Bombay Rains, Bombay Girls

by Anirban Bose

  As we reached the turn in front of the building, to our surprise, there was the taxiwala, waving to us enthusiastically. Baba and I walked towards him in astonishment. His face showed a few bruises from the assault, but other than that, his spirits seemed fine.

  ‘Your luggage was still here and I thought you might not get a chance to get your son admitted if you didn’t get your documents...you know…’ he explained.

  Baba’s eyes were brimming with tears. ‘ I can’t thank you enough…’ he began, stretching his arms out to hug the man.

  ‘Arre, no problem, sahib,’ said the taxiwala, reassuring Baba with an emphatic pat on his back. ‘We are like brothers, you know…from the same place. Your son is like my son…’

  ‘Listen,’ said Baba, ‘if you want to file a report with the police about that chap, I will be a witness.’

  The taxiwala gave him a look of bemused surprise that quickly changed into a defeated smirk. ‘Arre, no no, sahib, these things happen in this place,’ he said, dismissively. ‘As long as you are not seriously hurt, you just learn to ignore. If something happened to me, all the taxiwalas would have called a strike tomorrow. But this is not like Ranchi or Hazaribagh, where somebody hitting you hurts your pride and you have to do something about it. In a big city like this, nobody knows or cares…and you just learn to continue like nothing has happened. You even tried to help. Thank you for that…but here, you have to be like Gandhiji’s monkeys and learn to see no evil, hear no evil and speak no evil. That is the best way.’

  The taxiwala’s casual, brush-it-off-your-shoulder attitude to what seemed a major event to us left us unsure of how to respond. We looked at each other uncertainly; more shaken by the incident than the man who had actually taken the beating. I was already burdened by my earlier inaction and the irony of this situation left me even more confused.

  We collected our stuff and Baba gave him ten rupees extra (to buy sweets for his kids in Hazaribagh, Baba explained). Then we proceeded to the administrative office to complete the formalities of my admission.

  That evening we found a hotel after an exhaustive search. Our budget was rather meagre for the amenities we sought in a city like Bombay. It was a simple room with white plastered walls, minimal furnishing and a small attached bathroom, the fixtures on which left a lot to be desired. But more than the room’s shortcomings, it was the sweltering heat of the evening that really bothered us. The squeaky overhead fan tirelessly waged a losing battle against the suffocating humidity in the room. I opened the windows to let in some fresh air. Not that it made any difference – the outside was filled with the damp of the impending monsoon. The hotel manager had said that the monsoon might break over Bombay that very night. ‘That will cool everything down, sir,’ he had promised in a raspy voice. We squirmed in the sticky sultriness, trying to find faith in the hotel manager’s ability to forecast the weather.

  Baba sat alone on the bed, the newspaper open in front of him but his eyes focused far beyond the pages. His spectacles had made their stealthy journey down his nose to where I found them uncomfortable, adjusting my imaginary ones a couple of times.

  ‘Baba, your glasses…they’ll fall off.’

  ‘What? Oh…yeah…hmm…’

  Baba readjusted his glasses, then promptly went back into the state of contemplative void.

  ‘You know Baba,’ I began, testing the silence with caution. ‘The taxiwala was really honest. I didn’t think such guys existed here…I mean…he could easily have disappeared with everything.’

  ‘Hmm? Oh, yes, that’s true,’ replied Baba, his mind clearly preoccupied with something else.

  His inattention irked me. ‘Why don’t you say what’s on your mind, Baba?’

  ‘What…no nothing, really.’

  ‘Are you upset with me because I…I didn’t do anything in the taxi other than run out?’

  Baba looked confused. He put the newspaper down, smiled amiably at me from behind his glasses and said, ‘Were you scared in the taxi when that chap flashed his knife?’

  ‘A little,’ I blurted, well aware that my actions had spoken louder than my words.

  ‘Yes, yes…me too,’ he said. ‘I was very scared.’

  Baba’s admission surprised me. After all, he had been the brave one.

  ‘Then why are you so quiet, Baba? What is bothering you so much? My safety? You know I won’t mix with the wrong crowd… I can take care of myself.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I am sure you can.’

  I didn’t respond, unsure if his remark was laced with sarcasm.

  Baba sighed deeply. ‘I am troubled by the taxiwala’s reaction. How could he be so calm and casual after such a thing?’

  I was baffled. The taxiwala’s reaction…that was bothering him?

  ‘You heard what he said, Baba. In big cities you have to take such things in your stride.’

  ‘See… I cannot get over that, Adi. After all, what is life devoid of dignity? I can understand being scared and unable to do anything, but to not feel hurt or angry? How can you get to be like that? Does the anonymity of living in a big city come at the price of one’s pride? Or is it merely a convenient excuse to carry on living?’

  ‘Well, he has to feed his children and family and sometimes that calls for a compromise, Baba.’

  Baba smiled, then removed his glasses and began wiping them with his shirt. He held them against the light for a brief second before placing them back on his face.

  ‘You know Adi,’ he said, ‘I don’t worry about you getting into drinking, or drugs, or smoking… If eighteen years of our upbringing cannot come to use now, it never will. But I worry about what new lessons you will learn here that will shape the rest of your life… Because life is all about learning, and living off what’s learned. I mean, look at my life – not a success by anybody’s standards. I haven’t had my name in the newspapers, nor do I own a big house. But I’m not ashamed of that, Adi, because it is more important to succeed in one’s own eyes than to live up to someone else’s expectations. You know, I have lived my life following certain principles because of which I have often got into trouble at work. Despite all my qualifications, my experience, I’ve remained a deputy manager at the engineering plant for the last eighteen years. I’ve been tempted time and again…and believe me, it’s been hard to resist. But I have never compromised, never. So, after working for thirty years, I still drive a scooter, have one suit, and travel second class, but – you know what, Adi – every day I walk with pride, I feel comfortable in my skin, and I sleep at night with a clear conscience. That is who I am…my being, my soul. I cannot compromise on that.’

  ‘That’s easier said than done, Baba. You’ve never had to live 2,500 kilometres away from your family to feed them.’

  Outside, a loud clap of thunder startled us momentarily.

  Baba walked over and put his hands on my shoulders. ‘Where does so much doubt come from?’ he asked, his face searching mine, as though looking for the source of such scepticism. ‘I am glad that you have such a practical approach to life, but sometimes it is good to look at life in the simplest of terms. You know Adi, I hope you will still feel bad when hurt, outraged when wronged, pained when sad, happy when right…I hope you will continue to believe in goodness, and right, and justice, and truth, however much your faith is questioned by circumstance. Idealism, however impractical, gives a meaning to our existence. At your age you must be able to wonder at the beauty around you, as well as question wrong without doubting its injustice. Doubt comes at my age after going through life…’ He chuckled. ‘But you’re already ahead.’

  ‘You see,’ he continued, ‘compromises are also a part of life, but they make you cross a line that starts to disappear the first time you cross it, until one day it disappears altogether. Then wrong becomes right and lies seem like the truth; everything becomes just a matter of interpretation because truth loses its best quality – its simplicity. That’s when you should look in the mirror and see if you recognize yourself as
the person you wanted to become. That is the day you’ll know if you will sleep well or keep awake the rest of your nights, talking to your conscience…’

  Outside, a thunderclap announced the arrival of the monsoon rains. A sudden cool breeze rushed in and took my breath away.

  Oh, these Bombay rains…

  TWO

  Untraditional as it was, Adi’s introduction to Harsha, Rajeev and Toshi was not even an event any one of them cared to remember afterwards. It occurred in the shielded isolation of a dormitory, at the end of a long and narrow passage on the third floor of the men’s hostel – a place infamous for ragging.

  Ragging marks the unofficial beginning of many a distinguished career in medicine. Rivaling an ancient Roman sport in its viciousness, the stories from this cold, brutal tradition get repeated like an old maid’s tales amongst the incoming group of ‘freshies’. They curse the custom with helpless rage, only to turn into its major proponents the following year, when an infusion of fresh faces unfailingly entices them into this orgiastic revelry. And so the hideous heritage thrives, carried on by the victim-turned-aggressors baying for their share of fresh blood.

  Despite being an inescapable part of the initiation into the fraternity of hostelers, the existence of ragging is vehemently denied by college authorities. In fact, a cursory glance at the hostel premises during the day would easily reinforce the deceptive image of a placid building full of fraternal bonhomie. But, come evening, and in a Jeckyllian transformation under the stealth of deepening darkness, ragging resurrects its ugly head, tormenting freshies in the seclusion of the nocturnal hostel.

  That night, they were the chosen ones.

  Nervousness gnawing at his insides, Adi quietly surveyed his room, feeling his heart sink at the sight of the dismal decor. The huge room was sparsely furnished with a few wooden chairs and a worn out metal table that somehow managed to stay upright on three rickety legs. The four of them sat on the only other piece of furniture – a hard, creaky, cast-iron bed strategically placed in the centre of the room. On the ceiling above their heads, an array of dusty light bulbs spat out an anaemic glow that only served to accentuate the ominous milieu. Dark windowpanes effectively shielded any light from outside. A lonely wall clock above the door reminded Adi that it was almost midnight.

  With the automatic sympathy of kindred in misfortune, Adi looked at the others more closely. Two of them stood out: Toshi, because of his Mongoloid features looked unlike anyone else in the room, and Rajeev, who was very handsome, and possessed the air of self-confidence such knowledge brings.

  Scared and anxious, they sat there quietly as their tormentors – snickering, sneering and expectant – poured into the room and surrounded them. Then a loud cheer erupted as a stocky, bearded guy walked into the room.

  ‘Aha...Pherwani…’

  ‘Pheru…Pheru…’

  The crowd’s enthusiasm made Adi’s heart sink even further.

  Salim Pherwani (a.k.a. Pheru), stuck in second MBBS for the last four years, had developed a special talent – ragging. He lived a semi-hermetic existence, his own classmates having long since become doctors. Once a year he appeared out of nowhere to render his rowdy welcome to the newcomers and then returned to the shadows of hushed whispers and cagey glances. His exploits were legendary, and for good reason. Tales of how he had ragged a politician’s snobby son so mercilessly that the poor guy had left medical college and taken up fashion designing were discussed with hallowed reverence amongst the hostelers. Rumour had it that this was the reason Pheru had spent the last four years trying to clear the Pharmacology exams in second MBBS. Nobody dared to confirm or contradict this fact for fear of incurring his wrath. The tale added a touch of martyr-like legitimacy to Pheru’s operation, and as he chalked up more victims and gorier stories, it bolstered his reputation as ‘ragger extraordinaire’.

  Pheru’s physique and attitude served his image well. A few inches short of six feet, his thick neck and huge chest lent him a bullish stockiness. The muscles on his arms rippled under the white sleeveless undershirt. A ragged stubble peppered the hard, sardonic face. He sized up his victims with sharp piercing eyes while a sly smile played on his lips.

  An eerie silence descended on the gathering. Everyone followed Pheru’s moves as he surveyed the four of them with the look of a champion gladiator about to pick his kill.

  ‘Freshie!’ He motioned towards Rajeev. ‘Introduce yourself!’

  Rajeev jerked upright. Tall, lean and broad shouldered beyond what could be accounted for by his eighteen years of life, Rajeev wore a fashionably outspoken red T-shirt over tight blue Wrangler jeans. His eyes narrowed, searching for a friendly face in the crowd. Then, smiling disarmingly to reveal a perfect set of white teeth, he said confidently. ‘My name is Rajeev… Rajeev Varoach, sir.’

  ‘Hmm… Varoach, huh? Nice name,’ said Pheru, nodding his head approvingly. Rajeev smiled, pleased to have begun the interaction on a positive note. Pheru seemed lost in thought for a few seconds. Then he said, ‘So…how is your brother… Cock?’ Everyone burst out laughing. Rajeev looked confused. Pheru clarified: ‘You know, your brother, Cock, as in Cock-roach, Va-roach.’

  ‘F…Fine,’ blurted Rajeev.

  ‘Do you like Cock? Do you play with Cock often? Did you play with Cock when you were a kid?’ continued Pheru. More laughter emanated at the double entendre.

  ‘No, sir,’ Rajiv muttered, his voice suddenly weak.

  ‘What! You don’t like your brother?’ demanded Pheru. ‘How can you not like your brother? If you don’t like Cock, what do you like, huh?’ Rajeev didn’t reply. ‘Come on, man…what do you like?’ asked Pheru again.

  Rajeev stood looking around nervously, fidgeting with his hands that suddenly seemed to be out of sync with the rest of his body. His forehead glistened with beads of perspiration. His self-assured demeanour had melted into the darkness of the night. He thought for a few moments, his eyes fixed on a spot on the floor. ‘Physics,’ he said finally. ‘I like Physics.’

  Pheru smiled wryly, recognizing Rajeev’s attempt to choose a topic that would give Pheru little opportunity to dish out more humiliation.

  ‘Physics, eh? So you are really good at Physics, are you?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Very much so…I topped Physics in Delhi,’ said Rajeev, his voice trying to match the confidence of his assertion.

  ‘Well, let’s do an experiment to re-evaluate Newton’s first law,’ said Pheru. ‘Let’s assume that the floor of this room is absolutely frictionless. Zero friction, okay?’ Rajeev nodded. ‘Now, suppose you begin to masturbate on this frictionless floor…you know, play with your brother, Cock,’ continued Pheru. Rajeev’s ears turned a curious shade of red. ‘What happens then?’

  Rajeev looked confused.

  ‘Arre…’ Pheru explained, very matter-of-factly, ‘you ejaculate. Don’t you?’

  Rajeev nodded. ‘So,’ continued Pheru, ‘as you ejaculate, the drops move forward, and by the law of conservation of momentum, you move a few millimetres backward. Don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, yes…sir,’ replied Rajeev lamely.

  ‘Now, Newton’s first law says that any object tends to be in a state of motion or rest unless acted upon by an external force, right? But here the drops are moving forward and you are moving backward without any external force at all, right? All the forces are internal, aren’t they? So this neat experiment of yours proves that Newton’s first law is just bullshit. Doesn’t it?’

  Amidst raucous laughter, Rajeev fidgeted nervously. The fine beads of perspiration had coalesced into big drops of sweat that now started to track down the bridge of his aquiline nose. His tall, lean figure acquired a self-conscious stoop as he tried to muster some bravado on his clean-cut good-looking face. He dabbed his forehead with his sleeves, fighting his diaphoresis with limited success.

  Pheru smiled and said, ‘So this is your task for tonight. Sit at that desk and start writing an article on your experiment and we will send it to the Nobel
Prize Committee to review and publish, stating how you, Mr Va-Roach, and your brother, Mr Cock-Roach, have disproved Newton’s first law just by playing with each other.’

  The crowd howled with delight. They cheered Pheru, waiting for him to deliver more humiliation. The opportunity came in the form of Harsha, who, studying the proceedings with his mouth agape, had the temerity to let loose a short laugh.

  Pheru turned on him with the speed of a cheetah. ‘Shut your mouth, freshie! Who the hell are you?’ he barked.

  Harsha pursed his lips, gulping like a guppy. He stood up gingerly, unsure of responding lest that be construed a direct defiance of Pheru’s instructions. Then he blurted a hurried introduction. ‘Harsha… Harshvardhan Bhanot, sir…from Rohtak.’

  Even with the generous contribution of a few inches from his scruffy old shoes, Harsha was the shortest in the group, barely reaching five and a half feet. His round pudgy face, speckled with wispy strands of wayward hair, hadn’t outgrown its pre-pubertal quality. Hopelessly unfashionable steel-rimmed spectacles disappeared amidst the wavy whorls of black, oil-drenched hair peeking from behind his ears. An unpretentious plain white shirt hung loosely over a fledgling paunch as he stood nervously still, an uncertain slouch maiming his stance. In a sharp contrast to Rajeev, Harsha’s rough, heavily accented English spoke loudly of an underprivileged upbringing.

  ‘What was so funny, eh?’ bellowed Pheru. ‘You stupid Jat! This is a serious scientific study and you find it funny! What…you’ve never masturbated? How many girls have you screwed?’

  ‘Sir…no, sir,’ mumbled Harsha.

  ‘No what? You don’t masturbate or you’ve never fucked a girl?’

  ‘Never…with a girl, sir,’ replied Harsha, his face expressionless with fear.

  ‘Really?’ said Pheru, suddenly softening his voice. Putting his arm around Harsha, he said, ‘That is terrible. It is a requirement for this hostel that you lose your virginity. Look around you…do you see any virgins? Huh?’

  With a nervous grin Harsha acknowledged that he couldn’t spot any.