Bombay Blues

by Tanuja Desai Hidier

  As we skewed what seemed to be directly into oncoming traffic, I spotted the roundabout rani, weaving between cars with an enviable, and inadvisable, nonchalance, sticking a procuring palm into the window of any slowing vehicle. As we passed, Sangita reached a hand out, calling out Nandini! It seemed she was going to yank her in with us, but my cousin-sister merely slipped a bar of chocolate — one of those green-tea-infused artisanal ones I’d brought upon her request — into the hijra’s hand and withdrew her own, smiling merrily as we rounded the bout.

  —You know her? I asked, incredulous.

  —Everyone knows Nandini. And she was so excited about your arrival — especially when I told her you’d be sating her sweet tooth!

  So that’s why Nandini had waved to me that day: She’d recognized the car.

  Rickshaws weren’t allowed to cross-Link into South Bombay. A no-go in SoBo — but onto highways? No problemo! Although I still wasn’t certain where it was, I was pretty sure my perineum was getting a workout as I clenched all my muscles to keep from being jettisoned out of the rick. Sangita and Kavita casually chatted, as if we were lounging by a hotel pool.

  Off the highway. Through Juhu, Khar, and finally —

  —Bandra! Kavita announced.

  Mallika had chosen the joint, apparently very hip and expat-friendly, which she referred to as NoSoBoho (the real name was something rhyming), landmark, as Sangita had informed the driver: Kya ufzee. Urdu? The tuk-tuk stuttered down a side street and pulled to a panting stop.

  We stumbled out. At a first glance, it didn’t look particularly more hip or expat here. Unless the cow in the middle of the road was American.

  Sangita and Kavs displayed immense courage and cultural immersion by flitting through the (very slim to nearly nonexistent) shifting gaps between cars and ricks, occasionally patting one of the vehicles to remind it that humans were in the path of destruction.

  I froze, obeying an internal survival-instinct stop signal — one the cow seemed tuned in to as well.

  —Dimple! Kavita shouted in exasperation from The Other Side. —For crying out loud!

  It was demure Sangita who, like something in a retro video game, dodge-darted back across to me, grabbed my hand, and zigzagged me through the slipsliding stream of vehicles. Like a good expat, I closed my NR eyes and screamed the whole way, just like I did the first time I merged with traffic coming off I-95.

  When I opened them, I was gazing up at the building behind Kavita. It was a big bone-bright KFC.

  We spotted Mallika farther up the side street.

  —Madame has arrived! Kavita announced, waving her down. —I almost didn’t recognize you, seeing you on time.

  Mallika, dressed to the nines, even tens, in a come-hither slither of a BCBG number, stood shivering outside a jewelry shop. A row of men all in white lined up beside her.

  —Who’re your pals? I asked.

  Mallika shrugged. —Valets.

  —All yours? Kavita grinned. —Why are you up here? I thought we were meeting at KFC. Landmark, na?

  —This sidewalk is nicer, Mallika replied. —Come on, ya. My feet are killing me.

  I glanced down at her ankle-strap stilettos.

  —Nice shoes, Mallika. Pick them up on Linking Road? I asked, trying out my newfound knowledge.

  —Hell, no. Kurt Geiger on Portobello Road in London last summer.

  We pushed through an aaray of stalls selling T-shirts, dupattas, and flip-flops, and entered a building by a side door, then took an elevator to the top.

  Inside, all was decked out in a weird mix of Goth and jungle hues. Images of half-humans grazed the walls, lion-haunched, bird-winged. Thatched umbrellas floated over a few tables, gauzy greenish fabric billlowing above us in place of a roof. No breeze had been evident outside, so I wondered now if it was exhaust from the neighboring KFC. In fact, come to sniff of it, the venue was a little redolent of chicken nuggetry.

  We were ushered into a side room, A/C cranked to tempest power. Mallika now proceeded to remove her sweater, as did Sangita. Somehow, though teeth-clicking cold in the balmy twenty-one-degree outdoor weather (read: seventy degringos Fahrenheit), they seemed fine with indoor Frigidaire climes.

  We perused the menu, a culturally confused (or enlightened) assortment of Indian snacks and Tex-Mex platters. Like so many places here, it also had an entire Chinese section. Those ubiquitous transatlantic sliders were available, too.

  —First things first. A BandrAmbrosia, Mallika read off the menu. —Gin, triple sec, vodka, lychee liqueur, and 7 Up.

  —Ew, I said. —I hate 7 Up.

  The waiter arrived. He looked immediately Hispanic to my NR eyes (NYC branch).

  —Can we get something more typical? I asked Mallika. Wasn’t feni a trad Goan beverage? (And wasn’t Bandra Goan-ish from its Portuguese roots?) —I want the full immersion experience.

  —But of course, Dimple. When in Bandra …

  Mallika nodded to the waiter with the ease of someone used to servants.

  —… drink Manhattans! A round, please.

  —Just water for me, Sangita demurred.

  —Sangita, please. You’ve been fasting forever already, Kavita cajoled. —Deepak’s good for more than one lifetime by now, isn’t it?

  —I …

  But Mallika held up a hand that silenced my doth-protest cousin-sister.

  —Ignore her, Mallika instructed the waiter, who nodded and shooed off.

  —Um, thank you so much! I called after him.

  —You must be starving, Sangita, Mallika said now. —You haven’t eaten all day?

  Sangita nodded weakly. —Just a few more hours …

  —Fasting to fit in the wedding dress, my dear?

  —It’s a sari, Kavita snorted. —No one has to fit in a sari.

  —True, that’s the whole point: You can hide all your fat under the wrapping, Mallika said with a nod, though I wasn’t sure how she’d know anything about fat, unless she’d read about it (or saris, given her penchant for French designer duds). —Then: Surprise, betrothed! Two wives for the price of one!

  The waiter reappeared, set down our drinks, and stood by me tensely with a bucket and ice grips.

  —How many cubes, madame? he asked. That had to be the first time anyone had ever asked me this question, and I certainly hoped it wouldn’t be the last. I felt purringly indulged. However, childhood warnings to avoid water in India sprang to mind.

  —Um, has it been boiled? I auto-asked. The waiter looked like he wanted to call his lawyer first.

  —Why would you boil ice? Mallika inquired politely. —Oh, come on, Dimple. It’s mineral water ice. We’re in Bandra — expat central. If the H2O was dodgy, this place would be out of business in a snap.

  I chose three. “We Three,” by Patti. A holy number: third eye. I wondered if Akasha knew. Half a Manhattan down and my goose bumps white-flagged it despite the frozen trio in my glass.

  We passed the nachos, which I hadn’t heard anyone ordering. Sangita chastely shook her head as the platter came her way, though her eyes bored ravenously through the disappearing dish. I crunched; she flinched. Mallika, who took a spoonful of guac, passing on the rest, stared at her.

  —So? Then what? she asked now. —What the hell diet is this?

  —Shivratri, ya, Sangita sighed.

  Mallika raised her brows. —It’s Shivratri? Oh yeah. I suppose it is.

  —So on Shivratri, the goddess Parvati performed tapas, Sangita filled me in.

  —Like dim sum? I wondered aloud.

  —Ah, dim sum … Sangita moaned, stomach audibly rumbling. —No. As in prayers, meditation. To shield her spouse from the dangers of a moonless night. That’s why on Shivratri, women pray for the protection of their husbands and sons.

  —And daughters and wives? Kavita said through a tortilla-glutted mouth. —Screw ’em. And today I will fast for the protection of the women in my life said … no man ever!

  —My theory is in return the husbands eat twice as muc
h to become nice and fat so no other women will want them! Sangita chuckled.

  —And if you don’t have a husband? I asked, figuring a fridge with a lock must come in handy for these occasions.

  —You fast in the hopes of having one, Sangita explained.

  —And one like Shiva — the destroyer! Mallika added derisively. —Of your life!

  —Shankerji, Shiva is the destroyer of evil, Sangita objected. She stared longingly at the feast on the table, twisting those beads around her neck. —He drank in a poison that could have destroyed all of creation. Halahala. But he did not swallow it, held it in his throat. Thus he is also called Neelkanth. The blue-throated one.

  She touched her neck as she spoke, as if she felt that god’s pain, then cleared her own throat.

  —Anyways, they say it’s good for your soul to stay up all night, dancing, playing music. The planets are aligned for maximum benefit.

  —Well, we’re in the right suburb, Kavita proclaimed. —For dancing and music.

  —Let’s go with the all-night vigil part, then, I suggested, having fast failed the fast.

  —In Bombay? All night still means one thirty unless you’re at an after-party at someone’s home. Or a four- or five-star hotel — then you can soiree till three, said Kavita.

  —Sadly, I’m not doing such a great job of protecting Karsh….

  —Karsh doesn’t need protection. He’s a strong man.

  —Deepak is, too! Sangita jumped in, a little petulantly.

  Mallika nodded towards Sangita’s untouched drink. —Then what are you so worried about?

  Sangita met her eyes, raised her glass, and took a sip. She glanced around the room as if an alarm might go off.

  —Believe me, I fasted for a couple Shivratris, Mallika was saying now. —Upon my mother’s command. But that didn’t stop my marriage from falling apart; in fact, I’m in town finally finalizing the divorce. Starving yourself isn’t any guarantee. Unless my ex was being protected from … me!

  —You were married, Mallika? I gasped. Sangita took a bigger gulp of her Manhattan, reached tentatively for a nacho.

  —Thanks a lot. Is it so surprising someone would want to bond me in helly — I mean holy — matrimony?

  —No, it’s just … you’re so young, I said quickly. A grad student, she didn’t look past her mid-twenties. —Was it arranged?

  —Unofficially. I was dating a good boy from the same background. So it was inevitable.

  —Like, Hindu from Bombay?

  —Rich. From Malabar Hill.

  That elicited a snigger from my cousins.

  —We met in high school, Mallika continued. —Cathedral. Actually, in grade school, but we started dating in high school. His family was doing business with mine. And the assumption was always that Naveen and I would unite to bond the bloods — and businesses — even closer.

  —Magnate-ic attraction, Kavita quipped. Mallika nodded.

  —As soon as I finished undergrad, we got married. Three days at the Breach Candy Club, every family member got a little twenty-two-carat Ganesha when they left. Honeymoon in Bali, second one in the foothills of the Himalayas …

  She sighed, perhaps nostalgic for that conjugal bed. —You absolutely must get a massage there. Ask for Ananda.

  —Wow, I said, incredulous now in equal parts due to Mallika’s tale of betrothal and the idea of turning up at the foot of the Himalayas … and asking for Ananda. —You didn’t date anyone during undergrad?

  Mallika smiled.

  —I didn’t say that. I just knew what was expected of me when I got back to Bombay. But New York had given me the seven-year itch … seven years ahead of schedule. We stuck it out awhile, even tried Manhattan together when I started grad school — which I did primarily to get back there. He did everything right, all by the book.

  —Aw, too sweet only! Sangita cooed.

  —In short, Mallika concluded, —nauseating. So … he caught me with Niket. I suppose I let him; couldn’t see any other exit.

  She turned to Sangita. —Highly recommended tactic if you’re looking to get out of your engagement.

  —Why would I be?

  —I’m just saying. Cheaper than bribing the astrologer to misalign your stars.

  —Astrologer? Sangita snortled. —Now there are computer programs to figure out if your stars are aligned, na?

  —Is that so? I personally find the best way to confirm alignment with someone is to go sixty-nine. Shag ’em senseless and see if your eyes can line up after.

  I turned to Sangita. —But I thought you used an astrologer?

  —Both. A program and a star-chart reader. In reverse order.

  —So what’s better about the new date? I asked her.

  —It’s later! Sangita laughed. Mallika snickered. Sangita immediately grew serious.

  —Aacha. So how’s your alignment with this Niket been going, then? she asked her now.

  —When in New York, Mallika replied. —And when in Bombay …

  —Huh? So who are you dating in Bombay? Kavita interrogated.

  —It’s a quandary, Mallix lazily lamented. —In terms of experience, I’m too old for single boys my age and too young for the widowers, you see. I can’t date anyone available: I’m the wild one who broke a good boy’s heart, na? And, frankly, I’m not so keen on tying any kind of knot at this point. So I’ve found a way to … entertain myself in a way people can’t talk about. At least to my face.

  —What’s that supposed to mean?

  —I’ve targeted a new demographic: the unhappily married men of Bombay. Principally, but not limited to, South.

  —There are so many married guys in their twenties? I asked, amazed. I didn’t know of any in New York.

  —No. They’re not unhappy till their thirties or forties.

  —Forties! So you’re, like, into geriatric sex?

  Mallika waved me off. —Take it from me, these guys want nothing more than a young supposed ingénue to marvel at all their minuscule victories — handed down from their dads of course — and ready to … worship the lingam, so to speak. Which, thanks to my liberal arts education, I’ve gotten damn good at.

  —That’s disgusting, said Kavita, unsurprisingly.

  —Don’t knock what you haven’t tried, sister. Right, Dimple?

  —I can barely remember … lingam worship, I laughed. —But I intend to refresh my memory the second Karsh lands.

  Sangita’s mouth was so stuffed with nachos at this point, she looked like a hamster preparing for a long, cold winter. In the foothills of the Himalayas. With Ananda.

  —Sangita, don’t listen to them, Kavita assured her. —You don’t have to be a BJQ to prove your love.

  Sangita looked perplexed.

  —There are all kinds of love, ladies, Mallika disclosed.

  —And … ?

  She cackled. —And sex isn’t one of them! Sex is about power. Always has been.

  —Mallika! Sangita cried out now. —Think of those poor wives!

  —The wives? They’re anything but poor! And trust me, they all know what’s up with their husbands. They’re holding it together for the window dressing. It’s a deal.

  —But it can’t be so easy for them, I said, considering it. —There must be a lot of broken hearts in all this.

  —I am not the heartbreaker, Mallika said fiercely. —No one can break your heart but yourself. It’s a choice.

  Sangita shook her head, pained. —Mallika. This is worrying. You will never meet an eligible boy behaving like this.

  —Exactly. I’m done with eligible!

  —Why don’t you go for some Bandra boys at least? Unmarried, preferably. They’re the hip ones, na? The cool ones. And more your generation.

  —Screw hip, Mallika replied.

  —I think that’s what she’s saying, I clarified.

  —No, I mean — too childish, too young. Too many goatees. Those patently ridiculous shorts to the knees — ugh! Such random T-shirts.

  —Um. That s
ounds like Karsh, actually, I said. —Except the shorts.

  —Karsh is different, Mallika assured us all, with a proprietary pride that unnerved me. —He’s a bleeding heart in a warrior body. And he doesn’t have that whiny end-your-sentence-in-a-question-mark way of talking that so many American desi boys have. Plus, all those Bandra expats are too trust-funded, pampered.

  —And your crowd isn’t? Kavita laughed. —Mallika, you get chauffeured to take a piss!

  —We are old money, Mallika said grandly. —We know how to behave with the stuff. No vulgar SUVs that can barely squeeze down a suburban street. No tattoos at Al’s and silly lopsided haircuts. I mean, do they do that on purpose? We are about understated elegance. Come to South Bombay — we’ll show you where to put your lakhs.

  She raised a glass. —Anyway. Here’s to marriage, Sangita!

  —Two weeks! I joined in, feeling foolish.

  Sangita looked to her glass, but it was empty. She grabbed Kavita’s.

  Mallika grinned.

  —Two weeks? Fabulous! So in case you change your mind … here’s to being within the window to get your deposit back!

  —You’re a bloody fucking romantic, Mallix, said Kavita.

  —Why, quite literally, darling. Sangita, you just let me know if you want me to get your man in trouble — and you out of it. I’m pretty good at that.

  —Aaray, shat up, ya! Sangita slurred, but she didn’t look too perturbed.

  —No issues. I’m sure Deepak is a real catch. And probably a firecracker under the sheets. Make sure you test out the wick beforehand, ya? Dimple’s doing that with Karsh, and I commend her for it.

  Sangita nodded, embarrassed. I doubted she’d had much action even alone under the sheets. But, after a moment’s hesitation, she clinked glasses with Mallika.

  At last, the glorious day was here! Karsh’s arrival … and our imminent reunion in our motherland. When his night and my day would once more tock together, beauty and the beat syncing the same shore.