The Bombay Plays

by Anosh Irani

  kamal: No, Madam.

  padma: If you do, you’re wasting your time. The ACP is our client. He loves Apsara.

  kamal: The assistant commissioner of police is your client?

  padma: He loves to watch her dance. He requests the same bloody song each time he comes. He’s an odd fellow. Doesn’t smoke, doesn’t drink . . . sips orange juice as Apsara dances. But he’s a kind man. He said if I’m ever in any trouble, I should call him. So whatever department you’re from, you’re wasting your time.

  kamal: I work for no one.

  padma: What do you do for a living?

  kamal: I sell books.

  padma: You sell books. And you can afford to pay three thousand rupees.

  kamal: I sell lots of books.

  padma: I’ll have to check you.

  kamal: What for?

  padma: I don’t know. A knife, maybe. Stand up.

  He does.

  She frisks him.

  No ID? Where’s your wallet?

  kamal: I don’t carry one.

  padma: What’s your name?

  kamal: I don’t pay three thousand rupees to reveal my name.

  padma: So you’re married.

  kamal: For many years.

  padma: Don’t worry. We don’t blackmail. Our reputation is very good.

  kamal: That’s why I’m here.

  padma: Now I did not mention this over the phone, but we offer cocaine as well. We charge extra for that.

  kamal: No thank you.

  padma: I can assure you the quality is perfect. Movie stars come here especially for that.

  kamal shakes his head.

  Perhaps something low grade then, to match your personality? May I suggest some Bombay Black?

  kamal: Bombay Black. What’s that?

  padma: A local drug made from hashish and shoe polish.

  kamal: Sounds delicious. But no.

  padma: One last question then. Are you vegetarian or non-vegetarian?

  kamal: What difference?

  padma: If you want to eat. Maybe your wife’s a bad cook.

  kamal: I’m vegetarian.

  padma: A blind vegetarian. You poor man.

  She walks away.

  kamal: Madam.

  padma: Yes?

  kamal: Put the lights off. I want complete darkness.

  padma: What for?

  kamal: When I meet a woman for the first time, I want her to see me the same way I see her.

  padma puts the lights out and exits.

  apsara enters.

  We hear her anklets in the dark.

  kamal stands in the centre of the room.

  He walks towards the door in the darkness.

  We hear the door open and close.

  apsara turns the lights on.

  kamal is gone.

  Three

  apsara is seated on the swing.

  padma opens the door to the room very slowly.

  She is surprised to find that apsara is alone.

  padma: Is he in the bathroom?

  apsara: No.

  padma: Where is he then?

  apsara: I have no idea.

  padma: What happened?

  apsara: Nothing happened. He just left. He walked out the moment I entered the room.

  padma: You did not dance for him?

  apsara: I entered. The lights were off. Then I heard him walk towards the door. By the time I put the lights on, he had gone.

  padma: That’s strange. Perhaps you made him sad.

  apsara: How?

  padma: You have that gift. Maybe his wife was a dancer, and she died in a car accident while he was driving—that explains his loss of sight—and he feels guilty, tremendously guilty, but at the same time he wants to be with her again, and since he’s blind all he needs to do is be in the presence of a dancer, and the rest is in his mind—you become someone else, his wife, a lady named Sharmila or Shabana or something.

  apsara: That’s quite a story.

  padma: When your own story is a piece of shit, you tell someone else’s.

  apsara: Why not re-dream your own story instead?

  padma: How futile that would be. Like an artist trying to paint the same picture twice.

  apsara: In any case, I hope that’s not the blind man’s story.

  padma: Don’t feel sorry for him.

  apsara: He’s the first blind person I’ve met.

  padma: He’s not a person. He’s a man. At the end of the day, he’s a man. His blindness does not make him compassionate. Or valiant. Or worthy of love.

  apsara gets up.

  Where are you going?

  apsara: To my room. Your optimism is infectious.

  padma’s cellphone rings. It is tucked in the folds of her sari. She picks up. She listens.

  padma: Yes . . . okay then . . . nine tomorrow.

  (to apsara) It’s the blind vegetarian. He wants to see you again.

  apsara: What for? Is he just going to throw away his money again?

  padma: Oh don’t be so harsh on yourself. He’s not throwing it away. You provide a valuable service, my dear. All these men who come here have wives who are ugly old bags who, if they tried to dance, would have the effect of an enema. So hold your head up. Be proud. You are of some worth. Not a lot. Just a little.

  Four

  Morning.

  apsara is asleep on the ground.

  The sun shines on apsara’s face.

  There is the crackling sound of a fire.

  The chanting of prayers.

  apsara is extremely uneasy.

  padma enters carrying a shopping bag.

  She wakes her daughter up.

  padma: Apsara . . . Apsara . . .

  apsara sits up. She is disoriented.

  Did you spend the whole night on the floor? I’ve told you not to sleep on the floor. You’ll catch a cold.

  apsara: I had that dream again. I’m walking round a fire, there’s smoke in my eyes, and I’m crying.

  padma: Stop having that dream. Dream about something positive. Your father is walking down an empty road. Suddenly a car races towards him. Its brakes have failed. There is the look of terror on your father’s face. But he manages to step out of harm’s way in the nick of time. He looks skywards and thanks God for saving him.

  Pause.

  Then a truck appears out of nowhere and flattens the bastard. That’s the kind of dream that is soothing.

  apsara: This time my dream was different. I was crying out to you. That’s never happened before.

  padma: I’m going to the market. Do you want anything?

  apsara: Why was I crying out to you?

  padma: Apsara, please. I’ve just had my tea. Don’t ask me morose questions just after my morning tea. It’s about the only time I can barely manage to stay neutral. Now make yourself some breakfast. Don’t starve while I’m gone.

  padma exits.

  A few seconds later there is a knock on the door.

  apsara opens the door.

  You?

  It is kamal.

  kamal: May I come in?

  apsara: What are you doing here?

  kamal: It’s nine o’clock. I had called last night and fixed an appointment at nine.

  apsara: That’s nine at night.

  kamal: Morning and night look the same through my eyes.

  apsara: I can’t dance for you in the morning.

  kamal: I don’t want you to dance.

  He starts walking towards the swing.

  (imitating padma) “Keep walking straight for four feet. Then turn left about one foot. There’s a swing. Sit on it.” Your mother is absolutely charming.

  apsara: You can’t ju
st come in like that.

  He sits on the swing.

  kamal: I haven’t eaten a thing all night.

  apsara: I’m sorry, but you’ll have to leave.

  kamal: I spent the night outside your house.

  apsara: What for?

  kamal: Not right outside your door. I wouldn’t do that. I slept by the seawall. I live in the suburbs and I had to be here first thing in the morning. It’s wonderful to wake up by the sea, especially here. The voices of beggars, stray dogs, pigeons, some roadside radio playing old Hindi songs.

  apsara: If you spent the night outside, where did you call from last night? It would be hard for you to find a public telephone around here.

  kamal: Oh, I called from your neighbours’ apartment. I told your neighbours that my car had broken down and I needed to call my mechanic. I dialed your number and said, “Hello, it’s the blind man. I’d like to make an appointment at nine.” Then after your mother hung up I said, “Can you please ask someone to pick me up outside Ocean Heights? The engine has stalled. Again.”

  apsara: The blind don’t drive, you know.

  kamal: Your neighbours didn’t seem to mind. They’re a nice old couple.

  apsara: Look—what do you want?

  kamal: Eggs would be nice.

  apsara: A cup of tea. My mother just made some. That’s all you get. Then you’ll have to come back tonight.

  kamal: Five spoons of sugar, please.

  apsara: Five? You want diabetes?

  kamal: Oh God, no. Diabetes leads to blindness.

  apsara: I’ll get your tea.

  She exits.

  He talks to her loudly.

  kamal: I love this area, you know. Apollo Bunder, isn’t it? Wonder where the name is from. Anyway, like I said, I just love it here. I was talking to this little beggar last night by the seawall. Her name was Mangal. I always thought it was a man’s name. Anyway, I asked her to describe the area for me; you know, since I can’t see. She said, “I can see boats on the water. There are little boats and big boats but just now since it is night they are all silent, and I can see a lighthouse and the light is on, otherwise the boats will bang, and I can see men selling boiled eggs and bananas, and I am getting hungry, so that will be five rupees.” Can you imagine? So I said, “No money, sorry. I spent it all on this dancer in that building opposite whose horrible mother charges three thousand rupees!” So she said, “Three thousand rupees for dance? Are you mad?”

  Pause.

  I must be, no?

  apsara returns with a cup of tea.

  She hands him the cup.

  He drinks.

  It’s lukewarm. Chai should be hot. But it’ll do.

  Pause.

  I have something important to tell you. But I wanted to wait until your mother was out of the house.

  apsara: What is it?

  kamal: I will reveal something to you that will change your life. But first we must get to know each other.

  apsara: Why would I agree?

  kamal: Because you love me.

  apsara: Really.

  kamal: You’re worried about my health. I like that in a woman. You put less than five spoons of sugar in my tea. Good for you.

  apsara: Look, we can continue this tonight.

  kamal: Then I must get going. Your neighbours’ house. To thank them for their generosity last night.

  He gets up.

  Don’t tell your mother I came here.

  apsara: Why not?

  kamal: I don’t trust her.

  apsara: And why is that?

  kamal: Because in all these years, she hasn’t told you a thing about me.

  kamal exits.

  apsara watches him closely as he leaves.

  Five

  padma has just returned from the market.

  padma: It looks like you haven’t moved at all since I left. Did you eat anything?

  apsara: No. What did you bring from the market?

  padma: Cauliflower, cabbage, lettuce. And some fresh meat for the eagles.

  apsara: You have to stop feeding the eagles. Every time our building council has a meeting, they complain about you tossing chunks of meat out of the window.

  padma: I don’t toss chunks of meat out of the window. That’s uncivilized. I wait for the eagles to collect them from my hand. Now that’s a good breed of bird. The general of all birds. They see red and they swoop.

  Pause.

  Whose cup of tea is that?

  apsara: Mine.

  padma: In all these years, you haven’t touched a drop of tea.

  apsara: You drive me to drink, Mother.

  padma: Don’t be smart, Apsara. Someone was here.

  apsara: The blind man.

  padma: At this time? What did he want?

  apsara: He wanted to talk to me. He knocked immediately after you left. I thought it was you.

  padma: What did he want?

  apsara: I’m not sure. He’s crazy.

  padma: Tell me exactly what he said.

  apsara: He said he’ll be back at nine.

  padma: What else?

  apsara: Nothing. He just sat in silence, drank his tea, and left.

  padma: He wants something.

  apsara: What makes you say that? Maybe he just came for a dance.

  padma: Apsara, you’re a good dancer. But you’re not that good. Perhaps this blind man can see something we can’t.

  apsara: Like what?

  padma: A blind spot.

  Six

  Night.

  kamal is seated on the swing.

  He is alone in the room.

  apsara enters.

  apsara: I see you have a new cane.

  kamal: It’s not mine. The old man gave it to me. He told me he has no use for it anymore. He’s full of mischief, that old bandit. He offered me tea this morning, hot tea, unlike the lukewarm tea you gave me. Anyway, just before I put the cup to my lips, I heard something fall into my teacup and his wife shouted, “Stop putting your dentures in the blind man’s cup.”

  apsara: And you prefer their tea to mine.

  kamal: Dentures are harmless. Teeth without jaws. No malice.

  apsara: Have you got the money?

  kamal: Ah, the money. Yes . . . the money. Is your mother around?

  apsara: She’s in bed.

  kamal: But it’s only nine.

  apsara: She’s not sleeping. She’s just lying down.

  kamal: Are we disturbing her?

  apsara: We had this place soundproofed.

  kamal: Has she ever broken anyone’s hands with an iron rod?

  apsara: Once. A man came here and tried cocaine. It was his first time. After that he was like a bull. He started touching me. She came in with an iron rod and broke both his wrists. Any more questions?

  kamal: As I explained to you this morning, we have to get to know each other.

  apsara: As long as you pay.

  kamal: Payment is a problem. I can’t afford to pay you. I’m quite poor.

  apsara: No money, no conversation.

  kamal: But I’m a bookseller.

  apsara: Then stop coming here. Do bookseller things.

  kamal: I’m not even a bookstore owner. I work on commission.

  apsara: No money, no conversation.

  kamal: But these are my life savings.

  apsara: You expect me to believe you’re spending your life savings on dance?

  kamal: They’re called life savings for a reason. You spend them on things that will save your life.

  apsara: How am I going to save your life?

  kamal: We’ll need all the money we have for our life together when you leave this place. So please don’t make me pay you.

 
; apsara: You have quite an imagination.

  kamal: Fine. Here’s three thousand more.

  But kamal does not move.

  apsara: Where is it?

  kamal: Oh, you noticed.

  He blows her a kiss.

  The currency of love.

  apsara: What a nightmare.

  kamal: Love is full of nightmares, my dear. I learnt that as a child.

  apsara: How touching.

  kamal: Love is a big fat flower. Petal by petal it unfolds. Then it gets thinner and sicker, sicker and thinner, until it is just a stalk. Sharp enough to poke someone in the eyes with.

  apsara: Is that what happened to you? Did someone poke you in the eyes and cause you to lose your sight?

  kamal: What beast would do such a thing?

  apsara: One of your customers, perhaps. After reading the rubbish you tried to sell him.

  kamal: That’s funny. It’s funny that someone who should be wracked with guilt is so . . . so frivolous about my blindness.

  apsara: Guilt? Why would I be wracked with guilt?

  His tone changes.

  kamal: Because you’re the reason I’m blind.

  apsara: What?

  kamal: You took my sight away.

  apsara: Have you lost your mind?

  kamal: I was ten when it happened. In the village of Vajra.

  apsara: Vajra? But that’s where . . .

  kamal: You’re from. Your mother’s name is Padma. Your father’s name is Vishnu. He’s a priest.

  apsara: Look—who are you?

  kamal: I am ten years old. You are three. You’re walking around a fire. There’s smoke in your eyes. You’re crying out for your mother.

  apsara: How do you know that?

  kamal: I was there.

  apsara: That’s a dream I’ve had since I was little.

  kamal: A dream? So you’ve converted our life into a dream. That’s okay with me. The crackling of wood can be heard even in dreams. It starts slowly at first . . . faint . . . as though it isn’t really there . . .

  The sound of a fire.

  Slowly, whatever kamal describes comes to life before them.

  You’re three years old and you’re dressed in yellow. You’re circling around the fire and its smoke is making your eyes water. But there are also tears. The sound of the priest chanting. You’re scared and so am I. I’m scared, and as we circle the fire I look at you, a sorry three-year-old girl, crying for her mother, begging her to take you away. And I’m ashamed of myself. Even though it’s not my fault, I feel responsible for making you scared. And all those people. Those stupid, stupid villagers with grins on their faces as though we were in a circus, you and me, two little monkeys getting married. That’s what it felt like. We were monkeys forced to walk round a fire by our parents. And then I did it. I touched you. I held your hand out of pity because you were more scared than I. And the moment I did that, a blinding flash of light . . .