‘Arre, Baldev, you’re a fighter, how can you become emotional like this?’ said Toofan.
Baldev leaned against Toofan’s metal shoulder and cried.
All the light boys came running, shouting, ‘Baldev is crying! Baldev is crying!’
Pale but trying to laugh, Madhuvanti said, ‘What kind of a man would spy on his wife? Look at him now, crying like Meena Kumari.’ She whispered fiercely in Baldev’s ear: ‘Try not to be shameless in public at least,’ and pulled him away from Toofan.
Some of the unit men persuaded Baldev to go to the canteen with them. Madhuvanti shook out the pleats of her Rajasthani ghagra skirt and smoothed it down. ‘Toofan, good luck,’ she said, shaking his hand. ‘Afterwards let’s all go and eat some kheema pav.’ Trying to inject liveliness into her every step, holding up her skirt a little, she ran heavily towards her dance troupe. As he looked at her, Toofan was suddenly remembered his Maa who used to wake him before dawn to get him ready for the lightning glimpse of his father. Maa must have been the same age as this Madhuvanti then. Toofan felt a peculiar anguish. What was the nature of Madhuvanti’s shyness that was so disturbing to Baldev? His mother who seemed so elderly to him in memory – was she really only as old as Madhuvanti? What was her battle for shame then? Sometimes when his bike slipped during a take, and he fell down, and then stood up slowly with the unit boys lending a hand to straighten the bike, in that silence did he ever feel shame? Madhuvanti doesn’t feel humiliated when she has to shake her bosom in a tight blouse in front of a thousand people, but feels so when Baldev watches her from his hiding place and then abuses her? My lonely mother’s constant whispering of ‘shhh’ – was that the voice of her shame, her lonely battle for dignity?
Toofan began to move slowly towards the shore. There had been no iota of shame in his mother and himself when they stood unblinking, watching his father fall from the train like an animal which had been flung out. Or had the Toofan Mail whisked away their shame? Or is it that a profession, chosen for the living it afforded, acquired a dignity of its own?
‘Shot ready!’ called out a voice. Huge lamps lit even in this sunlight. Boys ran hither and thither as though preparing for a battle. An ambulance and a stretcher stood waiting at the far end of the field. The spot boy opened the bottle of soda and squeezed a lime into it. After drinking it, Toofan walked across the temporary plank to reach the ship’s deck.
The plank was removed. Toofan climbed onto his bike. The spot where he was supposed to land had been marked with white chalk powder. He could hear the sound of the dance song wafting towards the ship. The sound of the yellow generators too. As soon as he put on his helmet, the sounds became distant. The entire shore seemed to recede into a deep shyness. Toofan checked to see how much distance he would need to cover before he did the glass-break. When the red signal flashed, he drew himself up and kicked the bike’s starter. All of a sudden, he could hear the sound of the Toofan Mail eating up the distance.
‘Toofan Mail’, 2002
WATER
‘We will be landing at Mumbai Airport in approximately twenty minutes. Please fasten your seat belts.’ Chandrahas felt that the plane was shaking a little more than usual. He looked over his reading glasses at the skies outside. By this time, he should have been able to see Khandala, Matheran, Karla and Lohagad through a thin curtain of clouds. By this time, he should have been remembering some picnic, some trek, some trip or training camp he had been to in the mountains below with fondness. The Karla waterfall, which had once frightened his friends and him during the monsoon, should be visible from here like a small metal badge. But he could see nothing except a thick wall of cloud. And the aircraft was swinging alarmingly from side to side. Chandrahas wondered if the plane could land under these conditions. He looked around at his fellow passengers with a small face as the plane gave a jolt, and the voice announced: ‘We apologize for the turbulence caused by inclement weather. Please return to your seats and keep your seatbelts fastened.’ Like a passenger in the last seat of a bus that had just gone over a pothole, the elderly man seated next to Chandrahas said, ‘My goodness.’ Chandrahas gave the man’s hand a squeeze and smiled at him reassuringly.
In the last one and half hours, the two had spoken more than was perhaps necessary, and now an artificial silence prevailed. The man’s name was Santoshan. He was a Malayali who had lived all over India, and had spent the last thirty years in Ahmedabad establishing his own factory. Now, for the past two years he had been living with his only daughter in Bangalore. He hadn’t been well of late, and he regularly came to Mumbai to consult with a famous doctor. Normally his daughter or his son-in-law accompanied him. Today, the son-in-law had got delayed, and was going to be on the next flight. Not wanting to trouble the old man with the tired voice, Chandrahas said, ‘You’ll certainly get well soon. I can see it from your eyes.’
Smiling, the old man said, ‘Tell me the truth and I will believe you. I never used to trust anyone when I was in business. Only believed in money. But after I fell sick, I’ve started believing anything anyone says.’
Santoshan, though, did not seem to want to know anything about his neighbour. Feeling awkward, Chandrahas offered: ‘I’m from Honnavar, on the west coast of Karnataka. I’ve been working in Mumbai for the past ten years. I’ve had an interview for a better job in Bangalore. They even paid for my travel. I’ll get twice my present salary. It’s as though I’ve already got the job. But now I don’t know what to do.’
‘Relax, man,’ said Santoshan. ‘Stay wherever you can work well. And everything else will take care of itself. Whether it’s Timbuktu or Miami or Mumbai, or anywhere else on earth, if you get the right atmosphere and you can lose yourself in your work, it’s like you’re serving your own country and your town. And if you stay in your own state or town and remain lazy or corrupt or wicked, that’s the biggest betrayal.’ Wishing Chandrahas well, the old man dropped off to sleep, and had woken only now, when the plane was jolted by the storm. Chandrahas guessed that he must be worrying about his son-in-law joining him and how the rains might disrupt their schedules. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. The air hostesses were moving up and down the aisle checking to see whether all the passengers had fastened their seat belts. ‘Whenever there’s turbulence, I look at the faces of the air hostesses. If they look normal, fine. But if they look as though they’re trying to hide something, then we can expect the worst. But look, this one is smiling…’
Santoshan gestured with his head. The noise from the aircraft increased, and it began its descent. Everyone held their breath as the plane plunged down and finally thudded onto the runway. As if mocking their fearful journey, Mumbai Airport stood glowing in the bright afternoon sun as though under a spotlight. The passengers jostled each other in their hurry to get off the plane. Santoshan tried to move aside for Chandrahas to alight. But Chandrahas said, ‘I’m not in a hurry, sir. If you like, I’ll stay with you until your son-in-law arrives.’
‘Really?’ asked the old man, pausing. Then he went on: ‘Do me a favour then. I doubt that the next flight will arrive on time in this weather. Instead of waiting for my son-in-law, I should go straight to the hospital. My appointment is at 3 p.m. If it’s on your way, you could drop me there and carry on.’
‘Certainly,’ said Chandrahas.
‘An autorickshaw will do,’ said Santoshan, but Chandrahas hailed a taxi and they both got in. The passing vehicles were gleaming wetly, as though the airport was the only spot where it wasn’t raining.
‘Whatever you might think, sir, once one has stayed in Mumbai for a while, and one comes back after a journey, there’s a strange sense of security. Look at the taxi and auto chaps here, they always return your change, however little it is. There’s something that welds us all together here,’ said Chandrahas, as he pulled his water bottle out of his bag and gave it to Santoshan, asking him to drink. As the old man guzzled, the veins in his neck shone palely. Seeing the brown radiation burn marks on his neck, Chandrahas mentally w
ished the man a quick recovery.
‘You’re quite right. I too wanted to set up my business in Mumbai, and I even stayed here for some time. But the girl I lost my heart to was from Ahmedabad, and she wasn’t ready to leave that town. Like in that story about the king who went on a hunt and heard the voice of a bird, and for its sake acquired the branch, the tree, the grove, and the entire region, and he set up his kingdom there and never went home.’ Santoshan spoke to the taxi driver, asking him, ‘And you, my man, have you ever been in love?’
The driver laughed, ‘Parvadta, nahi saab, can’t afford it.’ Encouraged by his passengers’ conversation, he went on: ‘Money flows like water in Mumbai, saab. Some see it, some don’t. Those who see it grab it by the handful, and travel by taxi. Those who don’t, become taxi drivers.’
‘No, no,’ said Chandrahas, ‘there are also people like me who see the money but can’t get hold of it.’
The taxi driver, who said his name was Kunjbihari, pointed to the sky, which now looked like a black wall. ‘Woh dekho saab, a lot of water will fall today, bahut paani girne wala hai,’ he said.
Chandrahas was always amused by the Mumbai idiom that referred to rain as ‘water falling’. He thought of the Holi festivities when someone in the apartment above would throw buckets of coloured water on the revellers below. As the taxi climbed onto the flyover after Santacruz, the skies darkened even more. ‘See, Kunjbihari, plenty of money is collecting in the sky,’ said Santoshan.
Asking the driver to wait outside Hinduja Hospital, Chandrahas went in with Santoshan to meet Dr Dastur, the specialist. Not heeding Santoshan’s protests, Chandrahas insisted on waiting with him. He phoned his wife Sarayu, who worked in an office at Churchgate, and told her, ‘It looks like it’s going to rain very heavily. You should leave office early. I’ll be home in a couple of hours … Yes, I know, we have to pay our loan instalment today. Let’s do it tomorrow, please. It doesn’t matter … I don’t know, I think I’ve got the job … Yes, yes, I’ve told them I’ll need to be given a house … No, we need to decide now. I’m finding it difficult … Sarayu, you tell me what to do. How long can we struggle here just because we like the city?’ He hung up after whispering goodbye.
Santoshan thumped him on the back and said, ‘Good, do as she says.’
Just then, Santoshan’s name was called. He picked up his file and asked Chandrahas whether he would accompany him. After examining the old man behind a drawn curtain, Dr Dastur proclaimed, ‘Excellent, Mr Santoshan. You’re doing very well. The treatment from your doctor in Bangalore seems to be okay. Maybe you need to finish another cycle of radiotherapy, but you can do that there. Why didn’t your daughter come? How is she? How is the school that she’s running?’ As he spoke, the doctor wrote out the details of his examination on his letterhead.
Then for the first time, Chandrahas saw a deep helplessness in Santoshan’s demeanour. The old man, dragging his voice out from deep down, said, ‘Doctor saab…’
‘Yes, what is it?’ asked the doctor as he kept on writing.
‘Nothing really, just that next April my granddaughter might get married – it is being planned right now.’
‘My God … You have a granddaughter about to be married? Unbelievable! Well, I’ll see if I can find a seminar to go to in Bangalore, and be sure to attend the wedding.’
‘So kind of you, Doctor. But that’s not what I meant…’
‘Then?’
‘It’s only another six months. Somehow you must keep me alive until then.’
‘No, no! You’ll live a hundred years.’
‘I’m sure you tell everyone that. You seem like god when you say that. I want to do nothing else but keep looking at you. But I know what’s happening with me…’
Just then, Santoshan’s son-in-law called. His flight had not yet left Bangalore. ‘Don’t worry, I’m with the doctor. I will call you later,’ Santoshan said, cutting the call short.
‘Doctor, please … stretch my life till April. I’ve promised my granddaughter that I’ll be there for her wedding. Please try…’
Dr Dastur gently slapped him as though in anger. ‘What rubbish! You’ll move on only when you’ve seen your granddaughter’s daughter.’ He looked at Chandrahas as though to seek his approval.
Chandrahas felt a cloud pass over his heart. ‘I’ll wait outside,’ he said, slipping away. It sounded like a tenant pleading with his landlord to let him stay for another six months. Santoshan’s request was intense in its simplicity. Rows and rows of people sat outside, waiting their turn, waiting to make their request. A few months for some, a few days for the others…
Then he saw Kunjbihari, the taxi driver, running towards him with some urgency, shouting, ‘Saab … the rain’s falling at a tremendous pace! You should leave now, or none of us will get home today. The local trains are slowing down. I hear there’s water on the tracks at Sion and Kurla. The traffic is slowing down too. If you need to stay here any longer, I’ll leave.’ He was as alert as an animal which has heard the approach of impending disaster.
Chandrahas reassured him: ‘No, we’ll just be a minute. Where will this chacha go in this weather? Let’s drop him wherever he wants to go.’ Chandrahas went inside, and Kunjbihari ran out, finessing the strategy through which he would pull his car out of the maze of honking vehicles.
By the time the taxi came to the main road, day had prematurely turned to night, and water was falling in thick sheets from the skies. The roads were full of vehicles trying to get to the distant suburbs. ‘Oh, what mazaa this Mumbai rain is!’ exclaimed Santoshan.
‘Fun? What are you saying? Now you’ll see mazaa,’ Kunjbihari drawled, rubbing his forearms as though he were preparing for battle. Throwing the taxi into little lanes and alleys, he began to take them towards Mahim Creek.
‘You can drop me anywhere. I have friends at Bandra Bandstand. They’d come and fetch me,’ said Santoshan.
‘No one will come,’ said Kunjbihari. ‘Everyone is stuck somewhere. Like us. Look at this … we’re khalaas, finished!’ He beat his forehead and pointed to the jam on the Mahim–Bandra flyover. Vehicles were stuck to each other like thousands of ants, showing no sign of movement. In the deafening and blinding rain, the city itself appeared to be melting away. From their vantage point on the bridge, Kunjbihari’s passengers could see the local trains below, at a standstill on the flooded tracks. Some of the braver passengers had jumped into the waist-high water and seemed to be swimming hither and thither. People had alighted from stationary buses and were trudging on foot towards their destinations.
‘In another hour, the rain will stop and everything will be fine.’
‘In another two hours, the police will set right the traffic.’
Chandrahas was tired of saying these words again and again. Over the taxi’s FM radio, they were hearing news of how the entire city had come to a standstill. There were also messages from people to their families, to their children, to their friends, relayed by the radio station:
‘Where are you?’
‘You must stay back in the office.’
‘I’ll go to my maami’s place.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘I’ll stay on the station platform.’
By this time, water had filled the electric grids and the telephone control boxes, and the city’s phone lines fell silent. Chandrahas tried to call Sarayu several times from his mobile but failed. Maybe she was still at her office. Maybe she was at Churchgate Station in a train compartment. Maybe she was walking through waterlogged streets. Thinking of this made him more silent.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Santoshan. ‘She is sure to be safe.’ As he spoke, he realized that his son-in-law wasn’t going to be able to reach him. ‘Kunjbihari, do one thing. Drop me back at the airport. I have a return ticket. I’ll just take whatever flight I can get.’
‘We can’t go anywhere without the traffic moving, saab,’ said the driver, getting out of the taxi and splashing ahead in the water to see wha
t was happening.
Now night started mingling with the darkness of the rain. The phalanx of rainwater poured down as if to mix up all the colours of old images. Even those travellers who had fifteen or twenty kilometres to go were getting off stranded buses into the water, and slowly a mass of people began to move around the vehicles. Everywhere in the city, the water was rising swiftly. The same clouds that had shaken our aircraft in the afternoon are now breaking into pieces, thought Chandrahas. Then the clouds had seemed like a battalion of tanks ranged for war. Chandrahas wondered what kind of turbulence this heedless rain was evoking in the poor old man who wanted just another six months on this earth.
‘Sir, shall I get us something to eat? Keep listening to the radio, I’ll be back soon,’ said Chandrahas as he got out of the taxi and walked towards the Mahim market. There was a curious spirit in the crowds that walked along, soaked with rain. Some were whooping and shouting. They were calling out to those still in vehicles, heckling them:
‘This bus won’t move today.’
‘The entire highway is under water.’
‘Mahim Creek is flooding.’
‘The sea water is getting into the low-lying areas.’
‘The ground floors of all the houses in Kalanagar have been flooded.’
As the crowd muttered to itself, these bits of information spread to everyone in the city. Schoolchildren in their uniforms in the pouring rain, with soaking schoolbags, walked like small, bent mountaineers in the darkness. Where did they live? How would they get there? When would they reach? Shopkeepers were calling out to the children and handing them biscuits, bread and bananas. People in the area were asking the children to come into their homes and wait out the rain. Neighbouring chawls and apartments were opening their doors to the women and children getting off buses. Chandrahas bought chips and some bananas and strode back to the taxi through the water. Santoshan had just finished talking to Kunjbihari. ‘There’s a traffic jam until Borivali, saab. And all the vehicles trying to take short cuts through the suburbs have caused an even bigger jam. The water is too high to recede quickly. Or else I would have told you to start walking. You could have reached the airport in an hour, and at least got some shelter over your heads. But no, my Basanti’s your only refuge today.’
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