This was also the first hotel where I’d be shacking up with Karsh.
We crossed through the buzzing lobby to the pool, which was inhabited by a treacherously fair-skinned chaise-lounged blonde in one-piece skin-tone bathing suit and a well-rotisseried half-dunked man, both staring off to the side at something in a late-day sunstroked daze. I followed their gaze to the pavilion, and a small red-robed wooden stage area, its arched doorway strung with lights. Before it, clusters of white-clothed gold-ribboned chairs held their breath, backs to us.
—A mandap, my father explained. —There is surely a wedding reception taking place here. Those people in the lobby were probably awaiting the arrival of the groomsman on horseback.
A sweep of servers was busily setting up a buffet in the vicinity.
—Just imagine! So soon our own Sangita will be tying the knot.
—Or walking in circles, I said, referring to the seven steps around the fire of the Hindu wedding ceremony. —She didn’t seem that excited about it back at the house, though, no?
—She is a very calm girl. Just like her father.
—True, that.
My father wrapped an arm around my shoulders.
—Maybe one day you will be here with Karsh.
—I will, I grinned. —In just a couple days!
—I meant …
—I know.
It was a tantalizing prospect: returning here someday and pronouncing our already implicit forevermore, in the country that had, in a way — by bringing our parents together in med school friendship — hitched us in the first place. I took my father’s arm as we strolled towards the mandap. Closer up, I saw that the stage — which wasn’t one unit but several knotted together — was in fact a metallic blue, so rusted it gave the impression of being wood from a distance.
—No issues, my father said now. He’d refreshed his Hinglish in no time. —You two have all the time in the world.
Camera out. A few feet away, a set of red-cloaked steps curved up towards nowhere; later, they’d be pushed against the stage where the couple would probably be making their own seven-step-circling vows, or at least posing for a photo op.
The stairs reminded me of our last visit to India, when the Sea Link bridge had been in progress, stretching its aching hand only about halfway across the waters separating these suburbs from South Bombay. I’d been inexplicably moved by this half bridge, at this valiant straining to make contact with the other side. Something about the stairs felt similar, though there was less desperation in their upwardly spiraling yearning. Perhaps because they didn’t appear to be reaching for anything — just a direction.
By the walled steps that dropped to the beach, the black-clad watchman nodded to us. My father nodded pleasantly back and tipped him for opening the gate. As we descended, I noted the guard’s socks were implausibly white.
Onto the shore we stepped, then sank. A significantly different sight met our eyes today than the jam-packed Juhu Beach of my childhood. Dogs dug down, and a couple men also gullied in the sand, arms thrown across faces by the stone wall splitting hotels from seascape. A lone soul of indeterminate ethnic origin stood waterside, muscles rippling as he swung through a sun salute with verve and vigor and no expensive purple mat.
No swimsuits; no swimmers.
I missed the cacophony of the seaside of old. However, one advantage was a nearly unobstructed view of the Arabian Sea. The water wasn’t blue exactly, but a brownish-blue haze, as if the bottom had been stirred up and never quite settled.
I couldn’t be so close and not touch. My father, reading my fidgety feet, nodded for me to go on.
Here I stood on Juhu Beach, as far as I could see the only girl in clamdiggers and a Country, Blue Grass, Blues & Other Music For Uplifting Gourmandizers tee, Birks in hand, eyes drunk on sea and sky — at last officially getting my feet wet.
I could feel something expanding.
As airplanes crisscrossed overhead, I considered then my true love across those waters, soon to be winging himself towards me. With my big toe, I did something a tad adolescent but immensely satisfying: scrawled an enormous D+K in a double-bubbled heart in the Juhu sand. Then I dragged a line from it to the lapping sea — my heart to his, to reel him safely in.
Another pair of bare calloused feet was soon beside me: my father’s, his own orthopedic sneakers in hand now. I photographed him staring out to sea, a delighted smile dancing his eyes as the great ball of fire readied to take the plunge.
—Your mother and I would walk here, he said. —I’d ask her to sing song after song. Zindagi bhar nahin bhoolegi woh barsaat ki raat: My whole life I’ll never forget this night of pouring rain.
He sang now, quietly but with great emotion. I loved this about my father: his off-key but sincere voice, resonant with pleasure and … was that a note of mourning? It was as if he were singing for a girl loved and lost.
—How many times I stood just here, he went on, —dreaming of what lay on the other side …
And how many times in recent years had I done the same, by the Atlantic Ocean, Hudson River, East River … any body of water that could eventually spill into this one, ferry me here?
—What’s over there? I asked, pointing left to where the beach curved off, past the slew of hotels.
—Bandra. Once under Portuguese rule. An ancient fishing village.
To the right, where the walled backdrop gave way to tree and brush, a few high-rises elbowed up from a densely constructed area.
—Versova. And Andheri, of course.
We walked that way. Kids played cricket, a pair of simmering red chappals and single blue sole stumped in the sand.
—Down one of the next side streets is the Hare Krishna temple. We went there last time, remember, beta? Wonderful vegetarian food.
I had only a vague recollection of the temple itself but a clear memory of a moment during that outing, when my father had gently pushed me forward to receive the aarti blessing from the priest, guiding my palms over the proffered flame, then transferring the blessing to my forehead. When the little lit lamp had come his way, he’d passed his own hands over it — and then laid them upon my face, bestowing his own blessing upon me as well.
Now he spoke not only of the sands upon which we were strolling, but Breach Candy, where he and my mother had shared their first kiss. Shivaji Park, bordering the building society that had housed their wedding reception. Elphinstone College, where he’d first met Hush-Hush Aunty and Hear-No-Evil Uncle, two of the first Indian friends they’d have years later in the USA.
—All these memories, he mused. —Feels they happened only moments ago, yet in another life as well. Each time I come here, I wonder if it is the last time. I don’t know if it’s a remnant of how it felt to leave, really leave all those years ago … or also from having lost our parents, people, along the way.
I felt a sharp kick in my gut, and I didn’t want to linger too long on this thought: that India for me, and my own Indianness, was so part and parcel of my parents … what would it mean to me if they were no longer? I felt a waylaying desperation to waystay, document this place to pieces, till it was broken down into morsels I could digest and convey with me everywhere. Always.
—So many years, he said now, eyes bright. —So many miles.
I took his arm, on the brim myself.
—So many more years, Bapuji, I said, squeezing his hand. —So many more miles.
The sun dove then, a santra aflame, sink-swimming exhilaratingly through the waves. A couple of the cricketeering boys skipped seaside, appeared as if they were leapfrogging over this star.
As the day dipped, activity keened, now back Bandra way: Bhel puri, kulfi stands, coconut-water-wallahs beacon-beckoned, mouthwatering nubs of land spotted at last from darkened sea. A lone jogger a pace off the breaking waves. The doubled camel-like shadows of couples here and there entwined against rock face.
By night, the beach evoked a half-deserted casino. Those same-level stall roofs streaked
mile-long neon light, like taxi headlight-taillight ripples in the rain. A hub of kerosene-lamped bustle: a long white fabric rolled out on sand, strewn with a gleeful geometry of objects. Parle biscuits; juice boxes, the balefire faces of the illustrated children spiriting up off the cloth. A bystander cast a ring, haloing one.
We’d walked for what felt like hours — it seemed we should have already been in that ancient fishing village, but it just kept bobbing out of bounds.
—We should head back now, my father finally suggested. —The others will be waiting. How anxious I am to meet Deepak!
We retraced our path. And as we passed the site of my romantic sankalp — where I’d carved those initials so joyfully in the sand — I saw: Only the D remained, the K water-washed, gullying into the line I’d drawn to link us.
Funnily, both hearts were intact.
The wedding reception my father had forseen was off to a fragrant start now, guests gilded and glammed to the max, milling round the buffet tables. It was funny how close you could get to someone else’s big day in India; in fact we walked right through it towards the alfresco restaurant area.
We were scanning the non-wedding tables poolside when we spotted a gangly man leaping up, waving as fervently as a NYC tourist hailing an off-duty taxi. At first I thought his impassioned greeting was for, say, the twin brother he’d been separated from at birth, but soon enough I spied the rest of our posse seated along with him, already cracking into papadums and lassis.
Had to be the dudewallah.
—Dimple, Rohitbhai, my aunt called out proudly, taking the arm of the mirthful man. —I’d like you to meet Deepak, my soon to be son-in-law!
Groomsman had already victory-lapped around the table towards us. And when, as a show of respect, he bent to touch my father’s feet, Maasi shot my mother what I could only describe as a triumphant look. My father giggled shyly, as if he were ticklish.
—Uncle, I am overjoyed to meet you! And you, Deepak enthused, rising, eschewing my own toes, —must be Dimple!
—Congrats on everything, Deepak, I said as my father warmly hugged him. —I’ve heard … loads about you.
—As have we all, my father affirmed. —You feel like a nephew already!
Deepak pulled out chairs for us both, then raised his lassi sky-high.
—And so soon we will be irrevocably bound! To tying the knot … and joining our families!
We clinked glasses. There was something weirdly fresh off the boat about him. Although I guess he hadn’t even gotten on the boat; I had. Kavita made a gesture of hanging herself with her dupatta, for my benefit. My mother had clearly done the ordering already, and now punctured the bread lid of the dum biriyani she’d been craving the entire plane ride over.
—We were just discussing the wedding, of course, my aunt briefed us.
—Your own as well! Deepak added, nodding to my parents. —That is, your anniversary trip. You most certainly must have taken one last look back at the Taj all those years ago! They say your return is guaranteed if you do so.
My aunt gazed at him as if he’d just broken down Fermat’s Last Theorem.
—And it is the fate that this is true! she finally affirmed.
—Well, actually it’s a choice Maasi and Kaka made, said Kavita, replying to her, referring to my parents, but staring at Sangita.
—It is a confluence, Deepak said diplomatically, or philosophically. —I can arrange a car for you from our Delhi office to Agra. What an example of Mughal architecture, this magnificent creation built by a king to express his love for his queen!
—Actually, built for a couple decades by a zillion lackeys for a pittance, said Kavita. —Not to mention elephants. Frankly, I’m not sure old Shah Jahan was getting any dirt under his nails.
—Twenty-two years, Deepak edified us. —If I am not incorrect.
—We will go to see it at dawn, my mother revealed now, as if uttering the fruits of a prophecy rather than an online tour agency booking, complete with confirmation number. —And during the moonlit night.
Kavita cleared her throat. —Actually, it’s a mausoleum. A tomb to love. Shah Jahan’s wife died, tragically, during the birth of their fourteenth child.
—And then on to Fatehpur Sikri! my father hurriedly chimed in.
Deepak nodded sagely then explained, apparently for my benefit, although I was already somewhat privy to these details: —Ah … a very powerful place. In the tomb of the Sufi saint who granted Akbar his prayer for an heir, you can tie a thread and wish on it, and it always comes true. When you are having success — when that wish is realized — you must return and untie a thread in thanks.
—What are you wishing for? Kavita asked my parents.
—Ah, we cannot say! my mother told her. —Not until we have made the pilgrimage.
My father winked at me. Uh-oh.
—We ourselves made the trip years ago to wish for Sangita and Kavita to find their mates, Dilip Kaka said genially. —And see?
—Well, then you have to go back to untie the thread, I pointed out.
—Only one, my aunt rued. —We are waiting so we can untie both in the same ceremony.
Kavita stiffened. Sangita was generously refilling her husband-to-be’s plate, though it wasn’t yet even half empty, and began conjecturing pleasantly about the biriyani recipe. It made me a little sad, and I turned away.
The sound system for the random reception we were nearly crashing had turned up a notch. I checked out the pavilion. I’d imagined it would be hard to spot the bride and groom since everyone was decked out in moth-burning materials, but they were a shoo-in: The bride — all in white (ivory, actually) — linked arms with the tuxed-out groom as they awaited with gobleted hands the pouring of the champagne, which a member of the serving staff seemed to be having a spot of difficulty opening.
—Isn’t that unusual she’s dressed in white? I commented, sneaking a shot of the server from our table. —I thought red was the bridal color.
—And white is the color of mourning! Deepak yelled cheerfully over the music.
—Which makes it the perfect color for a wedding, Kavita retorted. Her mother shot her a look, although my own stifled a laugh.
The server finally stuck the bottle on the ground between his feet and yanked with all his might, nearly toppling over as the cork whizzed out with a Serge Gainsbourg “Comic Strip” mega pop. Half the champers spilled to the pavilion ground, but he managed to rise to the occasion and swoosh the conjugal couple’s goblets full before it all went to waste.
—Christian wedding, my mother deciphered now. —Unless that’s Thums Up fizzing out the bottle.
Sangita squinted. —It’s not exactly white, her dress….
The bride was already presenting her glass for refills. The groom looked on with a mix of admiration and fear.
I took more photographs.
—It is so wonderful to have a pastime you are so skilled at, beta, my uncle remarked now.
Sangita looked like she wanted to say something, but then just stared decorously down into her plate.
—Dimple’s pastimes win prizes and get published in magazines. In fact, she’s here to work on her supposed hobby, Kavita interjected.
—Of course not only for that, I hastily added. —I’m so happy I’ll be taking photos for the wedding … which is … not a hobby?
—Anything we can help you with while you are here, Dimple? Deepak asked now.
My aunt beamed. —Deepak is a weritable encyclopedia of information.
—I’m still trying to work it out, my photo project, I admitted. —I kind of want to just be open, see where my eyes lead me … maybe even follow a color. Like all the gradations of brown.
—Yes. In a city where so many long to be white, Kavita noted. —Did you know Fair & Lovely, that skin-whitening treatment, now has a product for your feminine intimate areas? I suppose so brown boys can pretend they’re getting down with white girls.
She was channeling Sabz again. Deepak ope
ned his mouth, then seemed to think better of it.
—Kavita! my aunt cried, horrified. —How can you speak of intimacy now?
—Oh, sorry. I thought we were talking about marriage. Art.
—Well, on that topic … I’ve been accepted to art school, Sangita suddenly blurted. —J.J. Full scholarship.
Now I opened my mouth to congratulate her, but caught my aunt looking utterly confused, so I shoveled some biriyani into it instead.
—How can you be accepted if you haven’t applied? she asked finally.
—I guess … I forgot I applied? I didn’t want to get my hopes too high.
Meera Maasi appeared less than thrilled with her daughter’s show of academic initiative. Deepak sat slowly masticating, his factoid-full smile now frozen on his face.
—And no mention? my uncle asked gently. He looked almost proud, but one glance cast from Meera Maasi, and he changed tack. —So, beta, what are you going to do with art school?
Sangita stared at him a little helplessly. My father spoke mildly up:
—Hobbies do wonders for good health. Like sudoku and gardening. I find this really releases the tension.
—You don’t need any of this altoo faltoo activity, Sangita, my aunt dissented. —Marriage will release the tension.
Her own, I had the feeling, more than anyone else’s. I was beginning to feel a little myself — maybe it was contagious, or just a hunch that this conversation was going to end up lassoing me in.
My mother broke in. —It is not necessarily altoo faltoo, Meera. Especially if it is J.J. School of Art, one of the tip-top!
—Nor do I think Dimple’s photography is altoo faltoo, Sangita said quietly now. Lassoed.
My uncle turned worriedly to me. —Of course not! That isn’t what we were meaning, Dimple, beta.
—Uh, it’s okay, Kaka, I assured him. —But I do think … if you find something you really love, it’s always worth giving it a shot, you know?
Bombay Blues Page 6
