a bout of odd but enthu choreography that involved jimmying forward, clucking like a spastic chicken, shooting both arms straight out stuck together, then apart and to her sides with military breaststroke precision.
—Shuffle, hen-bend, stroke, swipe; shuffle, hen-bend, stroke, swipe. Oh, and watch out for the thieves that slice off your back pockets whenever the train stops.
—Since when do you know so much about train travel, beta? Dilip Kaka inquired now.
—Everything, Akasha said very seriously, tapping her head, then indicating the room, the windows, the world, — is just … out there. It is a matter of having your antennae out.
She exited, still riding the poultry express. Moments later, I was pretty sure I heard a chord being strummed to the same rhythm.
—I was also thinking about going to … Lower Parel? I said no
w. One of Karsh’s potential gigs was in that area, if his first went well. Plus, the name intrigued me.
—The defunct mills? That’s very dangerous! my father cried, vehemently shaking his head.
—Defunked, Kavita piped in, with a peculiar little dead-reckon chicken-head move that looked like it belonged to Akasha’s transport jig.
—No worries, Kaka. These days, you can think of Lower Parel as Upper Worli, Sangita mysteriously reassured him now.
—How long does it take to get there? I asked tentatively. —Theoretically speaking …
—One to three hours, Kavita replied, —give or take.
—But if the traffic is on Tulsi Pipe Road, you may enjoy it, Sangita informed me. —The Wall Project is there; people have painted the entire thing. Like at Mahim station, and in Bandra, of course. But might be nice for your shooting.
My father spoke up now, looking a little worried at the concept of me outside of this apartment, ever.
—Would Arvind be available tomorrow? Before the dinner? I was thinking Dimple and I could take a stroll on Juhu Beach. She could start shooting … somewhere more familiar?
—We can most certainly arrange that, my aunt quickly assured him. —But of course the most important shooting of all, beta … You will of course do some photography at our Sangita’s ceremony and reception?
I nodded enthusiastically. —I’d love to. In fact, was planning on it.
—Sangita is insisting on keeping everything in the family, my aunt sighed. —Sorry to put you to work, Dimple.
—Well, Sangita’s been working hard as well, Kavita pointed out. —She’s not treating everyone like lackeys. Dimple, Sangita here even made her own wedding outfit!
Sangita shrugged modestly. —I like to sew, she said. —I had a contact at a fabric store and thought it might also cut down on some of the costs.
—Model it for us now, beta! Maasi instructed her.
Sangita looked less than pleased.
—Isn’t it bad luck for any men to see it before the wedding? I jumped in. My cousin seemed so shy, I wasn’t sure she’d be able to handle such a spotlight on her. But ever the obedient daughter, she promptly rose and exited the room.
—This is India! Everyone sees everything before the wedding, my uncle laughed into the silence.
—There is no before a wedding, Kavita added drily. —There is always a wedding.
A little while later, a ponderous swoosh, and Sangita emerged donning a drop-dead gale of a sari, a heave and wooze of teal and turquoise, sunset-sea-streaked with violet and rose, with a pot-of-gold border.
—It’s beautiful, Sangita, I whispered.
—Beta, I keep telling you to add something red, Meera Maasi berated her. Then, addressing my mother, as if she didn’t know, —The traditional color.
—The red is ideologically mixed in, Mummy, Sangita offered. —In the purple. Pink. Blended with white, blue.
Before my aunt could groan on, Akasha swooped back into the room, a sizable guitar strapped across her tiny troubador chest. Her hands were poised over the frets … but froze there when her eyes landed on me.
—Dimple Maasi! she cried. —Wait! Relax. Breathe through the eyes!
I stared at her, confused. She stared at me, omniscient.
—Are you thinking of … eight? she finally uttered. Now I froze.
—Enough altoo faltoo! Kavita, Sangita, maybe you can get the key from Vipin Uncle and Vinanti Aunty’s now? my aunt suggested briskly. She filled us in: —Our neighbors are traveling to Silicon Valley to visit their son and have kindly offered their flat to house Deepak’s family.
Akasha was still staring at me.
—They are at present looking for the suitable girl for Akshay, my aunt added pointedly. Why? Had she gone missing?
—I’ll come along? I offered, but didn’t move, still stunned by Akasha’s numerical telepathy.
My uncle shook his head. —We won’t hear of it. The Americans rest now. Synchronize your clocks. The entire trip lies ahead of you. You don’t want to sleep through it!
I certainly didn’t.
Akasha leaned in to my ear.
—Those are sideways eights, she whispered.
Later that evening, I decided to unpack a bit. I threw open my suitcase and unlatched the heavily stickered bedroom wardrobe … to discover several sacks of basmati rice, enormous Tupperware containers of homemade chevda, and tins of Horlicks biscuits chockablocking the interior. I’d forgotten that closets also served as larders here, with the space constraints.
In my suitcase: the electric-blue box containing my wedding gift for Sangita. I took it out for a look. I’d wanted to give her something besides my photographic help, so I’d had my dear friend in New York, Zara Thrustra, create a pair of shoes for her.
This was no ordinary custom-made footwear. There was nothing ordinary about Zara, for starters — a Nietzsche-quoting drag queen who’d fled her native Pakistan when she and her family had received death threats due to her “outrageous” sexual (and fashion) leanings. In the box lay a pair of turquoise and amethyst platforms, gemmed and studded in broken bobs and bits that had been scored on the street, from Chinatown bottle caps to a Loisaida cinema ticket to a Harlem earring, and a Crown Heights diary key. Coins were always part of Zara’s fashion currency, mostly lucky pennies, though this time she’d managed to get her hands on a few rupees as well, suturing a built-in anklet of the jangling coins around the platforms’ upper borders. A fan of vivid feathers (probably pigeon, though spray-painted in arco iris peacock colors and removable by Velcro strap) jutted around the back upper heels of the shoes. The chunky heels were themselves transparent, filled with a clear liquid in which azure glitter created a snow-globe effect over an olio of marbles and jacks, along with the rope and knife and tiny Miss Scarlet piece from a game of Clue.
Miss Scarlet may have been Zara’s nod to bridal red. But every other instance of red commingled with other colors (Sangita-style, funnily enough); as Zara had explained, her own life was an ode to artistic license, and nothing existed in a vacuum — even a hue.
Thus spake Zara Thrustra. A Nietzschean überquote adorned the box: I say unto you: One must still have chaos in oneself to give birth to a dancing star. Smiling at the thought of the look on her face once she got a gander of these flying feet, I transferred Sangita’s gift into my duffel for better ensconcement, cramming it just behind a sack of basmati, and latched the door.
A pair of shoes always contained a magic slipper.
Still later, Kavita and Sangita slunk into slumber beside me in our shared room. The apartment itself seemed netted in the dream-shift-gaze of REM, the sleeping in-ex-hales of my family dinghy-bobbing the space. But my body clock was all wound up. Eyes peeled, I disembarked into the living room, and did the thing I’d been longing to do since we’d arrived.
Dadasana: I sank into Dadaji’s chair and peered at the painting on the wall across from it. I realized now why it looked so familiar: It was the precise daytime view from the window beside it, looking out over Andheri. I didn’t know if it was the dreaming hour, but in the painting, the swashes of blues and browns seemed to conjure Dadaji’s very face, organically part of his favorite outlook on Bombay: Gilbert Hill. I vaguely recalled a story of his first climb to the Durga-templed top, a vantage point from which the entire metropolis splayed gorgeously at his feet.
Through the grille, a slivered moon slit-lit the night, a star cradled just above the crescent. A memory rose of a wee me cradled in Dadaji’s sheltering arms, him pointing a finger towards that peak.
—Rani, he’d whispered, and it must have been in Marathi, before my mother tongue was tied. —One day we will walk there, to the summit, you and I. And you will see, truly see, where you are.
I had no recollection of that upwards climb.
My thoughts turned to the other man in my life who called me rani, who treated me like the princess he’d awaited since birth. I tried Karsh now, to give him the local number Akasha
had SIM-swapped me into earlier, but he didn’t answer; he was probably smack at the start of his Adda show on the LES in New York.
I texted: My night your day. Baited breath in Bombay.
Funny how my love for New York swirled now into this metropolis, and my love for the great man of my past, in whose chair I rocked, into that of the man of my present and future, currently ensorcellingly rumpling still skins, spinning a distant room gold with a breed of music that had originated … here.
It was here that I could bring it all together. Sankalp the past present future into a seamless meld, erase those dividing lines I’d been straining against, like a blindered horse champing at a bit.
I lifted Chica Tikka, took in Gilbert Hill through my third eye. Moonlight etched its edges from the smog of night sky.
And I made a promise to Dadaji, to myself: This trip, I would remain as unblinking as my lens, let it all in, take it all in … and hopefully carry-on all of it with me.
Careful what you wish for: I remained unblinking well into morning. Each time I was on the verge of dropping off, that magical mystery door jangled as burtanwallah, kachrawallah, and possibly doodhwallah came and went. Not to mention the dhobi. Between these efficient barefoot visitations, the bedroom periodically creaked open as Maasi frequented the closet for the canister of sugar, of black tea, of cashews.
It was deep afternoon by the time I was freshly showered and heavily chai’d. The doorbell rang yet again and yet another man materialized within that magical mystery frame — but this one smiled shyly at me from the threshold, jingling a set of keys.
Eagerly, I grabbed my camera.
It was Arvind, ready to take me and my father to Juhu Beach.
Arvind dropped us off at the Samudri Ghoda Hotel, also known as the Seahorse — where many, many years ago my father had learned to swim in the neon-blue pool out back. I myself had effervescent memories of Gold Spot sipped under sky-size umbrellas, the cutie-patootie girl on the Amul butter packet furrowing as its contents jiffily melted. The rest of the gang would be meeting us here for the Deepak 101 dinner later; the poolside restaurant was renowned for its dum biriyani, according to my mother (who seemed to have developed a gargantuan appetite — and resolve — to eat her way back through time to her childhood).
Bombay Blues Page 5
