The cigarette dangles from my mouth like nobody's business. We are sitting on a quiet curb near Colaba Causeway. Mohsinbhai is dishing out faloodas laced with saffron. Michellia is tugging at her shirtfront absent-mindedly with one hand, and waving the other at Mohsinbhai to get us another cream-crumpet. Out of the corner of my eye, I observe the slow undulations of her breasts, as she motions to Mohsinbhai to refill her glass. I look away hastily, fearing reproval. To our left, a 'secondhand-book-seller' is plying his trade without his usual chirpiness (that is an occupational hazard here). As she digs into her backpack to retrieve her Nikon,I look around for a suitable place to stub out the cigarette. There is a tinkle of glasses and cutlery, as I reach for change in the pockets of my jeans, and Mohsinbhai's face is gleaming as pockets the change, stowing the spoons away in his rusty steel container. 'Phir se aana, Ayanbhai. Memsahab ko bhi faloode pasand hain na'. 'Zaroor', I reply with a smile. I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn my head to see Michellia click a rather uncalled-for picture of me. I try to protest but she grabs my hand and tells me she wants to walk. I comply.
I had expected the city to change. While I was in Manipal, Aunt Valerie told me that the city is changing, for the worse. I hated her when she said that. Because there's so much that would go away were this city to change. No more sleepy afternoons in Matunga. No more catching up with classmates in Koolar & Co. No more of the peddlers ingratiating themselves to me. Sarah, my ex-supervisor, once told me that every time she came back to Bombay after a long time, she expected a little more modernisation, a little more variations of globalizing tendencies, a little more molestation by international exposure. When I was younger, my mother befriended a Keralite housewife who had lived all her life in Sion. She said something like,'Aiyyo! Woh jo tightrope-walker hota hain na mele main, waisa hi lagta hain. Hamesha lagta hain - abhi girega, par woh toh hamesha aasani se cross kar leta hain'. My mother would smile benignly and hand her another cup of Earl Grey, which she would slurp in great earnest. Thomas Hardy wrote extensively of his time in Dorset and the relationship he built up with the place in the space of many years. I look at my relationship with this city, and draw parallels.
Although it's late afternoon, a cool summer breeze makes its presence felt. I see the boys playing cricket at the MCC. I see the babus getting haircuts from the roadside barber (who raises his head to look at us, his customer unafraid of getting nicked by inattention). I see the street urchins laughing unguardedly as they flick marbles with their fingers. I see the fat Parsi patriarch resting his huge bulk on an armchair and feasting on akoori and pora. I see the disapproving glare of an elderly couple as they pass us. I see the paan-stains on the lamp-posts. I am back.
The cigarette dangles from my mouth like nobody's business. We are sitting on a quiet curb near Colaba Causeway. Mohsinbhai is dishing out faloodas laced with saffron. Michellia is tugging at her shirtfront absent-mindedly with one hand, and waving the other at Mohsinbhai to get us another cream-crumpet. Out of the corner of my eye, I observe the slow undulations of her breasts, as she motions to Mohsinbhai to refill her glass. I look away hastily, fearing reproval. To our left, a 'secondhand-book-seller' is plying his trade without his usual chirpiness (that is an occupational hazard here). As she digs into her backpack to retrieve her Nikon,I look around for a suitable place to stub out the cigarette. There is a tinkle of glasses and cutlery, as I reach for change in the pockets of my jeans, and Mohsinbhai's face is gleaming as pockets the change, stowing the spoons away in his rusty steel container. 'Phir se aana, Ayanbhai. Memsahab ko bhi faloode pasand hain na'. 'Zaroor', I reply with a smile. I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn my head to see Michellia click a rather uncalled-for picture of me. I try to protest but she grabs my hand and tells me she wants to walk. I comply.
I had expected the city to change. While I was in Manipal, Aunt Valerie told me that the city is changing, for the worse. I hated her when she said that. Because there's so much that would go away were this city to change. No more sleepy afternoons in Matunga. No more catching up with classmates in Koolar & Co. No more of the peddlers ingratiating themselves to me. Sarah, my ex-supervisor, once told me that every time she came back to Bombay after a long time, she expected a little more modernisation, a little more variations of globalizing tendencies, a little more molestation by international exposure. When I was younger, my mother befriended a Keralite housewife who had lived all her life in Sion. She said something like,'Aiyyo! Woh jo tightrope-walker hota hain na mele main, waisa hi lagta hain. Hamesha lagta hain - abhi girega, par woh toh hamesha aasani se cross kar leta hain'. My mother would smile benignly and hand her another cup of Earl Grey, which she would slurp in great earnest. Thomas Hardy wrote extensively of his time in Dorset and the relationship he built up with the place in the space of many years. I look at my relationship with this city, and draw parallels.
Although it's late afternoon, a cool summer breeze makes its presence felt. I see the boys playing cricket at the MCC. I see the babus getting haircuts from the roadside barber (who raises his head to look at us, his customer unafraid of getting nicked by inattention). I see the street urchins laughing unguardedly as they flick marbles with their fingers. I see the fat Parsi patriarch resting his huge bulk on an armchair and feasting on akoori and pora. I see the disapproving glare of an elderly couple as they pass us. I see the paan-stains on the lamp-posts. I am back.
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