We piled our plates high and settled back. Rohit turned on the TV and the screen seemed to explode with sound and picture. Bandits were chasing a train speeding through a deserted landscape. A policeman and two civilians were shooting at them with rifles and missing most of the time. Thumping music matched the action. I watched and munched.
“Pass the chutney, please,” I asked Rohit.
He passed me the bowl and I drowned my samosa in it. “Want some?” I said.
“Nah,” he said, not looking away from the screen. “Chutney of any sort doesn’t agree with me.”
“More for me,” I said, taking a huge bite of my potato-pea samosa. I thought I’d died and gone to food heaven.
Just as one of the bandits caught up with the train, Rohit changed the channel.
“Why’d you do that?” I said. “Go back.”
“This is an ancient movie … Sholay,” he said. “Let’s see if we can find an English channel. It’ll have better programs.”
“I want to watch this one, Ro,” I said. “C’mon, be a sport.”
“Really?” asked Rohit. “You won’t understand a word and there are no subtitles.”
“I don’t care,” I said, waving a half-eaten jalebi at him. “Now go back to Sholly or whatever you called it, before we miss the end of that fight.”
Rohit flipped back to the movie with a deep sigh. I snuck a glance at him after a few minutes. A jalebi was inches away from his open mouth, syrup puddling on his plate while he goggled at the screen. I wanted to take a picture and wave it in his face—evidence that he still enjoyed these ancient movies in spite of his vehement protests—but I let it go.
Rohit translated the dialogue during the slow parts. But the actions were so exaggerated, I really didn’t need much help. As always there were lots of songs, and multiple set and clothing changes within a four-minute window—a physical impossibility unless they’d learned to teleport.
And there was the running. A lot of running—around trees, in meadows, on the beach, and down a hill. It dawned on me that Bollywood actors had to be in really good shape. Feeling a little guilty, I put aside my plate and did a few push-ups, crunches, and jumping jacks. Rohit watched with the smug smile of a person who wouldn’t know how to spell diet. His high metabolism meant he could eat anything without getting fat, the lucky idiot.
Unfortunately, in just a few minutes I was panting like a Saint Bernard crossing the Sahara desert.
Note to Self: Looking like you’re in shape and being in shape are completely different. The two better be the same before you head back to New York.
But the jalebis beckoned. I abandoned my exercise and went back to eating.
“Why is the girl dancing on broken glass with bare feet while singing?” I said. “Is she completely nuts?”
“Welcome to Bollywood,” Rohit said. “Her love for her man is so deep, she will dance for him in spite of the broken glass because if she stops the bandit will shoot him.”
“I see,” I said. But really, I didn’t see at all. It seemed kind of pointless to me and cruel on the bandit’s part. I couldn’t wait for the song to end. It seemed just the right time for a bathroom break. Rohit was zoned out so I decided to find it on my own.
I wandered back toward the living room and ended up eavesdropping on a conversation between Mrs. Lal and Boa. I didn’t mean to but, once I got the gist of it, I had to stay and hear the rest. I listened, more horrified and chilled with each passing second.
I STOOD QUIETLY JUST OUTSIDE THE LIVING ROOM where Mrs. Lal and Boa were still talking, hoping Ramu wouldn’t discover me and give me away.
“The Indian education system is the best,” Boa said. “He’s learning all this altu-faltu stuff from the American school and picking up attitude he can do without. I cannot continue to pay for this nonsense, Priya.”
“But he loves it there and he’s made friends with Dylan,” Mrs. Lal said. “It was tough for him to leave three years ago and settle down. How can you ask me to uproot him again?”
“Tch, tch, boys are tough,” said Boa. “He will stay with me and attend the best school in Mumbai. I’ll send him back to attend university in the States, which, of course, I will continue to finance.”
Pregnant pause here, after which she added softly, “Besides, Priya, I’m all alone here. I have money but no family. Can you understand why I am asking this?”
For a moment I knew exactly where she was coming from. Money could never take away loneliness, and in a way, her situation was similar to mine. I had everything money could buy but only one true friend. But what she was suggesting would make a lot of people unhappy, especially me.
Mrs. Lal spoke up then. “I do understand, Anjali, but that does not mean you have the right to break up my family. You’re being very selfish.”
I heard a sharp intake of breath. “I understand that university fees can run into tens of thousands of dollars,” said Boa. “It’s in your best interest to keep me happy.”
Just from the tone, I could imagine the poisonous snake reclining on the sofa, her forked tongue flicking in and out as she blackmailed Mrs. Lal. I was angry on her behalf but I felt worse for Rohit. He had no idea what was being plotted.
“I’ll talk to Arun about it,” said Boa. “My brother won’t refuse me.”
“No, I’ll talk to my husband about it,” Mrs. Lal said coldly. “It’s a family decision but I will say this, Anjali. I hate you pressuring us like this.”
My respect for Mrs. Lal shot up. She was one tough lady.
“You talk, I talk—it doesn’t matter,” said Boa. “As long as the outcome is what I want, I really don’t care what you think.”
All this because Rohit chose a Thums Up over a lassi? What would have happened if he’d asked for chocolate cake instead of jalebis?
No way was Mrs. Lal leaving her son behind. But what if she did? From the conversation, it sounded like Boa was used to getting her way. Always. If that happened, Mrs. Lal would suffer but I’d be a total goner! Bathroom forgotten, I raced back to tell Rohit.
“You sure you heard right?” said Rohit, his face pale.
“Loud and clear, bro,” I said. “But Boa can’t be serious, can she?”
For a moment we stared at the TV screen. Rohit blinked rapidly and I could almost see the wheels turning in his head. After a few moments he sank back into the chair. “Nah, I don’t think Ma will do this. I’m her one and only. I don’t think she can survive without me.”
“What’s this financial help she keeps throwing in your faces?” I asked. From all the conversations I’d overheard, I knew money was important to adults—those who had it wielded power, and those who didn’t got bullied.
“Bua is filthy rich,” said Rohit bitterly. “We’re not. She financed our move to the States and she never lets us forget it. She thinks it gives her the right to run our lives.”
“So she could easily force your parents to leave you behind?” I said, sick to my stomach and in desperate need of the bathroom.
Rohit was quiet for a moment. “Papa, yes. Ma, no. Ma hates her ever since she found out Bua had tried to stop Papa from marrying her because she believed Ma was trying to steal her baby brother away from her.”
The band around my chest loosened and I could breathe again. “So nothing to worry about, dude?”
Rohit slurped his Thums Up. “Not a thing.”
Turned out he was dead wrong.
Rohit’s mom and aunt entered the room. Boa talked so fast the words melded together, sounding like an Indian version of Parseltongue. Mrs. Lal nodded occasionally but didn’t say much.
“Time to go, boys,” said Mrs. Lal. She looked tired and I felt sorry for her. Boa had wrung her dry with all the heartless things she’d said, and the blackmail she was planning. I hoped Mrs. Lal would stay strong. Our fellowship rested in her tiny hands.
“Thank you, Aunty,” I said politely. “The snacks were delicious.”
“You are most welcome, Dylan,” she rep
lied, her tone syrupy. “Come back anytime.”
“Thanks, Bua,” Rohit said. “The Thums Up was great.”
His aunt nodded at him coolly, and then shot a knowing look at Mrs. Lal. If I hadn’t overheard the conversation, her glance might have gone unnoticed. Now that I knew she was trying to break up our friendship and my friend’s family, I couldn’t stand to be near her for one more second. She truly was a snake.
The sidewalks were even more packed this time of the evening. People spilled onto the main road and our cabbie drove with his head perpetually stuck out the window, yelling at pedestrians to get out of the way. Honking had no effect at all.
Kerosene lamps smoked, a temple bell at a roadside shrine tinkled, and the air was thick with smells—some good, some gross. Rohit swore softly under his breath as the cab inched forward. After being in the air-conditioned flat, the heat was borderline torture. It was like being in a malfunctioning steam room with the temperature stuck on cook. My face was burning with the heat and probably beet red.
“Almost there,” said Rohit’s mother, staring at me with concern. “If we walk, we’ll reach the flat faster. Then you can have a cool shower, okay, Dylan?”
“Uh-huh,” I said, too hot even to speak.
We piled out of the cab and were sucked into the fast-moving stream of people on the sidewalk. I felt a stab of fear. If I got lost now, I’d never find my way back to the flat. I moved closer to Rohit, my fingers surreptitiously brushing the hem of his T-shirt, ready to grab him if need be. New York was crowded, too, but Mumbai took crowded to a whole new level. I was being smothered in hot and sweaty bodies.
“We shouldn’t visit anyone at peak traffic times, Ma,” said Rohit as we struggled against hordes of people heading home. “This place is worse than I remembered it.”
I was too busy trying not to get swept away to tell Rohit to shut up. Now I knew what a salmon went through every year and I developed the greatest respect for them. The next time I ordered one, I’d salute the salmon before digging in.
“Don’t you start telling me what to do!” said Mrs. Lal, looking thoroughly annoyed. “I’ve already had an earful from your bua!”
“Then why didn’t we wait till Papa got here before visiting her?” said Rohit. “We both can’t stand her so why go through this torture?”
He had a point. They both did. But Rohit was my friend and I was always going to take his side, no matter what. I knew he hadn’t wanted to come here on vacation or for the wedding. He’d asked (begged, actually) to spend the three weeks his parents were away in India with me; I’d counterbegged him, saying that I needed to get away from home desperately. He’d relented and asked his mom to invite me to Mumbai.
He’d put my needs before his and hadn’t asked too many questions, which was another thing I appreciated about Rohit. He never pushed, letting me share my reasons at my own pace. I felt guilty that I still hadn’t figured out how or when to tell him about my own miserable situation. But right now he had enough to deal with, especially with Boa insisting he stay back in Mumbai to finish school. I just wished he wouldn’t speak his mind quite so freely because he was playing right into Boa’s coils. Sam would have to prevail to save Frodo from a fate worse than death.
“I am your mother and you will speak to me with respect.”
“I can’t wait to get back to New York, and then I won’t have to speak to you at all,” said Rohit.
“That’s what you think,” she snapped.
We were straying into dangerous territory here and the very air seemed to crackle with electricity.
“What exactly is that supposed to mean?” said Rohit. He stopped in the middle of the road and glared at his mother. I knew he was waiting for her to disclose the conversation she’d just had with Boa.
People bumped into us and cursed as they hurried away. If we’d been cows, they would have given us a wide berth, even thrown in a namaste. But we were mere mortals obstructing foot traffic and we got a few choice expletives instead.
Mrs. Lal glared back at Rohit silently. I swear I could see steam shooting out of her ears. Diversionary tactics were needed immediately. I took a deep breath and stepped into the nearest pile of poop.
“Is cow dung sacred, too?” I asked, trying not to grimace. “I mean can you get beaten up for disturbing the sacred Mother’s crap?”
That got their attention in a hurry. Mother and son stared at me as if I’d gone crazy.
“What?” asked Rohit.
“Because I just stepped in some,” I said, raising my foot an inch off the sidewalk. The sole and side of my shoe were covered in brown goo and, man, did it stink. Rohit owed me, big-time.
“Oh, Dylan, what is it with you and cows?” said Mrs. Lal, shaking her head ruefully.
“Accident,” I said, shrugging.
“Scrape your shoe against the curb and we’ll wash it when we get home.”
Rohit’s mouth curved into a grin as he followed his mother. “You stink, dude. That’s twice in one day.”
It made dirtying my expensive Nikes worthwhile.
Rohit’s mom was smiling, too. “Dylan, there is nothing sacred about cow dung, though it is very useful in villages as biodegradable fuel. But here’s something interesting. The Parsees induct a person into their religion by having them drink the pee of a sacred cow.”
“You’re pulling my leg, Mrs. L, aren’t you?” People drinking cow pee? Beyond gross. But this tactic had successfully averted a meltdown between the two and I was all for keeping it going for as long as I could.
“I’m serious, Dylan. The Parsees conduct the Navjote ceremony when a child comes of age at about seven or eight. And part of the ceremony is to drink cow’s pee. Except, this is a sacred cow kept in an enclosure and fed on the best grass. So there are supposed to be no, umm … impurities in her pee.”
“Wow!” I hurried along, trying to make sure the crap didn’t dirty my other shoe. “What a great topic for a school project.” I made a mental note to Google it when I had the time.
Just as we started up the steps to the flat, something the size of a black kitten zipped past my leg. I jumped a foot in the air. Rohit’s mother squeaked and sprinted up to the first floor. The black shadow streaked to the doorway and disappeared into the darkening street.
My heart flopped like a dying fish in my chest. “What was that?” I said.
“A rat,” said Mrs. Lal with a grimace. “I had forgotten how big they were!”
“It must have been a cat, Mrs. L. It was huge!”
Mrs. Lal shook her head. “The cats are even bigger. They have to be if they want to survive the rats.”
“The gutters are open in this old part of Mumbai,” said Rohit. “Rats get plenty of food, so they’re very healthy.”
We’d reached the second-floor landing and Mrs. Lal dug around inside her purse for the key. Rohit leaned against the wall and looked at me as I peered into the gloom on the dimly lit staircase. “Do you know they can even climb up drainpipes and get into flats?”
Laughter echoed in my ears as we piled into the humid flat. I knew I’d be dreaming about monster rats that night. I loved Ro’s dry sense of humor, but there were times when I could have strangled him for TMI. This time definitely qualified.
MRS. LAL OFFERED TO CLEAN MY SHOE AND I GRATEFULLY accepted. Having inhaled the stench all the way home, I couldn’t handle it for another second. Once I’d deposited it in the bathroom after a quick shower, I lay on the tiled floor of the living room and stared up at the ceiling fan. Even though it was set to full speed, it wasn’t making any difference. I would have put up with Boa for her air-conditioned flat but decided to suck it up and, more importantly, shut up. Two of us whining was going to be majorly boring.
A damp washcloth landed on my cheek, splattering cold water down my neck. I covered my face with it, grateful for the slight relief. Rohit lay down on the floor beside me with a cloth on his face, too. “Better?”
“Much,” I said.
&nb
sp; Then we were silent, two weary souls contemplating the mysteries of the universe. Actually I was wondering what was for dinner and I knew what was on Rohit’s mind.
“You still thinking of Boa and having to stay back?” I asked. “Because that’s not going to happen. I don’t see your mom giving in.”
“I’ll go nuts if I have to stay here. I hate this place.”
“Why?” I folded the washcloth into a strip and laid it across my forehead.
“Where do I even begin,” said Rohit with a deep sigh.
“Sam’s got no pressing engagements at the moment, Frodo. Go for it.”
Rohit snorted. Any fantasy movie or book reference, but especially Lord of the Rings, was guaranteed to get a reaction out of him. Ditto for me. We really were nerds of a feather.
“Go on,” I said. “I’d like to understand how you can hate a place you lived most of your life. I love this place, heat, cow crap, and all. Except Boa, of course. You just gotta look at the good stuff and ignore the bad.”
“Come on,” said Rohit. He raised himself, balancing on one elbow. The washcloth slid off his face. Without his glasses his eyes looked kind of squinty and weird. “We don’t even have an air conditioner! It must be quite the adventure experiencing how the other half lives, but why pretend you like it? I wish you’d just tell the truth so we can get back to New York early. In fact, I think you should tell Ma tonight. Tell her you can’t handle the heat and the crowds. Then Boa won’t have time to pressure Ma or Papa. We all win.”
Rohit’s face was red and blotchy. I knew he was ashamed of his flat compared with my brownstone, and torturing himself thinking of all the things I must miss. I thought of Mrs. Lal and how important it was for her to be at the wedding. How could I ruin it by telling her to cut the trip short? I had a strong feeling she might even agree to go back early if she thought I was miserable. She was that sweet.
Mission Mumbai Page 4