Bombay Rains, Bombay Girls

by Anirban Bose

  ‘But I don’t have one here,’ protested Toshi.

  ‘I’ll try to look for it in the emporia, or the state fairs,’ pleaded Praful.

  ‘Forget it, man,’ said Toshi. ‘I’m not doing it… I can’t go to class wearing that stuff and anyway, nobody wears that stuff, even in Nagaland.’

  ‘What? Why? No…please,’ implored Praful.

  ‘Praful, can you imagine people going to schools, colleges or churches in such an outfit?’ explained Toshi. ‘How would you like to be served by a bare-chested teller in a loincloth, wearing a helmet made of bamboo and carrying a spear, every time you walked into a bank?’

  Adi began to laugh.

  Praful raised his eyebrows skeptically. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘So you have banks in Nagaland?’

  Both Adi and Toshi stopped laughing. For a minute, Toshi stared at Praful, unable to decide if he was serious. Then his eyes furrowed with displeasure and he glared at Praful.

  ‘I’m sorry!’ exclaimed Praful. He rolled his eyes back with dramatic intensity and folding his hands apologetically, beseeched Toshi, ‘I didn’t mean that… I meant to ask something else… I’m really, really sorry. Please forgive me.’

  Surprised at his rather garrulous apology, Toshi said, ‘It’s okay, man. Forget it. I’m not offended.’

  Praful clasped Toshi’s hands and begged dramatically, ‘You must forgive me, Toshi!’

  ‘Sure, don’t worry about it…it’s fine,’ said Toshi, trying to break away.

  ‘Are you honestly not feeling bad any more? You are…aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m fine, Praful!’

  ‘No…no…I’ve hurt you. I know Nagaland is a great place! I’m so insensitive!’

  ‘Hey, Praful, relax, man. I said I’m feeling fine! What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ said Praful. His eyes suddenly lit up. ‘How about I design the Naga dress for you and I will know you’ve forgiven me if you agree to wear it… Please, Toshi, please!’

  Toshi was taken aback. He tried to think through this ‘heads-I-win-tails-you-lose’ situation. Praful clasped his hands tighter and went down on his knees. The silent pressure worked brilliantly and, mostly in an effort to get Praful off his back, Toshi nodded ‘yes’.

  ‘Oh, thank you…thank you,’ gushed Praful, as he hugged Toshi. Then, eagerly scribbling on his clipboard, he beat a hasty retreat before Toshi had a chance to change his mind.

  Adi began to laugh as soon as Praful had left the room.

  ‘Why do I have a feeling I just got taken for a ride?’ said Toshi, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘That guy is something… I’m sure he’s gay.’

  ‘Hey, maybe he’ll send you a rose…a red one,’ joked Adi. Both of them laughed.

  ‘Great,’ said Toshi. ‘That way I’ll at least get one rose.’

  ‘Why? Won’t any of the girls in your batch send you a rose?’

  ‘Send me a rose?’ asked Toshi.

  ‘Yeah, you…how about Naina? She’s cute.’

  ‘No, man, nobody wants to send this Chinese guy a rose…’

  ‘Come on,’ said Adi, ‘that’s not true.’

  Toshi stopped laughing and studied Adi’s face for any sign of levity. ‘Are you serious?’ he asked.

  ‘Absolutely! I’m sure that somebody will send you a rose.’

  ‘I don’t think you understand, Adi.’

  ‘What is to understand? You’re part of the class and…’

  ‘But I’m not from here, man.’

  ‘I’m not from Bombay either, Toshi!’

  ‘But you are Indian, man!’

  Surprised, Adi stared at him. ‘You are Indian, too!’

  ‘Am I? Really?’

  Adi stared at him in disbelief.

  Toshi looked away, avoiding the look on Adi’s face. He fell silent for a few minutes and then said softly, ‘Do you know how different my being Indian and your being Indian is, Adi? Do you think people on the road looking at me think, “oh, there goes another Indian”?’

  ‘But that is their stupidity, their ignorance, Toshi! Everybody knows that Nagaland is in India and that Nagas are Indians.’

  ‘It is not that simple, Adi!’

  ‘Why is it not simple? If you’re born in India you’re Indian.’

  ‘Look at me, Adi. Look at me. I look different. I stand out! I look more Chinese than Indian, man. People call me Nepali or Gurkha or Chang or Zhang… None of you know where Nagaland is. Praful asks me if there are banks in Nagaland. You guys are shocked that I don’t speak Hindi well. Everybody looks at me and identifies my differences and then expects me to believe I’m Indian, ignoring all the differences that they’ve pointed out?’

  ‘But that doesn’t make you less Indian, Toshi!’

  ‘How can you say that? How do you know what I feel and what makes me feel accepted or what doesn’t? Do you know in Nagaland people call themselves Nagas and the others who have come from outside are called “Indians”?’

  Adi was stunned into silence. Then, he sighed and asked, ‘Do you feel Indian, Toshi?’

  Toshi didn’t reply. He turned his back towards Adi and stared out of the window.

  Adi stood up. ‘I can’t believe it, Toshi. After eighteen years of growing up in a country, how can you say you don’t belong? That is just being ungrateful!’

  ‘Fuck you, man!’ retorted Toshi. ‘What is your problem? Why do you care? I’ve known you for what…seven months now? And I’ve lived eighteen years in a small state, out of the radar of most Indians. We are not in the consciousness or the thoughts of most people, and you expect me to just forget that? How does it happen? How can I suddenly feel all this love for everybody walking down the street when everyone on the street reminds me of how different I am?’

  His eyes were flashing with pain and anger. His hands clenched the chair tightly, draining the blood from his bony knuckles. For those few seconds Adi couldn’t recognize him.

  ‘Toshi!’ he blurted. ‘I’m shocked. I…I don’t know what to say. I’m so confused, man. I feel like I don’t know you. I mean, I’m your friend and think of you as one of my best friends…and suddenly I find… I don’t know you at all. I think of you as being no different from Sam, or Pheru or Rajeev…but maybe I should. You probably hate being here. Hate having to stay and eat with us…hate…’

  Toshi’s face softened. ‘No, Adi… I don’t hate anybody…and I think of you as a good friend too. But I can’t explain it, Adi…or maybe you wouldn’t understand. It’s a constant feeling…something that I feel. It’s not something that is obvious. I just sense it, man… There are hundreds of small incidents everyday that remind me I’m different. It’s nothing that anyone does deliberately and many…many are my own shortcomings. I cannot talk in Hindi. I don’t like Hindi movies; I cannot sing Hindi songs; I don’t play cricket; I don’t understand some of the jokes the people in my batch crack in Marathi… And when the teachers look at me, they think, “Ah…here is the guy who didn’t deserve to come here, but came because of the reserved seats that the Government of India provides for tribals from Nagaland”. You see, you don’t have to do anything. It’s everywhere, man, and that’s why I sense it… I’m different…like an outsider in my own country!’

  He paused. ‘Haven’t you heard of the insurgency in the North-East? Almost every state in the North-East has problems with violent rebel groups who attack the Indian Army outposts there.’

  Adi nodded. ‘I’ve heard of the ULFA, the Nagaland National something…’

  ‘Yeah, the NNC,’ Toshi continued. ‘There are smaller groups too that come around trying to recruit people and get money. A lot of people support them, because of this feeling of being different. You have no idea how strong this feeling is, Adi. It runs very, very deep. They cannot identify with the rest of the country, and these guys feed into this feeling of being different.’

  ‘But, do you feel this difference amongst us, Toshi? Do we make you feel different?’

  Toshi sighed. ‘No
, man…but that is what is so confusing about it. I don’t understand these feelings any more. Sometimes, I realize, maybe I want to feel different. All through my life in a small village in a small state, I’ve heard nothing but how different we are. I was so scared about coming all the way to Bombay…afraid of how I’d fit in. I was going to India, you know…a new country.

  ‘The night before I took the flight to Bombay, my mom saw the fear in my heart. She talked to me for hours. She said that people are the same everywhere; that differences are not in how others see us, rather in how we think others see us. She said I’d meet three kinds of people: those who I will know and understand, those who I’ll know and never understand, and those who I’ll know and think I understand but never will. Like Praful, who I know, but I’ll never understand. Then there are the guys who I’m friendly with, but they cannot resist cracking a joke in Hindi or Marathi so that I can’t follow …the ones I know and think I understand, but really don’t. But you guys…you, Sam, Rajeev, Harsha, and now even Pheru…are the ones I know and understand. I laugh, joke, fight with you guys like old friends. And that is what adds to the confusion… I find all the differences disappear when I’m chugging beer at Mogambos with you guys; yet, they come roaring back when Praful asks his idiotic questions.’

  Adi smiled. ‘Your mom’s advice is superb, Toshi.’

  Toshi smiled back. ‘Yeah…it is. She is very proud of me, man. When she realized I had done well in the state exams and was going to study medicine, she cried for a whole day. Then she gave me this.’

  He reached for a thick, maroon, hardbound book lying on his desk. ‘It’s a diary,’ he explained. ‘She wants me to record the events of every single day that I am away from home. It is for her to read when I get back.’

  He opened the cover and pointed to a couple of lines scripted in English on the inside flap. ‘That is in the language we speak. It says, “Toshi, today there is a rainbow in my heart; the sun shines because you are going to become a doctor, and it is raining because you leave me to become one.”’

  His eyes were moist.

  ‘That’s very beautiful,’ said Adi. He walked over and hugged Toshi.

  ‘So are you going to write about today’s stuff too?’ Adi asked.

  Toshi smiled and nodded.

  ‘Well, you’d better put in there how this tall, handsome friend of yours created all this trouble,’ said Adi.

  Toshi smiled. ‘That description is reserved for Rajeev.’

  Adi laughed and said, ‘Well then, don’t forget to mention the not-so-tall, not-so-handsome guy who wondered if there were banks in Nagaland.’

  They laughed again.

  ‘Anyway, I’d better get going,’ said Adi. ‘Biochem tutorials tomorrow.’

  Toshi nodded. Adi turned to leave. Then, as he reached the door, he turned to look at Toshi and imitating Praful’s lisp, asked, ‘So Toshi, are there any banks in Nagaland?’

  Toshi laughed. ‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘The Indians run them.’

  NINE

  Of the three subjects taught during the sixteen month First MBBS course, Biochemistry received a distinctly step-sisterly treatment – an outrage that echoed in the somewhat confused architecture of the department. The entire division occupied a nondescript corner of the Physiology school and managed to eke out a semi-respectable existence by straddling the first floor of Anatomy Hall. Its unobtrusive seclusion could only be navigated through narrow, dimly lit stone passageways that contributed heavily to the building’s gloomy appearance. Wooden partitions divided the generous floor space into small cubicles, stopping at a height of about ten feet, as though lacking the effort or the intelligence required to make it all the way to the top. Ceiling fans dropped down from long poles, hanging from huge iron beams that crossed the roof and provided an ideal nesting ground for a flock of pigeons. These pigeons made their way in and out of the building through the vents above the doors, masters of their own free will. Occasionally, they proved to be an easy distraction, cooing loudly and flapping their wings nervously when disturbed by some event of avian significance. Other than the isolated mishaps of their droppings ruining clothes or botching up experiments, they shared the space rather amiably – the pitter-patter of tiny claws on the iron beams failing to intrude on the academic pursuits below.

  Despite the unkempt surroundings and penurious spaces, the rooms served their purpose adequately for a class of two hundred. In fact, space was at such a premium that Adi’s Physiology tutorials often encroached onto these cubicles. Their tutorial demonstrator for Physiology was Dr D’Souza, a young man with a kindly face and an equally benign bearing. Fresh out of training, his enthusiasm to teach was infectious, making his lecture one of the few that the students looked forward to. His discourse, however, was marked by a persnickety uneasiness on his part, the roots of which were fairly evident – his unruly body hair.

  The thatch like growth covered his skin like a thick mat, pouring out of any area that didn’t have the benefit of some cover. As a consequence, he wore long-sleeved shirts and turtlenecks, even in the middle of summer. It was strongly suspected, but never proven, that he shaved his beard at least thrice a day. Yet, despite his best efforts, hair seemed to peek out from everywhere. Every few minutes, Dr D’Souza would stiffen up and tug at his sleeves or tweak his collar with skittishness. Then, reassured that he had managed to keep his hirsute unsightliness at bay, he would afford himself a smile.

  Although initially an annoying distraction, the students rapidly learned to adapt, overlooking his fretfulness out of respect and admiration for the man. After some weighty discussion they attributed his inordinate fussiness to being the only one to have beheld himself in the nude.

  They filed into the tutorial room, where Sam and Adi sat at the back under the fans, while the more studious ones rushed for the ringside seats. Dr D’Souza began by writing some properties of nerve conduction on the blackboard. It was then that Adi noticed a plain steel tray lying on the desk with an inverted glass jar on top. Inside the jar sat a frog, deathly still except for its shallow, rapid breathing.

  Dr D’Souza said, ‘Okay, now I will demonstrate the experiment, and then you have to do it yourself.’

  Adi’s ears pricked up. Did that involve killing the frog?

  As though having read his thoughts, Dr D’Souza said, ‘You have to sacrifice the frog by inserting this needle into its spinal cord and brainstem from the cervical vertebral joint. Then, dissect out its femoral nerve and its innervation into the quadriceps. Then I will…’

  Adi was aghast. A significant part of his childhood had been spent feeding stray dogs and nursing wounded cats, something that his parents blamed, not unfairly, for his lacklustre academic performance in school. Despite their admonishment he had continued his enterprise behind their backs, earning him little other than a steady following in the homeless animal population of his neighbourhood.

  ‘Sacrifice? Who is sacrificing? The poor frog?’ he whispered angrily to Sam. ‘This is so bloody unfair!’

  Unfortunately, in the small room, the whisper echoed all the way up to the front where, despite the furry canopy above his ears, it managed to strike Dr D’Souza’s eardrums.

  Dr D’Souza stopped mid-sentence. His eyes, brimming with rage, froze on Adi. ‘I heard that! How dare you! How dare you say that!’

  Adi stood up slowly, surprised that his opinion had offended Dr D’Souza.

  ‘How dare you! Who do you think you are?’ said Dr D’Souza again.

  Adi shrugged. ‘I just think it is cruel to kill the frog, Dr D’Souza. This experiment has been done hundreds of times and I can’t understand why we have to torture the poor frog. Calling it a sacrifice is an even bigger joke…sir!’

  Everybody froze, staring at Adi with disbelief. In the overbearingly paternalistic education system, Adi had violated the sacred hierarchy of the teacher-student relationship – a hierarchy usually etched in stone. The onlookers waited with bated breath for the hammer to come down
. Only the frog continued to breathe rapidly in the small jar.

  Dr D’Souza looked surprised. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said, it’s unfair to kill…’

  ‘No! To your friend over there. What did you say to him?’

  ‘The same thing,’ replied Adi. ‘It’s unfair to kill these frogs for this experiment. We say sacrifice, but it is the poor animal being sacrificed without any say in the matter. And in such a terrible way. It is so cruel and unfair.’

  For a few seconds, Dr D’Souza looked confused. Then suddenly, his face changed like magic, his anger replaced by an embarrassed smile.

  ‘Oh, I see… I thought you said something else…not about the frog,’ he said, breaking into a sheepish grin.

  That was when it dawned on Adi what had happened. Instead of ‘bloody unfair’ Dr D’Souza had heard ‘body hair’, a word that caused him to reflexively bristle with rage.

  Suddenly, Isha stood up and said, ‘I think we shouldn’t kill the frogs. Please sir, it’s just so cruel. Like Adi said, this experiment has been well described hundreds of times.’

  Dr D’Souza smiled, twitching and tugging at his sleeves. The tension in the room had evaporated along with his anger. A chorus of ‘yes, sir’ and ‘let them go, sir’ arose from the batch: some out of genuine concern for the welfare of the frog, others at the prospect of a shorter afternoon tutorial.

  Their interest in discussing the frog’s fate rather than his hairy predicament left Dr D’Souza decidedly relieved and deeply empathic.

  ‘I have no problem with that,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t like killing these frogs myself. But you have to derive the action-potential curves and then seal them in wax paper and paste them in your physiology journals. How are you going to manage that?’

  The class fell silent for a few minutes. Then Sam said, ‘There are lots of old physiology journals from the previous years lying in my room in the hostel. We could just take out those graphs and paste them in our journals.’

  Adi smiled at Sam’s audacious use of this opportunity to legitimize his pre-planned racket. A cheer rang out amongst the rank and file. Cries of ‘let’s do that, sir’, ‘please, sir’ rent the air.