The Complete Collection of Travel Literature

by Tahir Shah

  “Why the hell did you spend an hour bringing me here? You’re an idiot!” The driver beamed with satisfaction.

  “No, Sahib, I bring you to the Town Halls. Look there it is.”

  A bony finger stretched out and I stared in astonishment at the control tower to which he was pointing with pride. He mumbled:

  “I vas not understanding at the beginning. You see most people are not vanting to come here. That will be two hundred rupees, plus the bonus one rupees makes two hundred and one rupees, Sahib.”

  I faced the fact that I had been beaten yet again.

  Another week passed and I asked Prideep and Osman to try and find out if there was a Town Hall in Mumbai. They both thought, however, that it was totally logical to be taken to the control tower of an airport when asking for the main building of public affairs. I began to get to grips with the fact that it might be me who was going insane. I looked in a mirror at the Chateau Windsor to see if my eyeballs were twitching. Staring deeply at my reflection, I sensed an unfocused row of servants cackling behind. Then, I pulled Vinod to one side, and put it to him straight:

  “Do you see me doing anything unusual? I want you to watch out and tell me. I can take it, don’t worry. Do you think I’m a bit mad?”

  He looked squarely into my eyes — which had indeed begun to twitch and cross uncontrollably — they blinked and flashed and I felt like barking out loud. “Do I look cuckoo to you Vinod?”

  “Sahib, you not a cloo-koo.”

  “Not a raving lunatic: a screwball, an aberrating corybantic?!”

  Vinod was openly nervous of my behavior. He shuffled his bare feet in circles and said comforting things:

  “Sahib, you are not mad. You will know if you are when your ears turn green.”

  I thanked Vinod for his words of support and went to my room, pondering what he had said. There I lay on the bed. My head spun and for the first time I succumbed to it. I was in a country where everyone was a little peculiar — a bit off the norm. It was one against nine hundred million: a population who will say exactly what they think you wish to hear. My only fear was for those in the mental hospitals. Were they, by my standards, completely sane?

  Osman pounded at my door. We had a rule that he could only report when I gave the word. He stood straight-backed, fidgeting up and down like a schoolboy who needs permission to be excused.

  “All right, what do you have to report?”

  “We found it! We found it! The Town Hall! And I know why you could never find it.”

  “Why? What are the secret directions?”

  “You have to ask for Akbarally’s Departmental Store, of course! It’s right behind Akbarally’s.”

  I leapt up. We would go at once.

  A botanical garden led to the Town Hall and was home to what looked like a battlefield of bodies. Children crept about, picking the pockets of the sleeping and playing marbles in the afternoon heat. Akbarally’s was indeed the landmark. It was surprising that no one seemed to know where the fabled municipal building stands. The desire to tell all the cab drivers of my discovery gripped me. The one stipulation to be a taxi driver in Mumbai seems that you must have no knowledge of the city’s geography and layout.

  A wrought-iron gate swung open. We crossed a street and climbed up a wide set of steps. Constructed in 1833, the building was like a grand pavilion; white, with canopies over the windows. Corinthian columns supported the roof, and marble statues lurked in corners. An odour of bureaucracy persisted, as if we were entering a warehouse of partially processed, stored information. This was a place where data with no constructive use to anyone were protected and pored over by an army of what are known in democracies as public servants.

  The floor creaked as I tiptoed up to a large south Indian woman dressed in a sparkling white saree.

  “Excuse me, I’m interested in membership of the library.”

  “Do you want temporary or permanent membership?” she asked.

  “Temporary would do fine.”

  Thrusting her right arm in the air, she announced with crushing authority:

  “There is no temporary membership!”

  I coaxed her for half an hour – and was promised an assistant who would help me choose three books. It was forbidden to tip the servant and to spit paan on the floor. I would obey all the rules.

  The lady in radiant white was pleased, and clicked her fingers. No one came. It was then that I realized that this woman who had been dealing with me was not employed by the library at all.

  Within minutes the real librarian arrived and arranged for an assistant to help me.

  A pair of feet in bedroom slippers dragged across the unpolished parquet floor, making it creak and bend. The servant showed no enthusiasm for life. Osman was concerned that a man should be so sad. The character stared up at me like a dog which had been tormented with a bone, but no longer had the energy to care if he got it or not. His face was deformed and one ear was badly torn.

  We staggered round and round, taking short cuts through the alleyways between the stacks... round and round. I gained a certain feeling for the geography of the room. Still Osman and I followed one step behind the servant, digging our metal heel studs into the parquet. Osman cackled uncontrollably, ecstatic that he could be so tormenting. The servant was not in the least intimidated: he trudged on and on around the stacks as if in a trance, his bedroom slippers sliding with a muffled grating sound.

  Osman’s feet had developed blisters, so we paused to sit on a wide blue vinyl-covered couch. He removed his shoes and stuck his thumb in his left ear. Fishing out a lump of beige wax, he rubbed it over the blisters. Then, he smiled and his spirits were rejuvenated. The assistant paced on with time-measured steps. Four hours passed and I had almost given up hope of ever seeing the three books I had ordered.

  Shuffling feet moved among the blackness of bureaucratic papers. A sign fell to the ground and Osman picked it up and read the words: No book is for sale.

  Volumes were piled in every corner, covered with black dust, some were backwards or upside down. Ladders with broken rungs led to galleries where carved ebony lions sat guard. Monastic methodical silence, not even disturbed by ticking from the wall clocks — those had stopped, probably many years before. A young clerk slouched over a heap of disintegrating newspapers, labelling with careful precision. He appeared resigned to a lifetime of sitting, in devotion to routine. The books he guarded were too precious, his glance and posture said, to be touched by the hands of infidels.

  The assistant trod on, clutching my order close to his chest. Osman and I wandered away. The statues stared as if to recognize our failure. The taxi drivers could rest in their ignorance of such a legendary place.

  * * *

  That evening, as I clasped my head in my hands in defeat, a call from Blake was announced, “Yo man, I told you to leave it all to me! I’ve fixed it all up. You can relax and let the wheels turn smoothly,” he said.

  “Blake, what are you on about? What did you fix up?”

  “Man, I hope you appreciate it, after I put in all that sweet talking and sliming.”

  “What are you on about, Blake?!”

  “I got you a date with Rachana tonight. You have to pick her up at eight-thirty. This is the address. Don’t be late.”

  I ran about the hotel wondering what to wear, what to say? Where I should take her? Vinod had let himself into my room. He had learnt to whistle through the new gaps between his teeth, and had come to demonstrate his new talent. As he whistled he swung his head from side to side, splattering saliva across the walls.

  The door vibrated as fingertips clawed down its outer surface. I opened it to find a tidy procession of servants. One carried clean towels, one a bar of soap, another a shoe-cleaning kit and, the last, an iron. The first reported:

  “Sahib, Anan the telephone operator said to bring you these things. Where is the shirt you will be wearing on this very special evening?”

  I had always suspected that my c
onversations were monitored. My suspicious were at last confirmed. News of the impending occasion had spread like wildfire. I went to see V. V. Gupta, who worked miles from Churchgate. After handing me a stack of multicolored boxer shorts, he nudged me in the ribs and giggled:

  “My wife says you should wear the yellow silk panties this evening. I think better to put on the pink ones as it’s the first time you’re with her.”

  How did he know about Rachana?

  Prideep and Osman had also heard of my date and dropped by, to give me some tips on Indian girls. They would not leave until I had repeated all they had said. Osman made notes in calligraphic script (which he had learnt at The Embassy while mastering his trade as a janitor). Prideep forced Osman to translate all that he had to say:

  “You must remember always to tickle her under the chin and to blow in her ears — girls like that, you know. If you want her to fall in love with you, you must have her serenaded by my cousin’s sitar band. They are available tonight, I already made sure. They can be here by eight and come with you. Their charges are reasonable.”

  Osman pushed Prideep out of the way and stopped translating his words.

  “No, no, no! Prideep’s all wrong. To win her heart there is but one sure way.” His voice lowered and I bent forward so as not to miss the words of great wisdom. “You must take her to Ali Hussain’s Halal Meat Chop House, when you get there mention my name and ask for the special Chinese soup. As soon as the first spoonful touches her lips she will follow you to the end of the world. I have already told Ali Hussain to make room for you. He owes me a favour.”

  I was moved by their concern and unbridled gladness for my evening with Rachana. Osman handed me a sheet of paper with their combined notes laid down in neat italic script.

  As I handed my key in at the desk the manager turned and wished me luck. The corridors were lined with double rows of saluting servants. It felt as if I were going to collect a gallantry medal.

  Having taken a taxi past Kemp’s Corner, I waited outside the apartment because I was ten minutes early. I seemed invisible to the hordes of commuters who rushed past.

  Rachana’s mother opened the door to the apartment. She was straight-backed, correct and very elegant. All eyes were on me as I crossed the room.

  Trying to avoid the microscopic scrutiny, I slunk into a chair and attempted to disappear myself by mental effort into the surroundings. The family was having the customary evening discussion: deep in debate as to whether it was better to be good or to be bright. I steered diplomatically around the argument, trying not to take sides and thus to avoid making enemies. Rachana’s mother peered at me from above her white-framed bifocals and suggested that we leave.

  Blake had done very well indeed to cajole such a formidable matriarch into allowing me to take her daughter out without a chaperon. I wondered exactly what he had said to win her trust. My coconut and garland had not been wasted.

  Mosquitos and flying beetles buzzed around fluorescent lamps outside the Roxy cinema. Pineapple and melon was being cut into mouth-sized lumps and put on green plastic plates. I queued up and bought two tickets for Tridev, one of the great epics of Mumbai’s movie industry, which Prideep had recommended.

  We took our seats upstairs in row Dl. Giant lights, suspended from the ceiling, flickered. Arabesque scenes hung from the walls around us — like tortured prisoners in an eternal captivity. The seats squeaked and were hard and uncomfortable.

  A quarter of the screen began to reflect an ancient advertising film in blue and white. The virtues of Uttar Pradesh Province were explained by unsynchronized mouths, strobed with thread lines and the neat silhouette of the sound recordist’s head. Suddenly — without warning — the epic began.

  Like a convict facing a life sentence in solitude, I considered how I would ever emerge sane after three hours. The plot was hard to follow, especially as I understood very little Hindi. I pressed Rachana to translate every line.

  Villains framed a man for murdering someone; they kidnapped another taking him to their fantastic castle, perched on top of a waterfall. A group of three Indian musketeers united against the bad men and penetrated the castle’s perimeter. Battle scenes became love scenes as the audience gasped and cheered in unison.

  As minutes turned into hours, I sensed water dripping onto my neck. There was a crackle of food wrappers and I swivelled in my seat to tell the weeper to back off. As I turned, my eyes bulged in horror. Osman and Prideep gaped at me adoringly.

  Osman was crying like a baby, and Prideep pushed a bag of miniature samosas into my face. I yelled at them, shocked that they would stoop to spying, then shouted that they should leave. Rachana and the audience looked eagerly to see what the commotion was about. The pair stood up to leave. As tears slipped from Osman’s eyes, he chirped:

  “Don’t forget to blow in her ears and remember Ali Hussain’s soup”!

  A man stumbled through the aisles juggling a tray. “Tea in a tray, tea in a tray!” There were shouts and hisses as his head was profiled on the screen. I tried to get back to the plot.

  The villains’ kingdom had, for some reason, burst into flames and heads were rolling on the ground. Swords flashed as they sliced through the air and, in the middle of the final battle, a tumultuous chorus of the theme song began, “Oye-oye, Oye-oye!”

  Continuity is unimportant in Indian film-making. Characters can appear in fresh costumes half way through a speech; or a murder scene can be interrupted with a song which involves the whole cast (whether they have already been killed or not).

  Three hours after arriving, I left the Roxy exhausted — with Rachana linking her arm through mine — and we took a taxi to the Ambassador Hotel to eat in the revolving rooftop restaurant.

  The manager showed us to a table which overlooked Marine Drive.

  V.I.P. Luggage flashed on and off, the letters reflecting off the black water. The street lights, which lit up the peanut sellers and prostitutes, looked like an elegant string of pearls. Rachana sat opposite me and smiled demurely. She seemed thrilled to have escaped her mother’s clutches.

  Marine Drive became Flora Fountain as the floor moved, revealing Mumbai’s high spots. The roads were deserted. Now and then the odd yellow-topped taxi or white Pal car passed, flashing ambers, and an occasional working headlight.

  A waiter appeared with arms covered in plates: fish and fettucini and iced mango juice. The evening was idyllic. We drank to Blake and Priti’s health. My mentor had done very well.

  The silence was broken by shouts at the next table.

  “Is this steak sacred? Am I eating holy cow?” The cries of a severely overweight gentleman — with a Central European accent — echoed around the revolving dining room.

  The waiter was shifting uneasily from one foot to the other, obviously concerned by the notion that something he worshipped was being eaten by a foreigner.

  “Ludwig! Ludwig! Leave zie nice vaitor man alone,” croaked his wife, as she continued to smoke a miniature Havana cigar, in a gold holder. Her chest, which was richly adorned with Egyptian tourist ornaments, rattled when she spoke. On noticing my interest in her husband’s outburst, she turned to Rachana and me:

  “India ees so mystical, vee love it here,” she said sternly narrowing her eyes, “You are very lucky to have such a country such as zis.”

  Thanking the lady, I tried to draw her conversation to an end. One would often see westerners in Colaba, dressed like the couple at the next table. They would never venture more than one block from the Taj Hotel, immaculate in Givenchy suits and Banana Republic coats, leading beggar children around by the hand. I would watch with interest. They never gave a single coin to those children — let alone clothed or educated them. Instamatic cameras would record the “mixing with the natives’ for posterity; and the party in broad-brimmed explorers’ hats would return to sip tea in the gardens of the Taj.

  Down below, Gaylord’s was turning through the window pane. The wise old manager, always immaculately d
ressed, would be down there pleasing his customers.

  Rachana held her hands across the table. I noticed a dull silver ring on her left hand. “Who gave you that?” I asked.

  “It’s a toe ring.” She turned it round, revealing a tiny flower on the inside. “My sister wears the other, she bought them when she went away to study.”

  “Why don’t you wear it on your toe?”

  She giggled and replied, “That would just not be done.”

  It was late when we left the Ambassador Hotel. We strolled down to Marine Drive and walked for a few minutes. Street sellers were still offering their wares. “Rubber gloves, rubber gloves, peanuts, shoe shine?” Bedding was being laid down and bodies were hunched up against the sea wall. An old man called out to us. I looked down. On a rag he had placed two combs: one yellow, one red. Fishing boats roamed out into the darkness towards the horizon. Rachana breathed deeply. She said, “I am really happy here. I never want to live anywhere else.”

  I thought about her words and Mumbai. I thought about the garbage and the heat, the smells and the millions of people.

  “You’re right,” I said, “This is a very special place.”

  Wing Son saw me enter his shop, tucked behind the Regal Cinema, and climbed down the narrow ladder from the attic workshop. He seemed pleased and I knew that it meant the shoes had been finished. He walked to greet me with a nervous smile, chewing at the corner of his mouth, waiting expectantly for my praise.

  Two packages were produced, wrapped in paper printed in large Hindi script, tied with string and bows. I drew the leaves apart and held each shoe in turn, admiring the stitches and wonderful quality of the calf’s leather.

  “Put them on your feet...” he said, “See how they fit; I made the soles extra thick like you asked.”

  Wing fidgeted as I tried on each shoe in turn. They were sculpted perfectly to my feet.

  “These are the most wonderful shoes I have ever worn. I shall always be proud of them,” I said.

  Wing Son, the son of Wing Son, smiled like a Cheshire cat, the contours of his face curved and blossomed into the greatest expression of pleasure that I have ever seen.