Breathless in Bombay

by Murzban Shroff

  The tide was in. It scampered and rushed toward us. When it pulled out, it left all sorts of refuse on the black, oily sand: empty coconuts, a broken chappal, the cap of a Bisleri bottle, a Bisleri bottle, some plastic bags, frail and torn, and a tangled mass of branches. It calmed Rohit momentarily to see the turbulence of the waves, to see them gain height, speed, strength, roll over rocks, crash, and fizzle out in a foamy whimper. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a joint. It was crushed and creased. He checked to see it wasn’t broken. It wasn’t. He drew out his lighter, one of those cheap refillable ones, where the carriage could slip anytime. With his other hand, he smoothened the joint, using two fingers pressed together, and I saw he did this gently. Then he went click, click, with the lighter, a number of times before the joint lit. He had to pull hard against the breeze to make it start. He inhaled, and then he spoke.

  “I am up shit creek, man,” he said. “A few months ago I was sleeping with this girl I was seeing then. She had to leave the city suddenly—to stay with an old uncle who was ailing or dying, God knows what. She is back now, and says she’s pregnant. Three months and a week up, and she’s done nothing so far. Says she doesn’t know what to do, where to go, whom to turn to? ‘So, what can I do?’ I said to her, but she is threatening to spill the beans to her brother. I know him. He has connections. He won’t hesitate to get me beaten up. He might even get me knifed. I am sunk, man. I am fucked.”

  He started crying again, covering his face with the same hand in which he held the joint. The ash hung precariously, so I took the cigarette off him, from between his fingers. I took a few drags, long and pensive, and gazed at the setting sun. The sky had turned purple, an indigo blaze heralding the advent of twilight. The clouds, too, had changed complexion, more solemn and restful now. A fresh breeze had started: it fanned my face, lulled my mind, and sent the grass racing through my veins. I added my own clouds—of thick, rich Kerala grass—to the horizon. Then I said, “There’s nothing to panic about. You’ve left it late, but maybe we can pull it off.”

  We? I knew in my mind it was the grass doing this: this assumption of ownership, this transference of power, from offender to helper. I looked at the culprit in my hand—this wand of brotherhood, this rock-and-roll energy at work.

  “I know a doc—a good one,” I continued. “She’s a friend, strong, caring, and clever. Let me call her. I am sure she will work something out.”

  “Would you do that for me?” he asked, looking up. His eyes were red, mournful, searching. They craved assurance. “I mean, shit, man. Can we go and meet her, your doc friend? Maybe now! Maybe tomorrow—if you like!” His brow darkened. “But look, how much do you think the termination will cost? I can’t pay the earth, you know. I don’t make big bucks in this job.”

  “You won’t need to. Like I said, she is a friend. She will help to make matters easy.”

  I returned to the agency and called up my friend. She lived up to the high opinion I had of her, for she volunteered to see the couple the next day. The color returned to Rohit’s face. He gripped me by the shoulders and said, “Shit, man, you are a buddy. I owe you big; that I do!”

  Doc saw us the next day. We—that is I, Rohit, and his girl—went to her clinic, a large consulting room above Aziz Antiques in Colaba. Her office was part of a nursing home. Tucked away at the end of a long wooden corridor, it had a high ceiling, half-swivel doors, a high bed, an old desk, some certificates on the wall, and a Confucian saying that warned against asking for credit. Outside was a sofa, which could seat four, and two chairs with Rexene upholstery. In between the chairs was a rack of outdated film magazines.

  Doc, as usual, was bright and motherly. She was not much older than me, which served to reassure Rohit that she’d be easy to talk to. She filled the chair—a revolving high-back—with her presence while she heard Rohit patiently. She frowned when she heard how much time had lapsed, and I could tell she wanted to say something, an admonition perhaps, but changed her mind. Flashing a dimpled smile, she said to Rohit, “It’s not all that bad. Relax. We have done worse. I can tell you that. We can terminate without risk, but you should bring her in fast—tomorrow preferably. I have a busy day, but I can take her between 8.00 and 9.00 A.M., if that’s fine by you. She will need a few hours of rest thereafter, and you can take her home by three.”

  “Whew, thanks, Doc!” Rohit said. He looked at his girl, who smiled and nodded. Then he said in a voice that was low and respectful, “And how much will this cost, Doc? For my information.”

  Reclining in her chair, Doc thought for a moment before saying, “The room will cost eight hundred rupees. The rest of the expenses—the nursing and the operating costs—I can waive.” She leaned forward and smiled. “Stop worrying,” she said. “It was a mistake, okay? It happens all the time.” With that she rose to her feet.

  I felt a surge of gratitude toward Doc. She’d said nothing about her own fees. But Rohit hadn’t realized that. Before leaving, I thanked her. She squeezed my arm and said, “Don’t be silly; it’s nothing. But make sure you come as well. The girl seems fine, but the boy looks like he will go to pieces. Lucky for her, to have someone so caring.” She said that wistfully.

  At this point I contemplated falling in love with Doc. I knew I’d be on safe waters emotionally, but her looks were a stumbling block: something matronly, something pale, prosaic, and insipid about her. I sighed inwardly. The moment passed.

  The next day, I took off work to accompany the couple. I must say I was impressed with the girl. Her name was Shyla. She was dark, big boned, and had great composure. “Look after my baby,” she said with a wink before she was wheeled into the operating theater. Rohit, I saw, was a loose cannon. He could go off any moment. He kept playing with his fingers, and he kept licking his lips like an expectant father, like there was a life under question.

  She went in, and his panic rose. “I hope she’s okay; nothing happens to her. I will never forgive myself if anything goes wrong,” he said, lighting a cigarette. Then, in a more guarded tone: “I hope your friend knows what she is doing.” I felt like slapping him when he said that, but then he was deranged by his concern for the girl. I reminded myself of that.

  Within an hour, she was out. She looked tired and compressed, a disheveled doll, yet managed a smile. They wheeled her to a room on the same floor. The stretcher trolley made a rumbling sound as it traveled down the long linoleum corridor. A short, potbellied nurse hurried after it, clasping the instructions file in her hand.

  Doc came out and spoke to Rohit, who slouched as though he’d been through an ordeal. “That’s a brave girl you’ve got there,” she said to him. “Didn’t cry once, when we removed it. I am worried, though, she might break later. Stay with her, will you?”

  Rohit nodded and mumbled his thanks. Doc turned and walked off smartly. She was followed by a team of assistants almost as young as herself. My eyes followed her retreating form, her stodgy calves and boxy hips. I tried to imagine them twenty years later. Sadly, I could not. Nor could I imagine myself with her.

  In the room, Rohit appeared nervous. He kept picking up objects, examining them, and placing them back. He opened the toilet door and looked inside. After a while, he moved to the window and smoked a cigarette. He appeared deep in thought. Noise from the road poured into the room. A nurse came and took Shyla’s blood pressure. She was short, sour faced, and brisk in her movements. “No smoking!” she said to Rohit. “Why do we put up rules if you are not going to observe them?”

  Rohit leaned and stubbed out the cigarette against the window ledge. He pocketed the stub, turned, and looked at her with a smirk. “No tip for this one,” he said audibly when she left.

  A gentle breeze came through the window. I looked out. A great part of Bombay this was: central, convergent, historic, reminiscent of a day and age when all roads led to the ocean, led to a horizon that was clean and fathomless. From where she lay, Shyla called out, “It’s over, love. There’s no hurt, no pain. I just feel a l
ittle raw inside. Empty actually.”

  “You need some water?” Rohit asked. I could see he hadn’t recovered. He was restless and edgy, awkward in the way he kept pacing around. After a while, he stopped and swung his arms like a bowler. Something weighed on his mind, I could tell. He was trying to divert himself. Maybe he was one of those men who are ineffectual in a crisis. Maybe that’s why he had this lovely woman, to give him strength. This dark, intriguing woman, who was attempting to sit up, to prop herself up, be brave and cheerful, after having dropped his child. She looked determined—I can tell you that.

  I wanted to give them privacy, so I left. I tried to find Doc to ask whether she wanted to do lunch with me. I was told she was busy: deliveries throughout! I remembered her saying so, the previous day, when we had visited. She had left word, though, that if Shyla was in pain she was to be contacted at once. Should I disturb her? I wondered. I wasn’t sure whether I was just feeling grateful or, in a subversive way, I wanted to explore my feelings toward her further. Enthusiasm being absent, I opted for my own company. A walk would clear my mind, get rid of the hospital smells from my nose.

  I wandered out into the street, stopping before the secondhand books on the pavement. I had always found it fascinating how entire collections landed up here. One generation’s pleasure became a burden for another. Hence, entire collections from father to son were sold for a song, and the vendors, knowing nothing about literature, would place a price on the books. They would determine the value of a Maugham, a Shaw, a Salinger, a Steinbeck, a Faulkner, a Fitzgerald. And they’d hold up a Jhumpa Lahiri, a Rushdie, a Seth, a Tagore, in the hope of tempting you. If that failed, the pirated versions came out. Toilet-paper versions with smudgy, castigating print. I walked away in disgust, an outraged bibliophile.

  A fakir called to me. He was selling sandalwood figures, wood carved ashtrays, paperweights of Gods and Goddesses, beads, malas, trinkets, semi-precious stones, and some strange-looking herbs in bottles. All this was laid out on a cloth, while he himself sat, legs apart, on a wooden crate. I heard his sales pitch and was eventually drawn by a chillum with Lord Ganesha on one side and Lord Shiva on the other. Both Gods wore an expression of benign universal knowledge. Twice blessed, I thought, and asked how much. “Only two hundred rupees, sahib,” the fakir said. “Asli cheez hain. Smoke it and you will see heaven.” I looked at him, his grim face, his kohl-rimmed eyes, his thick matted hair, tied in a bun at the top, and the streaks of orange on his forehead. I looked at the chillum and saw Lord Shiva, his hairdo almost the same. Promptly, I abandoned all negotiations. I paid and thought I saw a smile spread across the fakir’s face. The smile of unexpected gain.

  I walked on, taking in the colors of Colaba, the magic of a neighborhood always on holiday, always on display for its shoppers. I stopped before a street palmist with drawings and charts in front of him. He looked learned, so just for kicks I thought I’d get my hand read. I dropped to my knees and crouched before him. He studied my palm, pinching the flesh to accentuate the lines. He clicked his tongue and assured me that I had no real flame in my life, only imagined ones. And he warned me that I was a failure when it came to judging people. I’d be unable to guess their deep inner motives. Amused and unimpressed, I paid and left.

  A while later, I felt hungry. I stopped and considered the options. Moghlai food at Delhi Darbar or Parsi food at Paradise? Finally, I settled for two beers, a Manchow soup, and a plate of wontons at Café Leopold. There, I had the advantage of scenery: friendly-faced white women, in loose-falling clothes, whose breasts and faces I could gaze at slyly. I relished this freedom and felt like a tourist in my own city. I thought of Doc, my imagined flame. Good heart, but the body had no power to impress, no ability to hold. It would feel like I was missing something in bed. I felt surprised at my callousness—to think such a base thought, despite her kindness—but what to do? That’s how things were, how they stood.

  2.30 P.M., I returned to the clinic. Shyla was alone. She was sitting up in bed, fully dressed. Rohit had gone to settle the bill. There was a faint smell of grass in the place. He had smoked here—now that was the limit, I thought. A crumpled newspaper with dark, oily stains told me that food had been ordered and consumed. Shyla looked drained. I asked if she felt well enough to go. She said she did. I wasn’t so sure. At home, she would have to return to a facade of normalcy. How would she manage? I asked. “Well, yes, I have to pretend now that everything is normal,” she said sharply. The strain was telling on her, I thought. I wished that Rohit would hurry back.

  While we waited, Shyla maintained an uncomfortable silence. I got the feeling that she didn’t want me there. She didn’t want to speak to me or have me speak to her. I glanced at her from the corner of my eye. It appeared that there was a cloud over her head, a rain cloud waiting to break. She was frowning, and once in a while she ran her tongue over her lips, the way athletes do—before a race, before a marathon.

  “Is there any pain, any discomfort?” I asked anxiously. I was feeling a little uninspired because of the two beers.

  “Pain?” She scowled. “No, no pain!” she replied wryly, after a pause.

  Just then Rohit entered. The bill was settled and he’d asked the chowkidar to call a cab. I picked up the suitcase that held Shyla’s things, and we started for the elevator. It was one of those creaky jobs that made its way up slowly.

  Shyla walked to the elevator with a slow, shuffling limp, gripping her stomach with one hand. When Rohit offered to help her, I saw her freeze. It was as though she couldn’t bear the thought of him touching her. Maybe the crack-up had started, I thought. Maybe this was concealed hysteria or guilt. I could see that Rohit looked annoyed. When the ward boys came asking for tips, he shooed them away. Naturally, my sympathy was with him.

  Shyla made it to the elevator on her own. Her stubbornness increased the tension. On our way down, I felt as though we were descending into an unknown hell, the abyss of her mind—dark, stony, and unavailable to us.

  When we emerged from the elevator, atoms of tension formed a hard concentric circle around us and accompanied us to the exit. The afternoon sun felt like an invasion of our senses. We felt an inexplicable hate and, below it, confusion. Something like liquid sorrow lapped at our hearts and minds. Its source was unknown, but the silence it created was hard and unpleasant.

  A cab waited. Rohit opened the door. He looked intently at Shyla, as she eased her way in slowly. He held his hand over her head, to prevent it from bumping against the roof, but she recoiled. First away from him, then with pain. Seated, she did not look sideways; she looked straight ahead at the road. Her eyes were vacant; her mouth, hard and determined.

  Rohit slammed the door. “Aren’t you going with her?” I asked, surprised.

  Shyla looked at me. “Please . . . it doesn’t matter,” she said. “I can cope on my own.” Her face softened and she said, “Thank you for everything. You have been splendid, but now I need to go.” She told the taxi driver, “Walkeshwar!” I watched as the cab drove off.

  “Why did you let her go?” I asked Rohit angrily. “You should have spent time with her. Taken her somewhere—to a friend’s place, your place—anywhere she could have been with you.”

  A smile spread across his face. “Fuck it, man!” he said. “Am I glad to be rid of her! I told the bitch it was over between the two of us. I don’t need this kind of crap in my life. Unnecessary mind-fuck it became. You saw how it fucked me up. You saw that, didn’t you?”

  It dawned on me then that it was fear of the brother that had sent Rohit to pieces. It was not the girl or his concern for her life. Nor was he concerned for the seed of life she had given up for him. I exploded and called him names. Haraami was only one of them.

  Alone that evening, I blamed myself for my stupidity, my naïveté, my faulty sense of judgment. I felt scammed—by Rohit, by his tears, by the baseness of my sex in general. Male brutality or male cowardice: I didn’t know what to make of it. Sex as achievement was terribl
y important to us males struggling through a less permissive age, struggling to prove our manhood, our attractiveness, but to transcend all boundaries of heelishness—to forget that if we penetrated it was because someone received. Does she give? It was a question we boys always asked one another. Now, how about: Does she receive? Or rather: Does she find you worthy to receive? And how does she accommodate your childish panting thrusts? Think the male ego can handle that? Rohit’s did—all too comfortably. The baby face cracked, and in its place stood a smug, grinning escapist, a lily-livered contortionist unaware of his own hideousness.

  Haraami, haraami, haraami: I screamed at Rohit for days thereafter. I couldn’t stop calling him that, because he made a fool out of me, a complete sucker, and, worse, a party to cruelty. When my anger subsided, I asked him to give me Shyla’s number. I wished to confirm that she was well. I hoped, by doing so, I could shed my guilt. “No use crying over spilt sperm,” he sneered. “Besides, consolation sex is bad for your health. She might fall for you on the rebound.” He refused to give me her number.

  Three months later, just when I had given up hope of meeting her, Shyla surprised me with a call. “I would like to meet,” she said, and suggested a coffee shop nearby.

  I was beside myself when we met. I spat venom at Rohit. I swore enmity. I apologized on his behalf, on behalf of life, on behalf of all the males of the world. I said I didn’t know of his intentions, else I’d have dropped her home, stayed in touch with her, been with her through her recuperation. She deserved better, much, much better:she could take that from me. That scumbag would get his desserts—by all the holy books, he would be sorted out.

  I offered myself to her. I could be her friend, her confidant, if she wished. I could see her through this crisis. She laughed. “What crisis? That’s over! It stunned me at first, but no more. And that’s not why I wanted to meet you. There’s something else, for which I need your help.”