Bombay Blues

by Tanuja Desai Hidier

  —I can’t change my ticket, I mentioned, though I wasn’t sure it made a difference.

  —Mine’s open-ended, Dimple. I’m just going to have to play it by ear. But I’m ready to leave this city, that’s for sure. I need to be in nature. Around grass and trees …

  —There’s grass and trees in Shivaji Park. There’s grass and trees in Jersey, I pointed out, in case he’d forgotten. There was grass and our two trees in Tompkins Square, though now I wasn’t so sure this reminder would be to my advantage.

  I was dumbfounded. He was leaving? I’d only been here a week. And we’d only been here — not even. What about our great Indian adventure?

  Or were we meant to have two different ones?

  —I did try, Dimple, he said. —I played with all my heart.

  —I know you did, I said. I had, too, I thought, and I was confused and terrified to realize now that maybe giving your whole heart wasn’t enough to keep you with someone … nor enough to keep someone else out of it.

  He asked for the bill. I hastily tried to pay for all my misdeeds, but he insisted on more than splitting it. We rose to go. He and I — were we even still we?

  —I was so naïve. Arrogant, even, Karsh said as we stepped out from the dim café.

  When all the mill real estate was used up, my father had conjectured that time with Hear-No-Evil Uncle, there would be nowhere else to go, to develop land, make homes, in this town.

  Karsh’s shot at the mill was used up, gone — and so, it appeared, he would be, too.

  —In a country of one-point-three-billion people, he was saying now, —more than half youth culture, and a middle class as big as all of America, I thought: Someone has to love me….

  —Someone does, I said quietly, although I wasn’t sure how much I still liked him.

  —Yes, he smiled. —God. God does.

  I let him go then. He wanted an early night; me, a late. I needed desperately to breathe through my eye: a spell with Chica Tikka to quell this feeling of an ending in the ether.

  I found myself back at Heptanesia. A proper queue had formed, and ads for beers and mobile service providers were being projected on the brick wall facing the compound. Sound-check-stamped, I stepped on in.

  The space (yes, this was a space) had already transformed in that wizardly way I so loved. A spaceship vibe: drinkers and diners drip-dreaming downslope, backdrop bar alchemically aglow, like the liquid control panel to the experience. It was possibly the coolest music realm I’d been in. Except for CBGB (which I’d never been in, as it shut down before I was of even fake ID age, but still had to reserve top of my list as a matter of principle).

  I’d expected an entire band on now, but still that space alien pair lurked onstage — audienced this time, a flashbulb occasionally striking out from somewhere in the wings. The boy was spaghetti-easterning, the girl now slouching into the mic, belting out a torrent of punk-inflected country-bluegrass-blues balladics.

  —I went back to Bombay … but I was the only one … who remembered your name …

  The music, magically apt, seemed to speak to my experience in such a spare singed way. As if possessed, I worked my way through the bob-nodders, the slow-lo groovers, right up to the stage, and began shooting.

  —All the people had changed … but the man at the bus stop … been there forever …

  They nodded me … right onto the stage. Entranced, everyone dissipating but the two, I joined them, made three, shot the set.

  Just before they jumped ship, the boything leaned down to me with alert, eddying eyes.

  —Did you realize you were moving like us — to the music — the entire time you were shooting?

  —So I’ve been told, I admitted.

  —You could be a drummer, he went on. —The bass. You had the beat, every beat, in your body.

  —Ears in your eyes, the girl added, handing me a card: two lowercase letters afloat in that otherwise empty space. So this was io — Jupiter’s lunatic lover.

  A dude with a glorious tie-dyed Technicolor turban now emerged from the wings.

  —Great set, he enthused, slapping the aliens on the back. Then, turning to me, he extended a hand to shake. —Mesh, by the way.

  The annoyingly talented through-and-through Bandra boy himself? I tensed for the showdown.

  —Dimple, I said warily.

  —I know, he replied with a wildly uninhibited wisdom-toothed grin. —I’ve been hearing about you. Always nice to connect with one of our tribe.

  I was bowled over. Hearing about me? So this wonderkid was no enemy, rather, was photographic family. Isn’t it? I could feel myself nodding up and down, then side to side.

  He held up his digital case. Like mine. A tribal twin, no less.

  —Send me those shots, ya. I’ve got an idea brewing.

  —Send? Take ’em.

  It was as good as a sanguineous pinprick, spit-swapping siblinghood: from my flash drive onto his digicam.

  Then me and Mahesh, we aimed at each other, clicked goodbye. Or maybe it was hello.

  I was in a magnetic blue mood by the time I exited. Clearly, it had been a good plan to keep my eye to my work. I hoofed it into the descending day, reflecting on how, whenever I took photographs, I oft forgot all sorrows. And before I could catapult into that downwards spiral of renumerating them now, I saw I’d been so lost in my thoughts, I’d in fact gone astray, mislaid in the mazelike netting of mill passages.

  My phone vibrated.

  A text from an unknown number: Still lost?

  A spinal jolt. It had to be him … but how did he know?

  I messaged back: Map dropped.

  A reply: Shall I help you find your way?

  Yes. It was him. I recalled then how he’d lit our way through the sand-dune ship-sided labyrinth at Cuffe Parade with my phone. Had he called himself, gotten my number then?

  I was Indie Girl again. No questions, no coordinates — that was the deal.

  I texted back:

  Help me lose it.

  I returned to the hotel with yet another secret, guiltbrain figuring I’d better give Karsh one more shot. When I entered the room, I nearly tripped over him about to hit the hay … on the floor.

  —Uh, doing a thread count? I asked. And then, flashbulb: This regulative rule had been building between us for ages, I realized, although it had been numerically christened only recently. —The fourth principle?

  —Yes, Dimple. No illicit sex.

  —Too bad. I hear it’s great for clearing the mind. And nasal passages, I commented. —And excuse me? Are you calling me illicit?

  —Of course not. But sex outside of a committed —

  —Are we not committed?

  —Well, a committed bond … to marry, to procreate …

  —We can do all that later, I said. —But shouldn’t we get in some practice first?

  —Dimple. We must practice mercy, self-control, truthfulness, and cleanliness of mind and body. I mean, it seems all you think about is sex.

  —Maybe I wouldn’t think about it so much, I said slowly, —if we would actually have it sometimes.

  To be honest, though, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to do it right now.

  —Remind me to tie a rakhi on you this summer, I added a little snidely, referring to the holiday where brothers and sisters honored each other.

  —I need a break, he said now, quietly. —We need a break.

  So this was how it would end?

  I tried to think of the next thing to say.

  I was met with a resounding snore from the floor.

  It was official. I’d been sexiled. I watched him sleep a while, my irritation mounting, magnetic blues repelled. Then, out of nowhere, I found myself trying out the mantra (very quietly, in case his ears were still on loan):

  —Hare Krishna Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare …

  But after a few rounds, instead of feeling uplifted, I was overcome with a wave of depression. Hare Potter. Dirty Hare. I mean, how long did I
have to wait for inner peace to hit me? Hurry Krishna seemed more apt.

  I replaced it with Grant Road. And in an act of CBGB-esque defiance, I marched into the bathroom and dug Le Lapin out from its giggly pink tissue paper.

  I jammed in the cord. Switched it on. And got ready to have my first-ever round of robot sex.

  Not. 110 voltage accessory. 220 socket. You do the math.

  Four A.M. The blue hour — the infinite jiff of epiphanies, of aartis, just before the light of day would blind us into habit, our roles, routine. And lying awake in bed, it struck me: I’d gotten my wish — for Karsh to take a break from his musical path, connect again. For me to hit the photographic trail, connect again. Only thing was, I’d forgotten to mention I wanted us to remain linked in the process. Guess we didn’t specify same flight….

  Vrindavan. Where Krishna spent his childhood. A god saturated with sky, the blackest shade of blue skin. It was funny I hadn’t fought for us, I thought, implored him to stay. I’d never have predicted this a week ago, perhaps even days ago. Never have foreseen this hue:

  Black and blue.

  Krishna: the god who held the universe in his mouth.

  Mumbadevi: the goddess some claimed had no mouth.

  And me with nothing left to say. Karsh had said it all.

  I had a window before Karsh returned from ISKCON to pack up and set off on that spiritual journey north. I didn’t want to be here to see it.

  Hideout: first person at the free breakfast, last to leave. But now: Where to go? What to do?

  I glanced at Chica Tikka. I was back to zero. And a return to zero seemed logically to include a visit to this city’s first goddess. Besides, I could use a little granting of my heart’s desire about now.

  Whatever that was.

  So I loaded my camera. Walked down to Bandstand. Got tuk-tuk to train. Took train past Grant Road, right to Marine Lines. Hit the road, quick rick.

  Landed up at Zaveri Bazaar.

  The morning was in full bojangle by the time I craned my neck to take in Mumbadevi’s temple. Pinnacling to the highest point in the surrounding lanes of dust and diamond, the structure was creamsicled in colors to induce a severe sugar rush: butter yellow, frosting pink, pista-kulfi green, ripening to gelato bravado tip-top. Flags wanded off a balconied bit of scaffolding. I pictured an Indian princess letting down, letting down her (ebony henna-highlighted) locks — and dupatta while she was at it.

  Frock, just climb down your own hair already. Or get a buzz cut. No one’s coming.

  I ducked under a sky-high banner and, unsure of darshan times, hightailed it into the ghee-streaked courtyard. The temple doors were just flustering open, casting their day-moon light into our eyes. Our — meaning me and apparently every other resident of this metropolis, who all seemed to have had the same idea today. I hastily kicked off my Birks to add to the outdoor pile. Swept up in the press of would-be worshippers, I was thrust inside, a doorman clanking the gates shut behind us.

  We were promptly blocked at a second gate. Relative silence, save the shuffle and shove of anxious humans readjusting themselves in the several-shades-dimmer interior.

  In terms of lighting, that is. As far as color went, it was high noon here: inner walls swarming as much as outer with beast, botany, dancing deities. I grabbed my camera excitedly to click, and was met with a no-ifs-ands-or-buts head shake by a temple guard, then jounced with the momentum of the devotee crew down the L of the lane.

  A counter, manned by hot-pink-appareled sadhus, ran the length of it, before the main attractions: the temples within the temple. I strained to peek into the first alcove, but was immediately tided along by the human wave to teeter before the second.

  It was all moving along so damn fast. Forget queuing for spirituality; were we now racing for it?

  I tried to point and shoot, but this time the hot-pink holy man raised a hand. I braked frustratedly before him as he rummaged under the countertop (handcuffs for crimes of a photorious nature?) before conferring upon me a half coconut, whole marigold, and toothache of little pink candies with a thermocol-esque quality to them.

  And in the moment my treat-not-tricks sadhu bent, I glimpsed her: the divine celebrity herself, shrined behind him. From a low draped stand, sharing her digs with a host of other deities and vahanas (vehicles, the deity’s mount), the Koli goddess glowered magisterially at me, her face a flabbergasting tangerine. I was astounded by her almost brutal beauty. And bling factor: Flowered, crowned, nose-studded, gold-necklaced, and richly robed, it was as if she’d been shopping in the bazaar herself.

  Before her, a tiger.

  Behind her, a kind of throne.

  But most shocking of all, upon her: her full bright mouth.

  Mine opened. A hiss of speakers crackled to life, then — bang! Music! The sound was a spine-jolt bolt of tribal drone punctuated by blustering vibrato as I was joggled from my reverie and corralled with the crew via the behind-shrines zone back out through the moon-day doors. All before I’d even clicked.

  Outside, the next avid bouquet-bearing bevy fidgitched for entry, this screening apparently accompanied by those live temple bellringers and resident DJ. Frustrated I’d had no capture of the divine (and had been so busy trying to frame the goddess I’d entirely forgotten to wish for anything) I scoured the piles of shoes.

  No Birks. Double-check. A double negative.

  So I wound my way through the temple courtyard, trying to keep an eye out for my sole mates, paan stains, sand, dust, trash, and seething pebbles amassing between my toes. Unsoled as a pilgrim. A two-time cindergirl.

  Past the temple shops, with their mosaic lidded roofs and saffron, god stickers, nail polish; the cross-legged men, haloed by coconuts, packaging prasad, a few stringing blooms with the care and grace of violinists. The little cave of staring sadhus, foreheads smeared with ash paste and vermilion. The wall-camouflaged cow who’d discovered the sole blade of grass in the vicinity …

  I stepped onto Zaveri Bazaar, out from under the banner I’d assumed declared this was the home of Bombay’s patron saint, only to look up to find it in fact announced: NAKODA BULLIONS TRUSTED FOR PURITY AND PRECISION. GOLD COINS/BARS: .5, 1, 2, 5, 8, 10, 20, 50, 100 GRAMS. SILVER COINS/BARS. SILVER NOTES. Followed by a website address.

  A few feet from temple turret I noticed now a Tata Sky satellite dish tipped upwards, as if blaring all the sacred energy contained within those walls out to the secular metabolism of the surrounding marketplace. A loudspeaker to the gods.

  Or perhaps it was cupping all the human energy out here and funneling it into the temple itself, it occurred to me now as I took in the babel of the bazaar.

  The temple was already nearly obscured by scaffolding, street-lamps, a grimy blue police van. And here on the market street, signs: MEHTA JEWELERS. SUNRISE GOLD. ETHNIC LOOK (huh?). Oxidized A/C units. Posters of gurus and gods and politicians. Strings of peppers across shopfront doorways to ward off the evil eye. Poles wound with cables to where, windows bulging with gullioned busts displaying chokers like thick, crusted, yellow-gold foliage.

  995 AND 999 PURITY. Camera to eye: Passersby reflected in the glass as if donning all this precious mineral — on all the wrong body parts.

  Sugarcane presser; Mahajan Gulley. Clicking along, I soon forgot my scratchy sunbaked soles; funny how after you feel something for a while … you stop feeling it. Or rather, I realized: It becomes something different. Though a hot tectonic mess was plating my heels, it felt good, actually, to feel this city. In some small way, it made it near possible for me to feel the people around me, inhabiting it as well.

  What was their heart’s desire? Or, who? Sankalp: careful.

  Women in sky-spooling saris carrying antacid-pink purses. Men casually balancing gigantic beehives of baskets atop heads. A sadhu winding threads round the wrist of an unwitting about-to-be-bakshish’d tourist. Chhuriwallah mad-pedaling a rusty unmoving bicycle, sharpening knives off his own-haunch-horsepowered mid-handlebars grindstone. Small gir
l with overbite beating a protesting drum as still smaller warpainted man (with second set of crimson brows round stop-light bindi) thrashed a thick whip to the mote-float ground — and then smite his own back, shrieking, awhirl in bells-belted skirt … his skin somehow still unwelted.

  Herein the holy: All these people making a living. Making lives. Me too?

  Below me, the street in that jigsaw interlock — which I could feel for the first time puzzling together upon my own searching soles — like all of us, with our own jaggedly tender tales to tell, parsing our paths.

  I follow, follow, followed it, sure it would lead me home.

  The Huggies aloe vera wipe deepened from sienna and cinnamon to taupe and tan, then greyed over. My underfeet glowed, surprisingly pink, soot still circling the below-toe calluses, riverbedding the dry cracked heels. Riding onto Mohammed Ali Road with its landmark Mandvi Telephone Exchange on the way back, I pulled out my phone. Changed that unknown number to Cowboy. And then texted him:

  It isn’t true, what they say. The goddess has a mouth.

  Passing by the Mahalaxmi Racecourse with its stakes-raising wonder fillies, well before the Link could wipe us out, already, amazingly, a reply — and one that both thrilled and terrified me:

  I’d like to see it.

  I got out at Bandstand, climbed the slope to the hotel entry. Security checked all but my bare feet — which carried the most information about my alibi this day than any other item on me.

  Shoeless, the entire space changed. The gleaming lobby felt pool cool, like wading more than walking. An acute sense of exposure in the elevator — and then near-invisibility via inaudibility, padding softly down the carpeted corridor. It was akin to sleepwalking, a kind of dream espionage.

  In the room, soles sunk into a deeper plush, a denser silence.

  Karsh’s carry-on: gone. That wheel-stuck tabla trolley, too. Table laptop-clear, no back-pocket-rumpled flyer pile — only today’s Times of India pristinely rolled upon it, somehow immune to all my personal headline news.