Breathless in Bombay

by Murzban Shroff

  Mohitram’s eyes followed her tight buns swinging rhythmically. Temper in a woman was certainly desirable, he thought, awake now and reaching for the water bottle between his seat and the door. Uncorking the bottle, he let the water flow down his gullet. The water was warm from the heat of the flooring. Yet he drank greedily, splashing, in his hurry, some of it on his chest. He dropped the bottle to the side. It fell on the rubber mat, in between his chappals.

  He shuffled in his seat to adjust his weight. The Rexene of the seat squeaked plaintively.

  Flipping a greasy napkin over the open window, he leaned against the edge of the door and slept.

  Soon he was snoring. It was a light slumber, as inert as one could hope to be on the streets of Bombay. A nice part of Bombay this was: breezy, lazy, touristy, nonetheless humid and scorching for those who worked outdoors.

  It was twelve years since Mohitram Doiphade had arrived in Bombay. He remembered the rush of excitement he’d felt when the big brown engine with the dust of India stormed into the Victoria Terminus and settled with a hot, hefty sigh against its girders. Everyone had rushed to the door to catch the first impressions of the big city, where dreams could take shape, where fortunes could be built, if one persevered long enough. First, the city put you through the grinder, the chakkhi, as his uncle would call it. It pummeled you and pushed you, strained you and stretched you, and broke you in, bit by bit. Then, it would immunize you to its hardships. Once you were seasoned, it would reward you for your penance—lavishly, in a way no other city could.

  It was Nathuram Doiphade, the younger, more serious brother of his father, Jagatram, who had given Mohitram this happy talk, sitting in a dark, cheerless hovel in a South Bombay slum. Nathuram had boasted about the city while black soapy water gathered and foamed outside and toxic fumes from frantically primed kerosene stoves rose and made Mohitram’s senses swim.

  “Bombay is a city with a great history,” Nathuram said. “It has seen many changes, many rulers: the Arabs, the Marathas, the Portuguese, and the British. It has also seen many tragedies, faced many hardships. It has survived a fire, a riot, three bomb blasts, and a flood. It is not a city for slackers but for the strong. You will have to work hard, sweat, if you wish to succeed.”

  Twelve years hence, Mohitram Doiphade had come to some understanding with the city. He had worked as a canteen boy, a houseboy, a coolie, a handcart pusher, and had run a cab for a timber merchant who paid him a meager 30 percent of the profit. By holding two jobs and rationing his money—he sent some of it home and kept some for a little release in the livelier neighborhoods—he had saved up enough to buy his own black and yellow MMU 4977. With that he was accountable to no one—except of course to the traffic police, who threw their weight around because of the uniforms they wore. He smirked inwardly to see how the traffic constables caved in to his bribes, how ten-rupee notes slipped along with his license could help skirt over troubles like a broken signal, a wrong turn, and forays down one-way streets.

  A thin voice disturbed him again. “K.C. College, Churchgate. Will you go?” The voice sounded urgent, like all Bombayites.

  He looked up. The intruder was a boy in his teens, bespectacled, studious, with a soft face and mild, querying eyes.

  “No,” Mohitram snapped. “Meter down. Can’t you see?” He closed his eyes in a show of resolution.

  “Please . . . I ’ve got my exams,” the teenager pleaded.

  “Said no, didn’t I?” snarled Mohitram. These boys of today: how foolish they were.

  The boy looked distressed. “Please, I am very late. I will miss my paper.”

  Mohitram gave him a long hard look. Raising a leg over the dashboard, he waved his foot at the meter. “Meter down, meter down,” he mocked, grinning at the boy with paan-shot teeth.

  The boy backed away in panic. He was convinced that Mohitram was an ill omen. Extended commerce with him would damage his prospects at the exams.

  In a sense, the boy was right. Mohitram was a misanthrope. Specifically, he was a hater of all those who made him sweat and toil, who commanded him to fly them to their destination, who made him slave for his survival, driving him through narrow lanes and crowded spaces while they worked in plush air-conditioned offices and drew fancy salaries and went home at a reliable hour, knowing that their savings were gaining interest in the bank.

  He hated them all: harried executives who told him how to drive; fat, slovenly housewives who clawed into their blouses for loose change; teenage couples who nuzzled and fumbled in the backseat like hypnotized calves; old men and women who took forever getting in and forever getting out—he was always worried they would fall and then he would have to rush them to the hospital and answer to a barrage of questions. More than he hated his customers, Mohitram hated the prospect of losing money. And right now, strange as his behavior was, he didn’t mind losing out on some fares, the ones over short distances, which didn’t amount to much. That’s because today was an important day. He had to make decent money. And that kind of money didn’t come from hoity-toity models or from breathless, panicky students. It came from, well, the man who came bounding across the entrance of the Taj Intercontinental Hotel. The man who was young, fair, athletic in his stride, and rich, as could be deduced from his clothes and from his demeanor.

  Mohitram straightened up and wore his pleasant, most inviting smile. “Where to, sir?” he asked, his voice coated with subservience.

  “Airport,” replied the man. He opened the back door and threw his tan-colored bag on the seat. Mohitram’s heart soared. The airport was at the other end of Bombay. Having rigged the meter that morning, Mohitram could hope to pocket nothing less than four hundred rupees. More, if he went into bottlenecks and traffic jams. The trick was to keep the conversation going while the digits flew and the meter reading rose steadily.

  Mohitram wondered for a moment if he should demand a special fare from his passenger: six hundred rupees flat. He could say he’d get no business on the return trip; he’d have to drive back empty. He had done this recently with an Arab on Marine Drive, who appeared in a hurry to get back to his hotel, and—fool that he was!—the Arab had paid up.

  But here it might not work. These foreigners were no fools. Mohitram started the cab. The ignition whined. The engine roared to life. Passersby recoiled to avoid the black fumes.

  Mohitram studied his passenger’s face in the rearview mirror. He looked pleasant and relenting, not the kind to begrudge some extra baksheesh. These goras usually carried five hundred rupee notes on them. So if he could arrange for the fare to touch around four hundred and twenty, he might just get to keep the balance.

  The taxi hit the windswept stretch of Nariman Point, the beginning of Bombay’s pride ride: the Queen’s Necklace. The breeze made Mohitram happy. He could feel its moisture against his face. The city stretched out lazily, in a wide-arched smile. Mohitram thought it was the right time to start a conversation.

  “You have seen our Mumbai, sir? What do you think? You like it? You come back?”

  “Oh, I love it. It’s got so much life, so much warmth,” replied the foreigner graciously. Seeing Mohitram stare blankly, he amplified in simple English, “Very good, yes. I like it very much. Thank you.”

  Mohitram struggled, and began again. “Taj very good hotel, sir. But very expensive, no?”

  “Yes, but very efficient and convenient.” Again, seeing the look on Mohitram’s face, he spoke simply: “Location good! Everything very near! Service also very good. I like it very much.” The passenger might have found the broken English offensive to his own ears, but then what to do? This way at least he was getting through.

  Mohitram smiled and nodded. He liked this fellow. It was a shame he would have to rip him off, but then these goras were so wealthy that even the poorest in their country made two thousand dollars, which was around one hundred thousand rupees. What was an extra hundred rupees, then? Mohitram would take it as a fee for putting up with a conversation in English.
/>   “Our politicians very bad. All robbers, sir,” Mohitram said, anxious to incur the foreigner’s confidence.

  “Oh yes, I read about Bofors. Amazing, how the crooks still haven’t been brought to task.”

  “Bofors?” Mohitram looked puzzled. He was hoping to complain about the harassment to Bombay’s taxiwallas: the threat of introducing harsh pollution norms, the expense in changing to CNG cylinders, the sharp increase in road taxes, and the ban on bar dancers, which had led to good nighttime business being wiped away. This Bofors was beyond his understanding. Besides, it had not threatened his pocket in any way. So it couldn’t be anything serious.

  “Bofors!” said the foreigner impatiently. He was getting fed up with this parenthetical conversation. “You know, the arms scandal?”

  “No, sir, not in Mumbai,” Mohitram said with a frown. Breaking into a smile, he continued, “Mumbai most important city, sir. No city like it. That is why all big robbery happens here. Harshad Mehta, Ketan Parekh, that Telgi-walla ustaad—all big chors work here.”

  “Wouldn’t know about that, pal,” replied the foreigner cheerfully. “I guess it’s the same everywhere. Look what happened to Enron and Arthur Andersen.”

  Seeing defeat on Mohitram’s face, the foreigner expanded, “Oh, robbery is everywhere. We have to live with it.” He opened a newspaper, hoping Mohitram would get the message.

  Mohitram grinned. Robbery everywhere, huh? Well, by his own admission, the foreigner had asked for it.

  They were at Peddar Road now, slowing for a traffic jam. Mohitram switched off the engine and let his mind roll to the issue of the flyover, the overpass. The government wanted to construct an overpass over the main road, between the residential buildings, to diffuse traffic jams and keep the traffic flowing. It made sense, for so much time was wasted on this stretch, especially during the peak hours. The overpass would have been built had it not been for the bulbuls of Bollywood, India’s nightingale sisters who joined hands with the residents and led a protest march. They threatened to stop singing, threatened to move out of Bombay, to leave the country.

  The bulbuls were unassailable, a national treasure. Their songs were classics: they had made people fall in love, fall out of love, families rejoice, lovers reunite, prime ministers weep, and soldiers rise in nationalist fury. The matter of the overpass was suspended—for a while at least. And Mohitram waited in his taxi, sweating, swearing, while around him people in luxury sedans cooled themselves under the throb of powerful air conditioners and tapped away to soft, pounding music.

  His passenger was buried in the newspaper. Through the mirror Mohitram studied him. His beige-pink suit was rich and expensive looking. His dark red tie stood out well against the white of his shirt. The tie had a long carved silver pin going across it. Mohitram decided to remember this detail. Not for any occasion but for when he would dress for the wedding of his sister, Meena, nine years his junior yet so close to his heart that it hurt just to think of her. Meena was the nucleus of his life. She was the reason he didn’t want to take on smaller fares today. She was the reason he wanted to earn well, so that he could lavish her with gifts when she arrived later, at 8:30 P.M., on the 104 Mumbai Express. Oh, he couldn’t wait to see her. He couldn’t wait to hold her, hug her, his own flesh and blood. His foot tapped impatiently on the pedal and he drummed with his fingers on the steering wheel.

  The traffic started again. This time it moved smoothly. Mohitram picked up speed and kept pace. He didn’t want to slacken, lest he be late for Meena. He wanted to shave, bathe, buy flowers. He hoped that that rogue Ghasitram had used fresh flowers for the garland he’d ordered, not flowers from the graveyard. If Ghasitram did anything as inauspicious as that, Mohitram would wring his neck. He worried about some people in his chawl. Would they mention to Meena about his drinking? Or about his liking for matka, for street-corner gambling, which had become a habit? He didn’t want Meena to know any of this. He was also worried about those loafer boys Kalloo Katela and Amol Lukha, who only planned how they could patao girls all day. Well, if they as much as approached Meena . . . Mohitram checked himself. He realized he was driving too fast. He had switched lanes twice. The foreigner was looking at him.

  He dropped his speed and settled into position behind a speeding Hyundai and a sprightly Zen. The speedometer said sixty. The meter said twelve, which meant about one hundred and sixty rupees notched up already. They were at Prabhadevi now, Siddhivinayak, the temple of Lord Ganesha, benevolent lord of all good luck and favors. No new venture started without his blessings, without intoning his name or invoking his support. Mohitram ran a hand over his head deferentially.

  The traffic lights blinked green. Mohitram sailed through. Soon he hit Mahim, where groups of beggars sat outside eateries, waiting for a rich man to stop and feed them. It was said, he who made the beggars eat would never go without his wishes being fulfilled. But such charity was not for Mohitram. All his money was saved up for Meena.

  He planned to take her to places she had never seen or been to himself. He would take time off and they’d ferry across the harbor, to the Elephanta caves, where he’d buy her bangles and beads. He would take her to Manish Market and Grant Road—the shopping arcades, where she could buy pretty dresses, ribbons, perfumes. He would take her to Marine Drive and let her ride in a victoria, so she’d feel like a princess. They’d stop at Chowpatty and tuck into bhel, sevpuri, ragda pattice, and malai kulfi—yes, all the flavors of Mumbai. He’d feed her so well that when she returned to the village people would say, “Arrey, Meena, what has become of you? You are round like a vessel.” And she would smile shyly and reply, “You know my brother. I am overfed on his love and generosity.”

  Over the last few days, Mohitram had planned everything to perfection. He would start early in the morning, run his cab until lunchtime, then hurry home and take Meena out for lunch and sight-seeing. He would take her to nice restaurants like the thali place at Girgaum, the pav bhaji place at Tardeo, the fish places at Kotachi Wadi and Koliwada, and the kebab places at Mohammed Ali Road, where they could also slurp on the malpuvas and phirni. He would take her to Victoria Garden and show her the zoo and watch her feed the monkeys and the bears. He would drive her to Borivali National Park and show her deer and watch her pat and fondle them. And just when she thought she had seen it all, he would take her to Film City and show her some film shooting. Now that she would never forget. What luck he knew one of the light boys on that new Aamir Khan movie who would get them a pass. Oh yes, he’d take her to a movie every day, too, if he could help it. And he’d drive her all around Mumbai, its nicer parts. And if any customer flagged him down, he would simply point to his meter and say in his deepest, gruffest voice, “Can’t you see? Meter down!”

  They were passing the Mahim Creek now. “Yuck, this smell is terrible,” said the foreigner, looking at the black marsh, a slime of subterranean neglect, and wrinkling his nose in disgust.

  “This is actually a river, sir. The Mithi River. It runs through half of Mumbai and drains into this creek, but people here treat it like a gutter, throwing things in it, so it changed color. But don’t worry, sir. We will soon leave it behind,” said Mohitram, stepping on the gas. The cab shot past the crowded lanes, the jumbo billboards with discounts painted in eye-socking fonts.

  It came to an overpass, which it climbed without a whimper. From here it was a straight run to the airport, along the highway, and Mohitram felt elated, as if his taxi had sprouted wings.

  The bulbuls should be banned from using this flyover, he thought to himself. Then I’d like to see how they go overseas for their concerts? He giggled inwardly and made it a point to remember to share this with Meena. From now on there’d be nothing he’d keep to himself. He’d be having family here. Not cynical, city-spoilt family like Nathuram, but a sister with her honest, rapturous love. He shot a look at the meter. It said fifteen, which meant around two hundred rupees earned already. Pity, though, the foreigner had no heavy suitcases. Mohitram co
uld have charged extra for that.

  “You travel light, sir?” Mohitram said, echoing what was in his mind.

  “Oh, what?” replied the foreigner, startled. He had finished the newspaper; his attention was engaged elsewhere.

  “Only one bag? And so small?” Mohitram asked. He hoped the foreigner wouldn’t take offense at his asking. He didn’t want to spoil things now.

  “Oh yes! Only one,” the foreigner said. “You see, I am not going anywhere. Just giving this to a friend who is flying out. It’s for another friend, actually.”

  “You are not going, sir. Then you will be coming back? To the city? You will need taxi for that?” Mohitram hoped he didn’t sound too hopeful.

  “Of course I will want a taxi—your taxi—to come back,” said the foreigner.

  Mohitram soared. “Better, sir, better that I bring you back. These airport taxis: they are all chors, all cheats, sir.”

  The foreigner smiled warmly. “Oh, I don’t mind if you want to bring me back. You are my friend, right? Why should I take another taxi, then?”

  “Thank you, sir. You are most kind,” Mohitram replied softly. What a nice fellow this was. He almost made Mohitram feel bad for overcharging him. But what to do? He needed the money for Meena. He wanted to fuss and spoil her.

  The taxi flew past buses, rickshaws, scooters, and a row of factories that looked abandoned. Cars heaped with luggage honked sharply and whizzed past. Trucks came in close, then moved away, as if they had no intention of hurting this fly of a cab. On both sides of the highway were slums, where bare-bodied children played, running, squealing, stopping occasionally to scratch their black little bums, and where women with tired faces scrubbed and cooked while their men sat listless, jobless, smoking beedis and playing cards. Mohitram stuck to his lane, his bare foot squeezing on the pedal. He had never felt a better grip on life. He felt the highway belonged to him. He almost felt like singing.

  A few meters away from the ice factory where he had to turn for the airport, Mohitram heard a familiar sound. First low, then sharp, but insistent and grating. It sounded like an ambulance, he thought, but as the vehicle approached he saw it was a police van in a hurry. He could see it in the mirror, darting, dodging, overtaking cars that were ready to give way. It came and slipped into the lane behind Mohitram—four cars behind him, then three, then just behind him, to his left, waiting to overtake him.