Saturday was one of those those touch-and-go days which I frequently find myself subjected to. Groggily reaching for my toothbrush, I stumbled towards the mirror and was amused to find a five'o clock shadow on my face. Whirling the toothbrush around, I found myself thinking about thoughts I didn't know that I had. Here goes.
My parents first lived in a suburb of Bombay called Antop Hill. Back then, it was a pleasant place to live in and I can still smell the wafting magnolia scent that used to blow in through the windows. Antop Hill was a sort of refuge for the individuals of a naturally dimunitive temperament. So,quite naturally,my parents found it to be a restful and pleasing environment. I could never second their opinion because I was only a child then and my emotional grasp of the situation would be limited to playing with the neighbour's children and the stuffy candy shop across the street. Indeed,those are the only sights and sounds I remember. I am not surprised,though. My paedaetrician used to be this rather affable Parsi who had his clinic in Parsi Colony. Point blank,I have always held firmly that Parsis were the original caretakers of Bombay. I don't mean to sound regionalist but these people lend a rather colonial air to the city, without the Victorian flummery. Back then,I rember being fascinated by the outer poise and the inner calm that defined their persona. Now, of course, they have taken a backseat. what with all the simmering regionalism that's brewing in Bombay. Antop Hill has now become one of those sorrily mismanaged areas that disgust you whenever you look at the peeling paint, the dusty playground, the runny taps. It leaves you with a sense of loathing but you can't exactly pigeonhole the source or the target. So much for colonialism.
My parents later bought a flat in the teeming suburb of Sion. I never knew the origin of the glitzy name and probably never will. Sion is also major railway junction that most office-goers resent. It is because the majority of sweaty,buck-toothed commuters generally come aboard at Sion.
Besides that, there's almost nothing the place can boast about now save perhaps a few bungalows here and there. You feel sorry for the place and it appears like an exotic affair gone badly off the track.When I was fifteen, I once walked on the pavements while it was raining. When it rains in Bombay,it pours.But you like it enormously.You see the black umbrellas dripping all about you and then you button your parka because of a sudden draught.It is really the perfect catalyst for thought.Even in the Sion of today,it is an experience to walk down it's streets. The smell of hot cocoa near coffee shops,of burnt hazelnuts near confectionery stores and then there is that earthly smell you always get when you cross rainwater with loose soil.Even as I sit by the window with a cup of hot coffee by my left arm and a yellow legal pad beside my right,i can visualize the sights and sounds that are so ephemeral for every person growing up in Bombay.When you grow up in a place,you generally take for granted all the things that the place has to (or can) offer.You get used to the hot summer sun burning the back of your neck,the raindrops that hit the windows of your room and the cold night air that settles around your bed while you curl up in bed with a book.When I moved out of Sion,I realized that I loved the place dearly but I hadn't been aware of that until I left.So this is what they call blues. Nice.
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.
