Bombay Blues

by Tanuja Desai Hidier

Or simply: Go.

  My head began to pound. The incense, the ghee, the cloying scent of fallen flowers. And just before releasing that invisible benediction upon Karsh’s head, I had second thoughts, lay my now cold palms upon my own brow and slowly retraced my steps, out the way I’d come.

  Perhaps selfishly, I had the feeling I was more in need of a blessing tonight.

  Karsh didn’t see, didn’t follow. And I was no longer following either.

  I packed up; we had a few hours before checkout and shifting hotels. Karsh still wasn’t back, was probably shaving his head and changing his name, for all I knew. I hit the free breakfast, drowning sorrows in copious quantities of masala tea. My mind funneled that first-visit image of him swaying at the temple, arms raised in a musical surrender, so jarring to me for some reason. And today, I was ashamed to discover, I was even more perturbed by that expression of peace and well-being he’d had on his face — a peace and well-being I couldn’t take any credit for.

  But once eggs settled in my belly, I began to calm down. Hunger could account for my hopelessness, couldn’t it? And lack of sleep could make you neurotic, too … na? It was a form of torture, after all — just see how crap new parents always looked — so maybe I was making a big deal out of nothing. Karsh had to come back at some point (could be he was stuck in traffic even now). There’d be an explanation, and we’d have a laugh about the entire epic night.

  I returned to the room. Sankalp. For there he lay, on his side of the bed. I moved in closer to where he rose and fell in a sea-deep slumber, the sun now up and away, a blinding hot-air balloon in the window beyond.

  Something in me gave then: He wore his baby face when he slept; I’d seen it in Radha’s photo albums, from which his father had been neatly snipped out. Actual photographs, in soft cushy books, protected by sticky yellowing sheets curling off the edges.

  Lying here now, he looked like my Karsh again. So familiar it was almost difficult to see him.

  I must have been staring hard, because his eyes suddenly fluttered open.

  —Already ready? he asked sleepily.

  —I made the free breakfast, I said softly. —You know Mom’s going to ask.

  I sat tentatively on the edge of the bed.

  —You were out like a log when I got back last night, he said.

  So Gopal had kept mum?

  —Over the lag at last, I lied. —So … I didn’t hear from you last night?

  Karsh yawned a little too long. —Oh. Yeah. I knew you needed your sleep. Didn’t want to wake you in case you’d finally found it.

  —Yeah. It’s just your phone was switched off, so I was a little worried.

  He didn’t say anything. Maybe this was too much brainwork for him so early in his day?

  —So what did you guys end up doing? I asked, yawning a little too nonchalantly as well, as if I was already bored with his reply.

  —Oh, not much. Just hung out a while with the crew — a couple more DJs joined … got some Bombay duck at Soul Fry …

  —Gopi girl eats duck?

  —It’s a fish, Dimple.

  —Still. Isn’t that illicit or something?

  —Gokulanandini wasn’t there. She hurried off home soon after you left.

  —Hare’d off, you mean?

  I was trying to bait him to tell the truth, but unfortunately keeping it taunt-free wasn’t my forte. Karsh, who’d looked about to say something, decided against it.

  —And then? I attempted.

  —And then … nothing. And then I came back.

  —Wow. I didn’t even hear you. Or feel you …

  —Yeah, well. I was pretty wired, so I just listened to some tunes, worked on my set. Hung out at the pool café for a while. I guess I just needed a little quiet time.

  He clearly hadn’t been in the environs of that banging bhangra wedding. But why was he lying?

  And why wasn’t I calling him on it? I supposed as crazy as his ISKCON excursion seemed to me, dishing that I’d jumped the barrier onto curfewed Juhu sand and stalked him would perhaps come off a tad more bats. And something about the way he’d looked there had seemed so private, even in that devotee-jammed arena. I didn’t feel like I could enter that space just yet. I wasn’t sure there’d be room for me.

  —The sound of the sea …

  His voice drifted. And here, in a room with just us two, I felt suddenly claustrophobic. I jetted into the bathroom for fear my face revealed too much, took a breath — and my eyes fell on a spa voucher on the counter.

  I could do with a little Ayurvedic cleansing, I decided. When I went back into the bedroom, I pulled the cover up to his chin; his lids were slipping.

  —Have some more quiet time, then, I whispered.

  He was already out like a light.

  Luckily, the spa had a slot for me. I vanished into a cavelike room by the pool where over the next couple hours I was kneaded and rubbed and oiled and scrubbed into a submissive bliss, tinged with sentiments of a scurrilous nature. Overactive brain sinking rapidly to a restful pulsatory nest between my legs, I found myself deciding Karsh’s deception back in the room had been minimal; after all, I’d hidden something from him, too — and there were far seedier facts we could be covering up from each other than ashram-frequenting ones.

  Asha, the masseuse, expertly twisted my … earlobes. If Karsh and I were having so much trouble hearing each other, I thought now, perhaps we should steer clear of speaking altogether, blissfully submit as well….

  I’d let his secret go — couples were allowed lives outside of each other, weren’t they? As long as they spent enough time inside each other, I concluded.

  Ahhhsha! Bum massage!

  Enlightenment struck: We should have sex! Lots of it!

  Asha pulled at my toes as if agreeing. The most beneficial of unions: And me and Karsh, we had to wholeheartedly meet halfway — all the way — in other realms as well. We needed an adventure! Flashbulb: I suddenly had an idea, thanks to a wise wee wing-fixing wizardress, of an outing that would feed us both visually and sonically — a return to our roots, in a sense. I couldn’t wait to share it with him.

  Post-Ayurvedic massage and wash-and-blow-dry and speedy, stunning — and strikingly inexpensive — eyebrow threading, I arrived back to Room 212 in the most sprightly of humors. Despite my spa shower, I still reeked of jasmine, oil lending a crimson sheen to my now superstraight hair, Sparklehorse tank top gorily stained, eyebrows curved in what I hoped was a knowing and wise and sexy arch, and body so knee-weak unknotted from all that head to toe tending-to … I was ready for a little knowing-wink arching action with my man.

  Karsh was up — against his laptop screen. His noise-cancellation headphones were inserted firmly in his ears.

  Undeterred, I sauntered Ayurvedically up, seductively plucking one plug out and reenacting the nether-region-butterflies-inducing lobe probe and inner-canal caress magoddesseuse Asha had just to me ministered.

  Karsh glanced up, startled. —What the f — ?

  Okay, maybe not so seductively, then. I removed my auricle-exploring index and flopped down on the armchair beside him.

  —Oh. Sorry.

  He was already back to staring at his seventeen-inch monitor; I would’ve taken half that in a heartbeat. At a glance, I could see a Word doc, social media page, two websites, and several downloads in progress, all open and active on-screen. He left the one headphone dangling and, without peeling eyes away, asked, more gently this time:

  —Can I borrow your ears for a moment?

  —Sure that’s all you want? I attempted again. No sordid response forthcoming, I backtracked. —I mean, you sure you don’t want the eyes? They’re a little more in tune.

  He did that vague smile-smirk-snort — the I’m not really listening, but you must have said something funny (at least to you)-a-roo.

  —Which do you like better? he asked earnestly now. —DJ Cosmological Redshift or Blueshift?

  —I don’t know either. What kind of music?
<
br />   —No! I’m testing out new DJ names … and ensuring no one’s nabbed the domains while I’m at it. But I’m torn — redshift’s an increase in wavelength, seen in an expanding universe, which is cool … but Doppler blueshift’s experienced when a source nears its observer, like a siren. Which is pretty sweet, too.

  —But you’ve got a DJ name, I said, confused.

  —I’ve been thinking about what Ravi said. Gulab Jammin’ … well, it’s kind of cheesy, isn’t it? Using a food for a DJ name?

  —Not as cheesy as using a food adjective to denigrate a food-inspired moniker.

  —Dimple, seriously. How often do you see people trying to be cute with food puns when they write about India? Like currying favor, or a spicy masala of comedy and drama movie reviews. It’s overdone, and kind of reductive, given our rich tapestry of heritage and culture to draw from.

  —I don’t see how Redshift’s drawing from our rich cultural heritage, I pointed out. —Why don’t you try DJ Indus Valley Civilization or DJ Satyagraha AKA Passive Resistance?

  He still wasn’t laughing. I touched his arm.

  —Look, you don’t have to do everything Ravi says, I said gently. —Or some random corporate sponsor. You’re your own person. Aren’t you?

  —Of course I am! But Ravi may be up for giving me another chance if I show him I’m committed … and changing DJ GJ is something I’ve been toying with for a while now anyway. So any suggestions, or just the usual sarcasm?

  I decided to go satyagraha myself and passive(aggressive)ly resisted a comeback. I was doomed if I had one, done-for if I didn’t. But I did have a serious answer.

  —How about Karsh?

  —Huh?

  —What about Karsh?

  —That doesn’t mean anything!

  —Of course it does! I cried. —And when people get to know you, your name will be identified with a certain sound.

  I was nearly bouncing in my seat with sincerity. —Speaking of which. I think you’re stressing too much about replacing your bhangra beats. It was the wrong venue, that’s all — I mean, that’s what made you who you are in New York!

  —There’s no scene for that kind of music, he said. —No one hip drops bhangra here.

  —For frock’s sake, Karsh! You want to know what the problem with the Indian hipster is?

  He raised a brow.

  —They don’t know what’s really cool.

  He gave me a huh? look. I was probably giving myself one as well; where’d that come from? Then I remembered: cowboy hat, crinkly smile. A vague sense of secrecy wisped through my system.

  —I know this music’s not for people like you, Karsh began slowly. —The music of now, of the future.

  —Karsh, it’s not like I’ve got Gregorian chants on my playlist.

  —We’re in a different place now. The same rules don’t apply.

  I wondered for a moment if he meant the music, or us.

  —But I thought the whole goal was — pardon the platitude — to be true to yourself? I said, unsure now of what was going on. People?

  —But how to be true changes with the times, with technology. And maybe that’s what makes it so hard for you to accept this part of my journey, Dimple.

  —What? What does?

  —You just don’t really … change with the times. Keep up.

  —What’s that supposed to mean? Is this a race?

  —I mean, let’s see. How long did it take you to change from film?

  —I didn’t change from film. I supplemented.

  —Of course you didn’t change. And why did you supplement?

  —For convenience, portability, postability …

  It was also nearly required as part of the NYU program, but I kept that bit mum.

  —And if you use modern technology for convenience, he went on, —are these photos quote true anymore? Or has Canon become your corporate sponsor, compromising your vision in the process?

  I guess he meant my Digital Rebel, not my single-lens heirloom.

  —Um, it’s not like Canon’s wiring me any funds for my work. And how did this become a conversation about my authenticity as a photographer?

  —The second it became one about mine as a musician.

  —But I’m not doing it to … to sell cars or eighty proof, Karsh! Or to kowtow to someone I barely know —

  —Ravi just wants me to make a living here, and some of that might come from sponsors. This is a country with millions living below poverty level, Dimple. Money isn’t necessarily evil; it’s just necessary.

  —I don’t think the people singing to sell deodorant are down there. I think they’re sticking their heads pretty far out above poverty level, actually, I remarked. —It’s an expensive hobby, music, after all — all that gear, rehearsal spaces, transport.

  Karsh suddenly looked up at me.

  —Hobby?

  —Look, I said, fumbling, —I don’t mean it’s evil; I just mean … art. Love. Not everything’s about money.

  He stared at me coldly, unflinching. Siberia.

  —That’s easy to say, he finally replied, —when your parents are footing your tuition bills.

  I couldn’t speak. I mean, they were.

  —Dimple. We’ve got to switch hotels by noon, he said, too calmly now. —To Lands End. The Centauride, at Bandstand. I don’t want to run up a late checkout fee here; Ravi’s contacts have already been generous enough. He’s organized a car … so I can bring along your stuff if you have something else you’d like to do with your day? I’m going to be working and, hopefully, meeting up with him and some music folk till late to come up with a new game plan.

  The categorical get lost inherent in that superficially helpful non-question rang loud and clear. I rose from the chair, not daring look back lest I’d left an Ayurvedic bloodstain behind.

  —Okay, sure. I was just going to ask if you wanted to come to Chor Bazaar with me, I said dully. —They’ve got some great vinyl stalls there apparently….

  I trailed off. It wasn’t just about the vinyl, I wanted to say. It was about him and me having a gallivant, hanging out, finishing each other’s sentences — he filling my ears and me his eyes with what some would call an unmissable Bombay experience. But instead, what came out of my bungling beak, dictated by my pathologically caustic soul, was:

  —But of course, no self-respecting DJ shops at Chor Bazaar. What would Ravi say?

  —Rhythm House, he corrected me vaguely. There wasn’t even an undercurrent of contempt to hold on to. —Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get to work on my track. Ravi needs me to prove I’m serious. And, believe me, I am.

  —We must not take ourselves too lightly, nor too seriously, I advised, relying on the überwords of another as my own seemed to be birthing all breach.

  But Karsh wasn’t listening anymore. Or looking.

  There was still red oil all over my head from my Ayurvedic experience. Had he not noted he now had a titian-haired girlfriend?

  And then it hit me that Karsh didn’t really see me anymore.

  And I was tired of hearing him.

  If you didn’t share a sense of humor with a person — your boyfriend, no less — or a soundtrack … or a seascape … or a bed …

  Well, I wasn’t going to share Chor Bazaar with him.

  Leaping onto an about-to-depart Bombay train was a bloody good way to get over myself. Elevated heart rate beating out the broods, realizing my story was but one of a gazillion …

  After a superfilmi swaggering cowgirl entry, breathless and giddy — and feeling as though I’d been granted a second lease on life — I looked smugly around at my traveling compatriots for some kind of recognition of my triumph. I, Dimple Rohitbhai Lala the First, at last was upright on a Bombay train — alive!

  However, no one blinked twice upon my intact, if slightly wobbly, materialization in the compartment. I guess they were also on a Bombay train. Alive. Possibly for the hundredth time that week.

  By good fortune, it seemed I’d enter
ed the women’s section of the Western Line. This brown line route (as it appeared on my chai-smudged, Akasha-printed, Paris Spleen–screened map) was filled with variations on that hue, down to the rows of chappaled and brown-ankled sneakered feet that skidded, then settled on the reverberating floor of the train as it lurched forward in a rocketlike hurtle-gurdy.

  I desisted worrying about the welfare of my derrière and swapped to stressing about that of my own brown-suede-shade extremities, so vulnerable in Birks. But Bombay feet (and rickshaws) seemed to have bat radar, veering a hair away from but never upon my terrorized American toes, which were still, I saw now, sporting remnants of blue crackle polish from when Amanda and I had done them up one rainy riveted dorm night.

  Grant Road, Grant Road, Grant Road: I beseeched my ears to tune in for this call, closest stop to Chor Bazaar.

  As we chugged into the sunnily committed day, I clutched camera bag to pelvis, folding my map into “Loss of a Halo” so as not to scream lost cause to my fellow passengers.

  I was in the standing section, separated from the seated zone (in which several people were standing nonetheless) by a silver-barred window over a blue half wall. In that sedentarea, saried, blue-jeaned, salwar-kameezed, and mostly ponyplaited SPF-8-max women and girls packed the sky-hue seats, clutching handbags, shopping bags, cell phones, the scintillating aquas and santras of their attire glimmering against the slippery shades of the compartment.

  The train halted at Mahim Junction. A bevy of vendors approached it, offering coffeeteacoffeetea and a cornucopia of vegetables, which seemed to go down a storm with a cluster of ladies at the back.

  After the next set of passengers stepped on and off (and I could pride myself on not having been pushed on and off along with them), I let the surprisingly soothing Grant Road mantra go backseat hum in my brain, and took in my surroundings again.

  In that matter of moments, those same saried ladies had gotten down to work: chattering animatedly, chopping, peeling, grating chunks of okra, aubergine, ginger — an economical way to get dinner, or I guess lunch, started whilst in transit.

  A silvery cadence caught my upturning eye: the intermittently fanned ceiling of the train compartment was adorned with myriad handrails, dancing in sun-spindrifting harmony, a few of the steadier semicircles clasped by tawny hands. I lifted camera to eye, to create a ceiling sea whirlpooling about the steadfast fingers of an Indian woman in an ultramarine sari, her gaze towards the grilled window.