—Nice to meet you, Mehboob. Ji. I’m Dimple, I told him. It was the first time I’d spoken my name in what felt like a very long time.
—Dimple.
The floating eyes fixed on me. —You are Indian.
—From America, I replied, almost apologetically.
—You are still Indian. No matter where from.
I was relieved to be informed of this.
—And you? I asked him then. —Mehboob-ji?
He froze a moment, mirrored eyes stunned.
And then he uncorked the tale, told me how he had come from Uttar Pradesh many years ago. Where he had fallen in love with the wrong girl, but the rightest one for him: a Hindu girl, a young romance. Both families had banned the union, and the two, in the dead of night, had hitched a train and then a truck to Bombay, city of dreams, to lay their claim to live their own lives, together. And it had been a struggle: she doubling over into ragpicker, gathering plastic, glass, newspaper scraps from Bombay’s streets, hours spent sorting them in sheds stinking of turned milk and dank cardboard; he posturing straighter, higher, hanging around the railway stations, scrambling to heft travelers’ suitcases upon his head, to walk them, for a few rupees, a few paces to their destination, whether cab or abode. Forgiveness from their families had been eons in the making, and not everyone had accepted them even after all that; for many years, they weren’t even welcome home — abandoned, orphaned by their own living parents.
So they made their home each other. It seemed in a heartbeat we were pulling up to Shoppers Stop. I thanked him, almost sorry to go.
—For a wonderful ride back, I told him. —For sharing your story.
His rearview eyes widened in disbelief.
—No, madame, I thank you! he exclaimed. —For wanting to hear my story. For speaking my name.
I couldn’t speak now.
—And because, he added, —you are my god!
I was dumbstruck.
—Mehboob-ji, I whispered. —What do you mean?
And then he turned to face me, rearview eyes vanishing, coalescing upon, before me, for the very first time: a full face, lined with time, etched with experience — and attached to a whole body of an entire human being.
His was a kind countenance, eyes warm and underlain with a desperate optimism, a tidy beard only partly concealing a smile that made it possible for me to imagine his good-dream face, what he’d looked like as a boy on a day when all had gone well and one could never have imagined the struggles abounding, around, ahead.
—You are my god, he repeated quietly. —You hailed my taxi; you asked for this journey. And so it is thanks to you, madame, that I can feed my children, my wife. Keep a roof over our heads. It is thanks to you.
Something palpable between us, enveloping us, for that moment.
Love. Here, in this unexpected corner. Just when I thought I’d lost it.
Maybe it was always there, I thought, exiting that blue-flowered Fiat: incarnating in different faces, places, spaces all the time. Never lost, always found. If you could just see it … instead of looking so bloody hard for it.
Amazingly, the next morning, I peeked out from my heavy-lidded room to a-boo no one home.
I sighed; it felt luxurious. Broke-yolk light dribbed in from the grilled bedroom window overlooking the shared courtyard, illuminating the T-shirts and dishcloths hanging to dry on nearly every bar.
I fell to a squat by the bedroom wall, the bug lights, and before I knew what I was doing, I’d tumbled upwards into headstand.
It was a finned movement, I realized, a winged one, too — swooping into a submarine view. Headstand, meditation: a kind of submersive ascent — a falling up, the way it felt in the suburban New Jersey aboveground swimming pools of school friends. That ever-expansive aqua: not smothering, rather, mothering, supporting, flight.
And, here, in Andheri — the poly-pincoded most populous Bombay suburb — I stilled, found myself buoyant in that flow, born out of the blue. Head clearing, crowning into the new.
Belle eau, beautiful water. The root of blue.
I felt … good. Even my own blues measured a whole note of joy; I could hear it now, see it. Blue sometimes meant sadness: blue Monday, the mood. But blue skies were often linked to optimism, happy days. In German, being blue meant being drunk. A Baudelairean, boozed-up blau.
And what was wrong with a spot of rain, a bit of inebriation? People cried happy tears, too, didn’t they?
Wasn’t the monsoon wonderful (if you weren’t trying to drive in it)?
In my mind’s eye, I focused on that hue now.
Iris: sea-to-sky-is-sea.
Literally. Sankalp: You’re it. A riptide of the same dreamed oceanic shade caught my gaze, tealing out from beneath Sangita’s borrowed (by me) bed, which I’d never been eye level with till now.
Bowled over by the possibility I’d imagined something into such being, I bowed down, thudded out the pose and crawled over to the bed frame, pulling that something out to investigate further. Like a magic trick, it unraveled: a sea scroll unwinding endlessly into my arms.
It was Sangita’s wedding sari. Something about it looked different, but I couldn’t quite place what. The ends, I saw, as they finally swept into my hands, were frayed, these scruffed threads a paler shade of cyan.
And once the sari silk had all flowed out from underbed, I caught a shock of yet another blue behind: electric — that überquote-covered container. I coaxed it out.
Zara’s shoebox.
Inside: a couple flyers on which were written an address I nearly knew. A date: today.
And nothing else. No shoes.
Another root of blue, and this a part-Indo one: bhel. To shine, flash, burn. Also: to mix. And I was burning with a certitude: Sangita wasn’t out running an errand, and certainly not a wedding one. And no way she was mixing, commingling with Deepak — not in those electrifying platforms.
Whatever music was moving her to dance, swinging her, saving her from her own breed of blues — I had to know. Had to go.
Hear it for myself.
I landed up in a very different Cuffe Parade. Entered a parallel universe World Trade Centre. No boats, buoys, or fisherboys.
I zoned out into that memory, but woke to find myself in a lobby with a ghost-town cineplex vibe, industrially deserted. What the frock was Sangita doing here? And where was everyone? I was contemplating hitting up the Causeway to pick up those souvenirs, when my attention was diverted by a bolt of color in the otherwise dim foyer.
A petite but inarguably postpubescent Indian chica with platinum dyed hair and a very Harajuku Girls outfit was sauntering in, accompanied by a pleasantly plump Indian boy with enormous pastel feet; he was attired in orange-and-black-print fabrics and periwinkle cravat with a fuzzy mop of hair — that he was currently yanking over his gelled crew cut. He looked familiar.
—Fred? I whispered as the pair passed before me.
—Meet Fred Flintstone! the boy yelped, then hummed the theme. He glanced at the girl for approval, but she appeared distinctly unimpressed. He took me in, skeptical. —You here for kummikum, too?
I did that side-to-side ambigu-nod to cover my bases, wondering if he was speaking Malayalam.
—The Comicon Convention, said platinum-blond brunette, clearly not fooled by my feigned ambiguity. Comicon?!
—Rikesh! Trupti!
Another Indian boy, a bit taller and getupped as Superman, landed up and high-fived the other two.
—Hey, Sanjay!
Sanjay turned to me, sticking out a hand. —Superman. Archnemesis: Apathy. Superpower —
—Dude, the girl interrupted. —We hate Superman. What kind of guy wears his underwear on the outside? I mean, no self-respect, ya!
She kind of looked like she liked Superman more than Rikesh/Fred, though, as her gaze loitered on his thus dissed exteriorized undergarment.
—And all that time in phone booths, I added. —It’s a little creepy.
Superman laughed good-n
aturedly. Actually, it could be it took a lot of self-esteem to wear your underwear on the outside.
Fred-ji glanced at my camera bag. —With the press?
I brandished my camera to verify the lie. The three now swooped into a big-grinned pose, except the girl, who was too cool to smile.
—What publication is this for? Superman-ji inquired politely.
—Uh. Flash! Flash! magazine.
Fred-ji aacha’d. —So you coming up, yaar?
Who knew where Sangita was anyway? Her phone was now switched off, direct to voice mail. I figured I might as well stick it out and secure some images. And I was also just curious to check out more brown people kitted out as non-brown superheros.
So I, yaar, Western Heston nodded.
—Wouldn’t miss it.
Fred, Superman, and Harajuku Girl flew on through at the sign-in desk. I attempted the same breezy Bedrock stroll, but they stopped me — right below the high-flying neon banner declaring Comicon, with its comic girl heroine mascot etched upon it in all her bulbously breasted crevasse-cleavaged big-lidded red-and-blue kitted glory. Very Wonder Woman. Except carrying a basket of fish.
The spunky-looking sign-in female (i.e., with an entirely green face) glanced up at me.
—Excuse me, where are you from?
—I’m American, I single-reflexed, adding Indian, and too late realizing She-Hulk probably meant what press organization, given the cam (and that I was not, in fact, of that politically incorrectable origin either). I was contemplating playing the Flash! card again, or maybe saying I was dressed up as a Flash! photographer, when she threw out:
—Superpower?
I was at a loss. Was this loss my archnemesis?
She grinned at me, teeth appearing artificially whitened against the roaring forest of her face.
—Cowboys? she guessed, and gestured me on.
Before I stepped through, I photographed She-Hulk and, so he wouldn’t feel left out, the random slobbish dude approaching her. Through my viewfinder: a kind of tan, long-haired hippie in Vegas tee, sunglasses, bathrobe, long boxer shorts … and Birks (envy!). Very Big Lebowski.
In fact …
Suddenly energized by the Dudeness of what had seemed mere dudity, I decided to case the joint. Indians of all shapes and sizes wandered around in their regalia: some of it costumes, some just appearing to be … Indian clothing. Several stalls were vending all things comique: tees, puzzles, books, stickers. And the most sizeable stall of all? One selling headbangers merch: Metallica, Iron Maiden. Clearly, heavy metal was alive and well in the Bay (after all, I supposed, in such a clangorous town, one had to make quite a lot of noise to be heard at all).
Behind the stalls was a stage area with a few folding chairs semi set up for something. A crew of Manga folk now besieged the platinum-blond brunette girl, a very passable sister-pair included, who were maybe from Totoro. A well-beyond-half-naked, sweet-faced Tarzan with three lovely moles constellating his right cheek hung out nonchalantly against a backdrop of Disney princesses; he was fig-leafed in a suede loincloth and looked like he’d used some excess fabric (of which there must have been hectares) to make a headband as well. X-Men, Princess Leia, and a host of people who didn’t really look dressed up, just like they’d put on a stroke of face paint, milled about.
Harajuku Girl was smiling coyly at Superman now. He predictably got all cool and collected.
Everyone was with somebody, or about to be.
I got that lonely feeling again. I suddenly longed to discuss deep things with someone. Preferably someone I was having sex with.
Looking around at all this amped-up grinning youth, one thing was clear from their excitement at … themselves: Several of them would be getting laid tonight, pooling their hues and leaving confoundingly colored wig hair on each other’s pillows come dawn.
I noticed a click of camera folk clearly on assignment, shooting some of the convention participants as an overly enthu journalisto fired questions their way:
—What superpower should a Mumbai superhero have?
A chorus of gung ho replies from the costumed posse:
—Teleportation! Traffic’s a bitch in this city!
—The ability to turn dirt to nondirt! Shit to energy!
—An internal ice machine to stay cool! And keep your beer chilled!
—An anticorruption syringe to stick into the politicians!
—Handheld windmills to put an end to power cuts!
I’d give them that. But what about focaccia for all?
What about making sure societies honored their women’s inalienable rights to safety and total control of their own bodies?
Forget Mumbai superheros: Couldn’t we get some normal sane Bombay (or anywhere) people to successfully kick 375, 376, and 377 up the (illegally accessible) arse?
I suddenly felt exhausted. As I worked my way back to the entrance/exit, I returned fully to my navel.
And what about me? What about granting me a superpower to process all this what and who I’d obviously not been so careful I’d wished for? Or at least a god to lend a hand(s)?
Somehow the world had once seemed a tidier place, despite my couple-years-old angstful era of trying to find myself. I had been so confused back then — was I Indian, was I American? Loves me, loves me not? Those questions seemed touchingly green now. In a way, I found myself longing to be confused, about which side to choose — for it to be that simple: Draw a line from your heart to mine; I’d thought it done. But what if you were walking the line all that time? Tightrope and twine — tying, untying the knots?
Treading the hyphen, being the bridge — a space so illuminating with enigma, copious with ambiguity. I was mildly confused about why I wasn’t confused.
I supposed an old kind of calm could overtake you, if you’d just immerse in that indefiniteness.
The entryway walls, which had seemed greyish, nondescript, were upon closer scrutiny a washed-out blue swirled with pale green tendrils. I lay a hand to one, which turned out to be peach-fuzzy. Comforting. I leaned against it, lifted Chica Tikka.
And when I lay eye to viewfinder, my assumption I’d be framing a bunch of brown people trying to be white was quashed, pronto. For, farther in the space, a flock of gods was thumping about the room now: a golden Laxmi, an elephant-headed Ganesha.
Sankalp? I did have a superpower: my third eye!
I peered deeper into that godland, filling it to the hilt.
My eyes whipped after a splash of cobalt lightning. An all-blue figure slinked, then winkingly vanished, into the comic cosmic crowd.
It was instantly imperative I photograph this deity, this slender stroke of azure energizing the space, weaving my own mood into the joyful stratosphere of the hue.
How could I have forgotten the gods in my immersion in blues?
Through the loudspeakers, a voice intoned, —Would all contestants please make themselves known? We are about to announce Best Costume.
Back inside, I peeked around to where the crowd had gathered vibrantly around the stage area.
—And the winner is …
A loaded hush.
—Parag Patel!
A chest-beating howl; this was toasty-toned Tarzan. Ironic and kind of cool that the contestant wearing the least fabric in the entire room had just snagged the prize.
I was edging back into the hullabaloo to see what he’d won, when I spotted again that splish of blue now heading out, past my furry wall, towards the elevator bank. Fred Flintstone bade it farewell, and She-Hulk high-fived it; clearly, everyone was down with their deities around here.
I once again turned entry to exit.
I followed my blue-skinned god.
—Excuse me! I called out. Even in this dimmed light, the creature glowed as if inner-lit — and froze.
For some reason, I felt shy, lowered my lens.
—Er, what’s your superpower? I asked, heart pounding harder.
Shiva/Krishna/Vishnu turned to face me — and I at once
saw this was no waiflike version of any of these gods.
In one hand, wrist wound with blue-crackled brown beads, was no Krishna’s flute but a gilded brush, golden palette in the other. Shiva’s snake, which I thought I’d spotted around the shoulders, was rather a thick plait of ebony hair wound around a neon neck. Second-skinning slender upper torso through upper thighs: a ring-a-bell gilt-stitched sun-spawned brocade (also swathed around elbows), a sheer silk waterfall dropping in a heavy shimmer from these quads to just past the surely blue-capped knees.
But the most startling element of all was the magnificent, magical skin: the deepest densest blue, a shade you could dive into like an unwavering iris, a tangible light. Every visible bit of it was drenched in this viscous liquid lapis lazuli Sunday best: lips, fingers dipped all the way to tips, nails blending into blue flesh.
Magnifishent: From the sea-sky of this face, two enormous eyes peered back at me, as if through a heavenly peephole, the all-seeing islands of this most elegant of goddesses.
I took her in, top to bottom. From swinging anchor earrings to blue-to-the-tips toes as well — which I could see just poking out from the ends of a pair of glitterwinged platforms.
From the back of the left shoe hung a diary key.
And what a secret it was unlocking.
I lowered Chica Tikka. Lidded her third eye. I forgot every yoga lesson ever given me and unequivocally did not exhale.
—Sangita? I whispered.
Sangita nodded.
Without a further word, we descended the World Trade (a few more costumed creatures bidding Sangita farewell by name) and stepped out into the blinding day to hit the Café Coffee inevitability a few paces up the road. A couple heads turned as we did so, but the scarlet-uniformed staff (who now seemed to be in costume to my comic-conned eyes) had clearly been caffeinating the pageant participants all day, for it was business as usual after that first curious glance.
We ordered drinks and chose a corner table, overlooking the street at Cuffe Parade.
Bombay Blues Page 34
