Bombay Blues

by Tanuja Desai Hidier

  —Thanks, Karsh. Maybe I will, I said gently. —I was going to check out some old-school Bombay today … and you could join, too, if you have time before the mill thingy? I mean, if you’re available. I was thinking of hitting up Shivaji Park — where my parents got married — and this famous Ganesha temple on the way over. For that anniversary present?

  —I’d love to see these places. They’re like my parents, too, after all.

  Perhaps that’s why we were acting so sibling-like lately. In fact, a part of me — and a worryingly big part — could see Karsh as a brother, and without warning, abruptly did. Without the physical element to our relationship, he fell almost too tidily into that category.

  And then I understood my new, perhaps deeper motive as far as a joint outing with Karsh was concerned: It wasn’t just about my desire to create a new memory with him. A niggling feeling in me was praying a day out with Karsh could come as close to joyfully discombobulating me as it had with my cowboy near-friend near-stranger. Maybe if we had a shared experience, we’d find a bridge back towards each other? And it couldn’t hurt to invoke the elephant-headed god of new beginnings to lend a hand (or trunk), could it?

  His woeful eyes tipped me off that perhaps he felt the same.

  And so it was that we set off for our destination: the Shree Siddhivinayak Ganapati Temple, Prabhadevi, near Shivaji Park.

  Sangita, it turned out, was going from Andheri right through Bandra and, ambitiously, eventually, distant (in traffic minutes, not so much miles) Kala Ghoda for some errand I assumed was wedding related. She offered us a ride.

  It wasn’t driver Arvind but Sangita herself who pulled up before the hotel at the designated hour. It took me a minute to recognize her behind the wheel of the sky-blue Maruti.

  —Sangita! I exclaimed through the rolled-down window. —You drive? In Bombay?

  She shrugged. She looked totally different in the driver’s seat. Taller, somehow, even though she was sitting down. No makeup, but skin aglow (or a-sweat), she’d donned faded jeans and a loose button-down shirt, stained red and blue here and there. Her hair was piled in a bobby-pinned tousle on her head, and a pair of magenta heart-framed shades rested on it, like love was on her mind.

  About a half hour later, she dropped us off on a mayhemic marg, indicating for us to cross over. Before she drove off, I saw her reaching into her handbag for something — and then lighting it up.

  —Was she smoking? I asked, incredulous.

  —Everyone here’s smoking, Karsh laughed bitterly. —Simply by breathing. This has to be one of the most polluted cities in the world!

  He relaxed a little, wrapping an arm around me. Somehow, it felt like ages since he’d done that.

  —Let her have her fun. It’s all over in a week.

  —Or maybe, I said, entwining back, —it all begins then?

  We continued on foot, crossing multilanes of cars and buses before hitting a riddle of jigsaw sidewalk on the other side, set off by a rusting barrier gate. An army of intrepid phoolwallahs, however, was seated on the street itself, stringing marigolds within finger-sting knee-scrape distance of the whizzing traffic. To our left, sidewalk stalls sold street food and Harry Potter mobile phone cases. To our right, a woolly banyan was tacked up with ads for karate training and Ayurvedic hair oil. A man at tree base sat rolling what looked like laddoos, a few rupee bills secured below his staunch cross-legged knee.

  And people, people: a crush of devotees, bouqueted and bindied and in beads like Sangita’s. The street was the sacred. No need for pew-kneeling silence: Here, in Bombay, the sacred bleated, bargained, honked, haggled, gossiped, and giggled. It loitered, lolled, rushed, strode, shoved, drove, cycled, bullock-carted, and even, as I’d heard in Bandra, break-danced and longboarded (no mean feat on potholed streets).

  It even mooed.

  A big-eyed bovine face peered out at me now from around the banyan. A saried woman paid the cross-legged man, scooped up one of these ediballs, and fed it to this sacred cow, who’d perhaps sojourned here, Linking Road devotee style, from the middle of that Bandra street.

  Was this where all my grandmas had been headed?

  —Imagine seeing this in Springfield, Karsh! Animals, humans, gods, all come together like this …

  —Do I have to? he said, busily squirting antibacterial gel on his palms. —Springfield’s starting to look like a spiritual retreat now.

  —But it’s kind of cool, too, no? I insisted. We were going to have a great experience if it killed us! —Just transplant this crowd to the States — what’s the equivalent for pilgrimages there? Black Friday sales?

  —I dunno. I suppose, in the US, everyone has their own personal journey to take.

  —In their own personal car. It’s kind of lonely when you compare it to the personal journeys everyone takes together here.

  A sure hand clasped my shoulder. I turned to discover a chubby but vigorous middle-aged saried woman at the other end of it, carrying perhaps what would best be described as fervent flowers. She squeezed past me, shifting Karsh a few inches to the side to do so.

  —I’m sorry, do I know you? Karsh said drily, erupting into a coughing fit, I figured on purpose. But she was off.

  Sarcasm was definitely catching — but I seemed to be losing mine the more he caught it. Maybe there was a limited supply; I hoped to gods I’d still have some left when I needed it.

  Ahead, the pavement widened, spires brightened. Serpentine lines now purposefully joined, human tributaries flowing in one direction, weaving around the chaiwallahs, the coconut splitters, the scattered flower vendors with their single-crate offices. Our joint destination: the arched temple, its gold-tipped orange-flagged skyline peekabooing over the treetops, a billboard, the next building …

  I aimed my camera. A tsking index appeared in the viewfinder. A guard: horizontal head shake. No photos allowed.

  Sidewalk gone pavilion. Scores of devotees temple-entering along the roped-in lanes farther ahead, others exiting, turning back to contemplate it, hands reverentially clasped. We, however, were both staring as a business-suited man now prostrated himself right there on the ground as if before Ganesha himself.

  —I guess maybe I just kind of wish I had that, sighed Karsh, eyes fixed on the man.

  —Had what?

  —That kind of devotion. It must be so nice. To surrender to something.

  —Well, I’m sure you do. To music. To … love.

  —It doesn’t feel like a surrender with love….

  A glim of hope.

  —The other person’s just a human, after all, he went on. —With their own baggage and shit to take care of.

  —Oh. Thanks.

  —I just mean, it’s not like surrendering to God, the universe, the cosmos. Something bigger than our tiny twisted lives.

  I just stared at him.

  —Excuse me, could you hold my camera a second? I think I’m about to swoon.

  —Dimple. Don’t take everything so personally. It’s not all about you.

  Well, why the hell not? I mean, Cowboy would never say something like that! He’d probably say … the cosmos was embedded in each and every one of the twists of these lives, and it was in human relationships that we could discover the universal, and thus the universe.

  Wouldn’t he?

  I took a couple steps away to hide the tears blindsiding my eyes. I turned my back to Karsh, fiddled with the lens.

  I found myself yearning for a sign again, that things were going to be okay.

  In my viewfinder a splendid child stood, upturning her face with an all-seeing regard, cheeks glowing in the sea-swollen light. Auburn-veined, the otherwise night thicket of her hair. Her arms brimmed with cellophaned roses.

  This child must have seen my tears; her eyes widened, and she offered her tiny hand to me.

  I was reaching out to take it, grateful for that angelic extension of friendship — see? the sacred: everywhere! — when she abruptly withdrew it, then, in an almost paper-sciss
ors-stone move, palms-upped it, other hand plunking into her hip.

  —Didi! Bakshish — khana!

  Sister! Money — food!

  Oh.

  I guilt-o-matically scrounged around my pocket, procuring a hundred-rupee note for her. She gestured upwards with that paper-scissors-stone palm: clearly paper.

  I sighed and dug out another fifty. This was possibly a mistake as an entire slew of rose-vending three-foot-something homo sapiens materialized out of nowhere and began marching ominously towards us.

  Well, two.

  —Dimple! What are you doing? Karsh whispered. The air rippled thickly, perfumed. I pulled my pockets inside out to reveal there was no more dinero to be had, but the tiny army continued its pungent advance, undeterred.

  A couple of people near us (probably natives) shooed them away. And here’s where the brazenly bumpshove crowd worked in our favor: We were, within moments, swallowed up by it, rescued from the child vendors … and ejected into one of the roped-in lines for the temple. I could glimpse cubbyholes for our shoes, indicating we were close to stepping into the inner sanctum.

  Karsh was busily texting away — probably to Ravi. Every now and then, he sneezed. I blessed him.

  The pavilion was bedecked with phoolwallahs of every order now. It was like a convention — garlands choochooing chameli; lotus splaying out almost rakishly on offer. Bloomburst effacing the cement environs with sheer rowdy vivacity.

  At the entrance, we kicked off our shoes, readying to enter. Karsh gave me a genuine smile now, grouped our footwear tidily together to hand to one of the foot locker men.

  New beginnings, new beginnings …

  I took a breath, took his hand.

  Barely across the threshold, I could sense the temple interior aladdining in incense and oils, so flower-powered it seemed constructed of petals in parts. All around us, men, women, and children pressed forth, arms heaped with blossoms. As Karsh valiantly accompanied me towards this den of olfactory overload, it dawned on me: There was one man in my life who’d never let the flowers die in my dorm room. Before those blues could brown, he’d always brought me the next drippingly giddy bouquet.

  And here he was, standing beside me.

  Actually, here he was nearly keeling over, coughing and sneezing and gasping for air beside me….

  Choking sounds; even though I was pretty sure his trachea was in the clear, I panicked and Heimliched him … but this only made him cough harder. And thus, before even entering the temple of our new beginning, we slid our shoes hastily back on and scrammed.

  His attack subsided a little.

  —Frock, Karsh! I gasped anxiously. —Are you okay?

  It was a little late, but overcome with a deep quick wave of affection, and regret, and guilt (mostly the latter two), I dug into my bumpack, bestowed upon him a Kleenex. He looked gratefully at me, eyes watering.

  —Sorry, Dimple. I don’t know what happened. But my sinuses really hate it here. I’m really sorry, but I don’t think I can go back in.

  I tried to pat his back, offer him more tissues.

  —It’s cool. No … issues.

  The way out was much quicker than the way in. In moments, we’d ducked out of the line to find ourselves on the pavement by the whizzing traffic. When some vendors came too close with an aloha of garlands, Karsh gestured them urgently away and plunged back into his Kleenex. His eyes dripped thin rivers.

  —You’re allergic to flowers? I asked him, stunned.

  —That would appear to be the case.

  —But you never seem allergic in New York.

  —I think New York flowers are part concrete, he sighed, gazing at me bleary-eyed.

  —It’s funny, but your whole system seems to find Bombay hard to digest, no? I said, not unkindly. —I mean, you seem to have no resistance here to … to outside influence.

  We both stood awkwardly around as this morphed into a different exchange.

  —I just really feel I should go with what Ravi says, Karsh said quietly. —He knows this turf. And he’s taken me under his wing. I want to make him proud. I should have made him proud; he had a lot at stake with his faith in me.

  —You want to make your father proud, I said, quietly as well. Karsh stared at his phone, but no texts were open. I took his arm. —But just doing whatever Ravi says isn’t what would do that. You’ve got to follow your path. I mean, your dad’s not even here to see it now, Karsh.

  —Thank you, Karsh said. —For pointing that out.

  —I don’t mean it in a bad way!

  —How can you possibly mean it in a good way?

  I fumbled.

  —I just mean, what would make your father proudest would be you being true to yourself. Even if you end up on the road not taken. Even if no one else would approve of how you got there.

  I was starting to get a felonious monk of a twinge that I was now having a slightly different chat … with my own conscience. Karsh looked weepy again, but no allergens were in proximity.

  —Karsh. You — you have to keep the smile, because you know it’s all just an illusion.

  —No, Dimple. I think, actually, that my father really did die.

  I fumbled again. —What I mean is … freedom. You need that … as an artist. No obstacles.

  —There’s too much freedom! Karsh cried. —In fact, I think the opposite’s true: I think you need some kinds of limits as an artist, some constraints to work against. They’re not obstacles; it’s a framework. Too many choices and it’s easy to not make any. You could just go crazy in the void.

  —But maybe it’s not a void. Maybe it’s a … well. A wishing well.

  —Then you can wish for your freedom. And I can wish for structure.

  —Rilke says to live the questions.

  Karsh just shook his head.

  —Dimple, he said. —We’ve returned to the place that in a way brought us together … but sometimes I look at you and I don’t recognize you anymore.

  I stood very still, in case that would help him.

  —You mean you don’t see me anymore, I said softly.

  —No, he said. —I mean recognize. You’ve gotten … I don’t know. Colder. Harder.

  —Maybe you mean stronger?

  The tearful ambush readied in my eyes again. I thought about Cuffe Parade — how instead of the expected horror, I’d found a kind of peace. You never knew what you were going to feel, sometimes, till you felt it. Maybe you had to run into those rooms — in order to find the exits. Or a new entrance.

  I longed to explain that to him.

  —Karsh, we’ve both lost someone who meant a lot to us, here in India. And you know what? Maybe we should take the train. I mean, I don’t know if there’s one around here, but it would be like getting back on the horse after an accident…. You know, when I arrived at the house in Andheri, I thought it’d be devastating, seeing all the places Dadaji used to be but isn’t anymore. But it was actually comforting — even being in his favorite chair.

  —My father didn’t fall off a chair, Karsh said flatly.

  I floundered. —I just mean … maybe it’s a way for you to get over some kind of fear? To rewrite, or reenvision, what’s happened, so you can move on?

  He was staring at me like he couldn’t believe his eyes.

  —I’m just saying, life is —

  —A test, he said coldly. —I know that.

  —Not even that. It’s … an opportunity.

  —Yes. Maybe for you, right now. So go ahead. You take that train; you rewrite what’s happened. But don’t make a mess of someone else’s life while you’re busy taking advantage of those opportunities.

  What was that supposed to mean?

  A taxi was pulling up. Karsh’s hand was raised.

  I hadn’t meant to downplay what had happened to his father, was just hoping to bring it all together. To make something from nothing, from something precious unmade. Otherwise, what was the point of even doing art? Or anything?

  —I’m j
ust trying to try to help you, I said, with utmost sincerity.

  —Trying to try. Wow. Impressive. And, really — are you? Or are you just trying to justify your own way of doing things … to help yourself?

  Did he know?

  Know what?

  Apprehensively, I looked to his face, expecting an incinerating disapproval in his gaze. But I was met with a very different sight.

  Karsh had tears in his eyes. But these tears were a far cry from flower-fueled.

  No sneeze, no bless you.

  —I’m just saying, I whispered.

  —I’m just asking, he said dully.

  But he didn’t say more, and I didn’t answer. I just stood there frozen with my camera in my hands, wondering what to pray for, how to pull it all into frame and make it better.

  The guard approached us again, and indicated exasperatedly for me to stow it.

  I put the camera away.

  Karsh got the taxi; I took the street.

  For a half hour or so, I traipsed on, vowing to myself again to focus on my work; it was the only thing even remotely in my control.

  Or maybe not. Finally, at Shivaji Park, amongst the walkers, the wooers, the cricketeers, footballers, and hanging-arounders, I looped the grassy expanse where freedom fighters had once gathered, seeking a match to the building society that had housed my parents’ union so many years ago.

  I couldn’t find it.

  But I did stumble across a heartstopping horsebacked statue of Shivaji, this one sculpted without sword drawn — a mere outstretched arm leading the way into battle.

  It occurred to me then that the only way to truly end a war would be to reach out, clasp that other side.

  But I couldn’t reach that far. That high. And besides, he was looking somewhere else.

  After Prabhadevi and Shivaji Park, I caved. It was our fresh start, dammit. Another chance: He was giving one to Ravi; I’d give one to him.

  And maybe he’d give me one, too.

  So I headed down to meet Karsh at Heptanesia, the mill-gone-club where perhaps Ravi was booking him a gig even now.

  Lower Parel. I exited my cab, half hoping to debark into an urban wasteland, strewn with extinct-mill-haunt half-hewn textiles, trash bin fires, broken underfoot bottles, and wasted Warholian Chelsea Hotelish (but brown) artist-psychos running around, engaging in mind-bending blood-tingling rituals involving paint, absinthe, and crazy sex … any sex … (please?).