Bombay Blues

by Tanuja Desai Hidier

—You gonna lift me? Karsh smiled.

  I voce-forte’d: —You lift me. You bring me. A higher purpose. A higher love. Think about it. Let’s go to Banganga!

  —That a club?

  I sotto-voce’d: —It’s an ancient water tank somewhere on an ancient hill….

  —Malabar Hill, you mean? said Flip. —Yeah, that’s ancient. As in old money. Dimple, you’ve had too much ganja.

  —Ganga? The holy river?

  —Um, that’s the Ganges, Karsh filled in.

  —Gandhi! I exclaimed. —We’re in India!

  —So, where next? Flip said. Karsh shrugged his smolders.

  —We don’t really have to go anywhere, I agreed. —I mean, we’re already here.

  —Where?

  —Here. Isn’t everyone always trying to get here?

  The motherland. The fatherland, even. Ancient civilization. My father’s mother, his sisters, in the garden of that joint house in Varad, swooshing around in their saris, frying spice, must, and pillowcase redolent in their braided and bunned hair — looking so unlike anyone we’d been hanging out with in Bandra this (was it this?) evening. Mosquito-netted swinging beds; my grandmother Ma staring into my eyes, not speaking, pupils mainlining with my soul as the Brahma Kumaris had taught her … and me bucking against the need to avert her gaze while maintaining mine, for some reason ashamed to be beheld so piercingly. Yet unable to look away: Spying out from behind cameras had been in my blood even then. This memory frissoned me full force, felt more real than the night we’d just immersed in: Kingfishers at Janata, dubstep at NoSoBoho, a KFC landmark on Linking Road.

  And yet …

  What if the real India … wasn’t even in India? But rather, amongst the diasporic denizens of other places? After all, those who’d git seemed to be hanging on with the tightest grips, trying to slow the tock of nervous tics in that throttlehold. The country itself moved on with the times, yet the ones who’d forsaken it struggled to freeze-frame it just as they’d left it — forming South Asian Student Associations, Indian community groups, stocking cupboards with mango pulp and agarbathi, as if to conjure and lock it into suburban kitchens.

  What if it was about time, not place?

  —Dimple. You are so stoned.

  I shook my head, mulling it over. Mellowly.

  —If I could just sankalp it …

  —Sankalp it? Flip queried.

  —Arjun it, explained Karsh, making a bow-and-arrow gesture.

  —Expats, sighed Flip. —Always trying to name-drop your way into authenticity. You could always just try: Focus.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, found myself doing pelvic floor exercises.

  —Dimple, do you have to take a leak?

  —No. Why?

  —You’ve got this funny scrunched-up look on your face.

  How to bring the India I had known — the one of my, my parents’ memory — into harmony with the one I was experiencing right now?

  —I don’t even know what right now is, Karsh mused.

  I didn’t even know what out loud was right now. I opened my eyes …

  Four older saried Indian women were waddling towards me on Linking Road, hands bouqueted with marigolds. A weritable vision from my past, down to the faint whiff of tarka that slipped up my nostrils as they approached.

  My mouth dropped open. Himalayan smoke steamed out of it. I snapped it shut. My forebears, even in the land of bhang, would probably not be so pleased about this kind of non-strictly-yogic exhalation. But the clouds I’d emitted still seethed, bits of doobie sky hanging in the air for all to see.

  Stealthily, I tried to inslurp, cumuli to cirri. To my dismay, more steam slid from my lips to join them. Like catching snowflakes, soap bubbles, it was a delicate duty; I opted to cloud-suck clandestinely via my nostrilia rather than continue my fish-on-sand gulps of the redolent air. So I sniffed around, attempting to hoover the smoke straggles back up into my system.

  —Uh. Dimple … ? Flip asked. —What are you doing? Snorting pollution?

  —Matching the outer universe to the in, Karsh speculazed.

  I held finger to lips and jerked my head to the waddlers, just now passing us. Wide swathed hips, silver-veined braids swinging down backs, anklets jingling over bare feet. Bare feet on Linking Road. Which was famous for footwear! Yup, it was proof: Surely these were apparitions from my past, I deduced, as they daintily sidestepped potholes and rubbish and even cars in a manner reminiscent of phantoms wall-passing in haunted-house movies.

  Ghosts didn’t need shoes — I mean, they didn’t exist, so most likely their feet didn’t either. Maybe when you were in a civilization as ancient as this one, the past never truly left you?

  And then it all made sense.

  —Oh my gods. Get it? I hissed urgently. —Linking Road! Like, it links the past to the present!

  —And also Juhu to Khar to Bandra to just about Mahim, Flip divulged.

  —Seriously. Look at them! I know them!

  Flip and Karsh tracked my gaze to the women, who walked dauntlessly on, weaving in and out of the traffic with all the chutzpah and blind faith of the devout.

  —What, they from New York? Flip asked me.

  —These brown people, Karsh said with a smile. —They all look alike.

  They kind of did. But I had bigger blood ties to oh-my.

  —You guys! Those were my grandmothers!

  —You have a hell of a lot of grandmothers, Dimple, Flip said. —They do this all the time. Every Monday night.

  —They do? Karsh asked Flip.

  —Some of them walk all the way from Borivali, Andheri, carrying their work clothes on their head, and change after.

  —Into what? I whispered.

  —What do you mean, into what? Into their work clothes.

  —So they become, like, human in the day?

  —After what? Karsh asked.

  —Darshan, Flip replied enigmatically. —Tuesday’s the big one at Siddhivinayak. There’s even a hotline to check crowd status. Ganesha’s day and all.

  Flip was so intriguing! He said the weirdest things. And with such confidence!

  I squeezed my pelvic floor again, and sure enough … another batch of saried women passed by! God of new beginnings!

  Was I birthing them?

  —More village elders! I yawped.

  —They don’t look that old, Karsh noted.

  —Of course not. It’s them when they were younger, I explained patiently. I was clinched with conviction. —We have to follow them! I barely got to know them in real life, and I am now being given this boon.

  —Boon? Flip inquired.

  —Like in the Ramayana! I cried, and began running after the waddlers.

  —They’re not going to outrun us. They’re walking, for Chrissake.

  Flip had a point. I needed to stay behind, well out of sight. After all, if the past was before me and I caught up to it, or if it turned around and spotted me, I might never be able to get back to the present. I slowed down and sped up a few feet, working out the math, then ducked behind a Styrofoam-cup-chokered bicycle parked roadside. The two-wheelin’ chai vendor gave me a questioning look. I smiled sheepishly up at him.

  —I don’t want them to see us, I apologized, jerking my head towards my ancestors’ backs.

  —They don’t see us, Karsh whispered dramatically, materializing out of nowhere. Flip stared at him, then me.

  I crept out from my linear-time hiding place, sneaked a sidelong glance across Linking Road. Now: throngs of young boys in tees and jeans and no shoes, traipsing parallel to the saried women on my side. A few men. One girl in glittering top.

  Karsh was just gazing fixedly at the traffic, human and otherwise, as if the secrets of the universe were contained therein.

  —I’m into it, he disclosed, nodding à propos de nada. He looked more than into it; he looked hypnotized by it. —How devoted they are. How much purpose they have … Birds flying south for the winter.

  Was that south? I wondered
now where my progenitors would wind up this evening. Perhaps it would be an actual portal to time travel? A wrinkle in time?

  The ancestral home?

  —We should take off our shoes, I declared. —Then we’ll mix right in. They won’t be able to tell the difference. For the tesseract.

  —I think they can tell the difference, said Flip, hiking up his Levi’s, pulling down his Bauchklang tee, and taking a long drag on a smoke.

  Finally, we got to a corner.

  —I’m not going any farther, he announced.

  —But they are, I pointed out.

  —Dimple. I don’t do Mahim. Long story.

  He’d signaled over a rick. —Your grandmothers. Let them do their thing. Get in.

  We got in. How could Reclamation be in a different direction to that of my forebears? But we veered away, following that sign. I felt a bellyache at abandoning them yet again — diasporically the first time, and now by turning right off Linking Road. Curving, swerving down a network of streets (or maybe it was just the loco motion of the rick), I felt we were leaving India far, far behind … as we entered the heart of …

  —Bandra, Flip sighed with audible relief, disappearing from the rick.

  —It’s like déjà vu. It’s like … we’ve been here before.

  —That’s because we actually have been here before, Lala, Flip sighed again, appearing in the rick with a Gudang Garam.

  —In a past life.

  —Um. No. Like, in the past two hours.

  —It’s like how I feel about India. Like … I’ve been there before, too.

  —You have been here before, Karsh offered.

  —In a past life? I tried again, desperate to have at least one of those.

  —A few years ago, and a handful of visits before. Multiple entry.

  Multiple exit: Flip had vanished from the rick again. Karsh and I were somehow back in Room 212.

  And no one had even asked to see our permit.

  All that time traveling had left me both carnal and craving Bonne Maman apricot confiture. Which, it turned out, was not in the minibar. However, therein lay a can of pistachios, a Cadbury Flake, and other toothsomes that I devoured while simultaneously ordering room service. I hung up, leaving a titillating trail of Bombay mix snack crumbs to the bed, where Karsh was zoning out.

  —You’ve got chocolate on your face, he commented impartially. I considered asking if he wanted to lick it off, but something about his comatose expression convinced me otherwise.

  By the time the chili cheese toasts and faloodas and fries were magically wheeled before me, I was too tired to eat. Balancing the chili cheese toast and inserting straw in falooda seemed to require such painstaking effort, it exhausted me just thinking about it. So I tried to squeeze the vast feast onto a bread plate and stuff it into the minifridge.

  Karsh shook his head, smiling.

  I lay down beside him, clicking us into the dark.

  —You saw them, right? I whispered. —It wasn’t just me?

  —I saw them, he whispered back.

  Reincarnation. The cycle. Birth; life; death. Procreation.

  Recreation. I snuggled up provocatively close to him.

  —You know, Duggi? All this talk of the motherland, the fatherland; it’s weird, but it kinda makes me think about …

  —I know. All I can think about is my dad. When you talked about linking the past and present, all those things you said about not forgetting our roots, the souls who brought us back here …

  I said that? Out loud?

  —I realized, Dimple, that on some level — even though I know he’s gone, even though I didn’t get to see him before he went — I’m here, in India, for him. To find my connection to him again. And, I suppose, to grieve.

  He curled up on his side.

  —How he loved bhangra, Karsh said. Then he drifted into sleep.

  The next morning, I came to covered in straw wrappers. Karsh was out like a zombie in a coma off life support. I scooched in closer now, sliding my fingers down his boxers to aid in the rousing from the dead process. He mumbled something, half-asleep … but a downtown vertically uptowning response had commenced, a squidge of a smile just curling his mouth. He was opening his eyes sleepily, luxuriously at me — when the phone in 212 went off like a fire alarm. Karsh grabbed his forehead with both hands and groaned, hangover probably roused into action now more than anything else.

  —Frock, I whispered. —Can we pretend we’re not here?

  But the ringing didn’t desist, so I reached my free arm over his head and picked up.

  —Hello? I sighed.

  —Bacchoodi! a joyfully wakeful voice exclaimed. —Having a romantic morning?

  I yanked my digits out of Karsh’s boxers, as if we’d been caught brown-handed. Karsh startled fully awake at that.

  —Daddy? Is that you?

  —Aaray, who else? Just checking on you. Your mother wants to know if you made the free breakfast? The masala cheese omelette is a highlight.

  —Um … no. But we’re about to?

  Karsh propped up on an elbow now, with some difficulty balancing his hungover head.

  —How is the room?

  —Everything’s fine, Daddy … and with you? All okay?

  —Of course! We are in India! And what a glorious day, isn’t it? Throw open your window and greet it, dikree!

  —I will….

  —Now, beta, he instructed mischievously. His laugh sounded like it was in stereo.

  —Sorry, I mumbled to Karsh. I inserted myself into hotel bathrobe and drew the curtain a smidgen.

  —Anyway … we just called to say hello….

  Sunlight: Ouch. The pavilion, backed by churning waves. A few pinkening people by the pool, and two browner men smack in the center of the space, waving excitedly … at me?

  —Oh … my … gods …

  Karsh rose then, came to stand beside me.

  —I just want you to know we are always here for you, my dad was saying.

  Down below, he and Dilip Kaka were cackling like schoolkids. Kaka even slapped his knees.

  —We were just in the neighborhood for our morning stroll … like in the olden days! We figured we would make sure you got to the hotel all right.

  —Of course we did, Daddy, I said. —Um, sorry you and Kaka took all that trouble…. You could’ve maybe just called from Andheri?

  —This Internet generation! my father said jovially. —Nothing can compare to human contact, beta!

  I sure as hell agreed with that; I’d just been hoping to have some with Karsh. Still, I couldn’t help but smile, and when I looked over at Karsh, he was, too: They just looked so damn happy to see me.

  Or us. My father seemed to crane his neck now.

  —Karsh! Is that you? Have you been swimming? I learned in this very pool!

  Karsh glanced at his boxers, and ducked down, lowering groin area from window view. I nodded for him.

  —Lovely! Nothing like seizing the day! Well, why don’t you both freshen up and meet us downstairs for the free breakfast? Your mother will be so pleased!

  I surrendered.

  —Okay … see you in a minute.

  We clicked off. They waved until the curtain had been drawn completely.

  I turned to Karsh apologetically.

  —We’ve got forever, rani, he whispered. He ruffled my hair, and headed for the bathroom — popping three Advils before hitting the shower.

  After, ablutioned and appareled, we examined ourselves in the mirror. I thought we pretty much resembled us. Except we were squinting, staring a little too long through reddened eyes, as if at a miniature painting instead of our own hungover reflections. Karsh dug into his pocket, handed me a vial of eyedrops. We each took a round.

  Out by the poolside café-cum-breakfast buffet, Karsh pulled his shades off, then immediately stuck them back on when the full blaze of day hit his eyes.

  —Very Bollywood look, dear Karsh, my father said, smiling warmly at him.


  —His eyes are really … sensitive to the pollution, I explained. Then, just in case: —Mine, too.

  Dilip Kaka abruptly pulled Karsh into a cuddly clasp.

  —How delighted I am to meet you after hearing such wonderful things!

  My father nodded. —And how … serendipitous you two are staying in the same hotel!

  Karsh was clearly too fried to even look quizzical beneath those Bollyglasses.

  My uncle now launched into a barrage of questions for him — mostly about how to fix this problem he was having with his Kindle, while my father and I took in the mandap being built again on the pavilion.

  —What were your plans for today? my father asked. The men on the pavilion kept tying, tying the knots. No one wore a hat.

  —I was thinking of shooting Karsh around Bombay. Maybe starting with this beach.

  —Wonderful! Juhu Beach is our favorite, my uncle enthused.

  —If you want to join, ji and … ji-ji’s … you’re both more than welcome, Karsh offered now.

  —Oh, we wouldn’t dream of it! my father demurred. —It is your first full day together in Bombay; we will leave the lovebirds alone!

  My uncle winked at me. —We just needed to escape the house for a couple hours. Premarital sex, you know …

  I stared at him, stunned. Kaka coughed, embarrassed. —Stress … stress …

  My father smiled.

  —We will drop you at the top of the beach. That’s more like the Juhu you’ll remember, Dimple.

  And drop us off they — and Arvind — did. By the landmark juice bar, where the road curved seaward, Bandraward we got out, waving.

  Beside the barriered path leading in, an ancient mariner of a snow-bearded man spread-eagled around a small fire on the ground, cloth draped sari-like over his shoulder, roasting peanuts and loading newspaper cones with the sea-salt-smelling mix. In the striped earthenware pot, the nuts smoldered, half still pale, half gone gold in the heat, wedged beneath a sort of iron. This was the snack my parents so dearly loved, the closest (not close) they could get to it back home the sticky sweet roasted chestnuts sold streetside Manhattan winters.

  I tapped my camera at the man; he gave a slight nod. I squatted in mirror position, his smile gold-rushing his face as I snapped. Then I stood directly behind him, shot the silvery moon of his crown semi-eclipsing the cauldron of bronzing legumes.