Whether she was drowning or floating, I wasn’t sure.
Karsh turned to me, eyes both comforting and aiming to convince. He gripped my hand tighter.
—Dimple. He believes in me. He believes I can belong.
—He treated me like Yoko Ono, I pointed out.
—Well, see? He recognizes your talent, too! After all, she’s also a groundbreaking artist.
—I think it was more along the broke-up-the-band tip.
Karsh reached over, gently tapped my nose with his index.
—Come here, you, he said, kissing the top of my head with great tenderness. —Dimple, it’s not us and them. It’s you and me. You’re the eyes, I’m the ears. We’re on the same side, okay?
He was looking at me with such love in his own eyes, something in me loosened. I nodded, though I couldn’t swallow down the lump in my throat. Karsh grinned now.
—Let’s go back to the burbs, he suggested, counting out rupage for the waiter, including a hefty tip. —I think I’m in the mood for a little … room service.
I nodded again, managing a smile.
Below us, the Queen’s Necklace arched towards South Bombay, sea a stunning murk, nearly indistinguishable from sky. The Art Deco buildings flicked on their finery, Bombay glittering with promise and potential — and looking not so unlike New York at the moment.
Karsh’s arm wound around my waist and pulled me closer. We peered over the balcony, possibly appearing postcard perfect to the innocent bystander: silently entwined, admiring one of the finest views in town.
—Karsh, I said quietly. —Just remember. You’ve got to have faith.
—In?
—You’ve always been so passionate about bhangra. And your passion makes listeners passionate. I’m not saying don’t branch out — I mean, yes, there shouldn’t be borders with music. That’s kind of the point of music, to get rid of those. But all I’m saying’s don’t stop listening to your heart and what got you on this journey to begin with.
I thump-thumped my own with my hand. —The beat you gotta follow. It’s this one.
Karsh raised his hand, and I awaited his answering thump-thump — our code that all was okay, our call to live from the heart, mine his and his mine — but a slight buzzing distracted him. The ominous hum grew louder, and a mosquito landed on his forearm. He swatted it now with surprising fervor.
—Shit, Dimple, he said anxiously. —I brought a ton of chloroquine, but I haven’t started taking it yet!
—Karsh, I sighed. —You’re not going to catch malaria here.
—The same mosquitoes frequent luxury hotel rooftops, he pointed out, sounding like my dad. And then his arm was off me, hand untwined from mine as he busied himself rubbing antibacterial gel into his skin.
As we walked towards the elevator bank, I cast a last back glance to Marine Drive, so many floors down. At first I’d seen a street, curving away. Then that majestic oft-spoke-of necklace, shimmering on bulb by bulb. But now, ferrying off into the chasmic quarters of this known and unknown city, that necklace, the queen’s accoutrement, morphed in my view.
All I could see lain out below me, before me, was a massive scintillating question mark.
I was hoping to turn that question mark into an exclamation point back in Room 212. But no sooner had we gone through security than a blue-jeaned slingshot of a boy rocketed up from a sofa where he’d been scribbling in a notebook with one hand, nursing a ginormous neon cocktail with the other. Within seconds, he’d accosted us, rousing Karsh out of his taxi-nap trance with a hugely enthu high five. I was impressed that not a drop spilleth from his goblet.
Notebook: Clairefontaine (my favorite). Pen: Seahorse logo’d. This was one swift worker.
—Karsh Kapoor? he cried, angular face nearly devoured by a cartoonish grin. —Flip Pinto! Shailly e-intro’d us? For that profile on you, from pre-gig to post? America Based Creative DJs?
—Flip … said Karsh, blinking rapidly with that intent look of recognition he reserved for those post-gig sidewalk fans he didn’t know from Adam (Avi?). This time the rapid double-wink soon subsided, and with a smile of relief he high-fived back, a second time. They were up to ten. —Ah … Flip! Filip?
—Shailly told me you were arriving today, Flip nearly gushed. —I’m profiling her, too. I hope you don’t mind, but I didn’t want to waste a moment.
Pinto bro was a wiry fiery-eyed thing, with all the avid alert grace of a starving cat. Goateed and randomly graphic tee’d (damn! Mallix was onto something), he nearly passed for a skinnier bespectacled version of Karsh.
He glanced at me now, then down at my camera, with what seemed an admiring look.
I liked him already.
Karsh now introduced us. —Dimple, Flip. Flip, Dimple’s my main photographer. Amongst other things.
Flip proceeded to high-five me then. Fifteen.
—A photographer with a real camera! Superb! Maybe we can collaborate on the final product, then?
I nodded overenthusiastically. What a relief to be rid of Ravi!
—So who’s the article for again? Karsh asked now.
—Um, it’s on spec. But so’s life, the way I see it.
This was a positive approach to a total lack of income. —After all, one must not take oneself too lightly …
Quoting Nietzsche? In Bombay!
—… nor too seriously, I beamed back, joyously rounding out the überquote.
He raised sleek satis-gratified brows at me. —Let’s just say I do it for the love. But that’s why you guys do what you do, right? Vinyl for Karsh, and film for —
He took a glug of his swish psychedelic cocktail.
—Mrs. Kapoor, he said, big-winking at me. Huh? He turned to Karsh. —Sorry. I said your name at the desk, and I think they thought I was you, as I was welcomed in for guests’ happy hour. They asked if Mrs. Kapoor would be joining — but I had no idea she’d be such a punkstrel wife!
He nodded to my CBGB OMFUG (at this moment, for oh my frocking gods!) tee, swiftly becoming my new BFF.
We had more drinks in the lobby, and Karsh filled Flip in on Ravi and the LHB plan.
—You know, the last DJs to play LHB before they got shut down are in town, Flip informed us now. —Braun and Blau. This is their last night in the Bay; they’ll be in Bandra later, and we could start the interview on the way? I see this piece more as a conversation, with a little of my tagging along with you while you’re in town, if you don’t mind. I can show you around while we’re at it — get your POV on this scene, introduce you to some peeps? Everyone’s just starting to come back out of hiding after the patrols.
Sounded like a great opportunity to photograph Karsh in this milieu, prove my credentials to Ravi — and truly begin our adventure.
Karsh lit up like a Diwali firework. —Shy mentioned hooking up, too….
—Yeah, she had a meeting Worli-side, checking out a venue for her next party, Flip said. —She’ll end up at the same spot. Everyone does.
He raised his glass. —So what do you say? Want the quintessential Bandra experience?
Karsh and I looked at each other and smiled. Room 212 could wait.
—Chalo? Flip asked. Rock ’n’ roll.
—Chalo! we replied.
As we rode through Juhu, Flip pointed out various venues where Bollywood stars I’d never heard of, but who all seemed to have the same last name, had gotten thrown out for drunken brawling. A family with some serious issues.
The sea sweltered outside; I could make it out in peripheral vision, though mostly I was staring straight ahead and desperately hanging on to the rick. We suddenly swerved down a long kaleidoscopic street … which it actually felt we’d been doing the entire time (even when we were going straight).
—Five Spice! Flip instructed the driver, who braked abruptly in what, naturally, appeared to be the middle of the road. Almost pronto, a perspiring boy with hungry eyes stuck his hand in the tuk-tuk. Guilt-reflexing, I forked over whatever bill bulged out of my bump
ack first. Karsh culpa-tipped the driver.
We got out — which didn’t feel that different, frankly, from being in, except there wasn’t anything to hold on to anymore.
Before us, an expanse of darkened pane. Above: the sign FIVE SPICE. I wondered if asafetida was one of them, and was about to head in, when Flip said:
—Not here. Five Spice is the landmark for over there.
He was pointing across the street. I zoomed on it.
—Janata?
—Joontha, he corrected my pronunciation. —Or common people.
We landed up before a compact well-lit stall selling strips of those ubiquitous supari packets, a stack of paan leaves laid out like lily pads on the wedge of counter. Lighters, batteries, key chains, ketchup, and 110-minute STD calling cards bulged off the shelves — but it was Lucky Strike cigarettes that took up the main marketing space: three gargantuan boxes of them up on the back wall, centered and lit up like 3-D Rothkos.
A Ganesha calendar hung to the side, freshly garlanded, days and months so tiny as to render time irrelevant in the presence of the divine; a few inches upwards, another god of new beginnings beamed down at us from beside the smokes expo.
The purveyor of this motley assortment of goods looked at us as if he’d seen it all. He’d definitely seen Flip, from the familiar nod he gave him now.
—One Gudang Garam, Flip ordered, then lit up the single cigarette from a lighter dangling off a spiral cord swinging from the stall ceiling. He diligently posed for my shot … then led us down a slip of alleyway behind the building, to a shadow-scudding back lot. He gestured one floor up the building’s back.
—This is the quintessential Bombay experience, he proclaimed, taking his time on the exhale. —A permit room.
We gave him a blank look.
—A permit room? I asked finally. —What, like where anything goes?
—Ha! Hold on to your knees, folks … for this, Maharashtra, is the only state in the country where you need a permit to drink or buy booze.
He went on to explain, incredibly, that Bombay was still in practice under Prohibition, and had been since Independence. Permit rooms, which sprang up around town during this period, were little irrigating pit stops for the licensed drinker.
—Anyway. So I suggest we booze up here before hitting the bars. You can even order by the measure. Same taste, no paisa waste.
And so around to the front and in and up, past the sultry ground floor to tippling top we went.
The room we entered, though pleasantly devoid of character, was crammed with plenty of ’em, but a waiter seemed to recognize Flip and sardined the three of us at a school caf-like table beside a pair who were either siblings or spouses (looked alike; were focused on their food rather than each other).
—Chicken lollipops here are amazing, Flip apprised us, nodding at the neighboring plates. He got up to talk to one of the uncles, I guess ordering.
No music playing here; or if it was, it was drowned out by the deafening drone of high-spirits chitchat. The lighting, though on, for some reason gave the impression of being off.
Soon, Flip was back, swiftly followed by Kingfishers served in bottles bigger than our heads, and a plate of those famed lollipops. He dove in with his fingers, which surprised me for some reason; I’d figured hipsters were knife-and-fork types, even in India.
—So, my ex-fiancée splurged and got me a lifetime permit; that way I get off faster in case of a raid, Flip now informed us. —But since you have to be twenty-five for hard alcohol, not to mention rolling in the rupees in most bars, I carry a bottle of Old Monk just in case.
He indicated his messenger bag. But I’d latched on to that other detail:
—Ex-fiancée?
—She was American and her visa ran out, he sighed. —And she ran with it.
That was one way to end a relationship.
—Anyway, he went on through full mouth, —no one really ever checked before, but during the recent crackdowns, the police started demanding to see these permits, which almost no one has, in order to find a legal reason to close down parties.
—What is it exactly?
Flip licked his fingers clean then produced a beautiful wallet — rich weathered red leather unfolding like origami — and from it, a rumpled paper scrolled with Devanagari script.
To my surprise, Karsh produced one, too, smoothing it out on the table.
—Ravi gave me a bunch today, he said. He had? —I thought they were drinks vouchers, not drinking permits! It just says I’m of age, right?
—Dude, snorted Flip. —It’s basically posing as a fucked-up medical certificate. It pretty much says you’re an alcoholic — that you need to drink to preserve your health! Better yet, at least in the Marathi one, you’re referred to as a drunk when you apply — darudiya. And they ask for the name of the drunk’s dad, too.
—No fucking way, Karsh said, amazed.
—I know. Bombay’s becoming like …
I waited for Flip to insert the name of some Taliban-run nation, or a totalitarian Tea Party state.
—… Bangalore!
Huh? His phone went off.
—Damn, he said, checking a text. —Braun and Blau were spotted draining all the JD at the Jack Daniel’s Rock Awards. I’ve got to pick them up; if they miss their flight, I’ll be in big trouble with Birgit, the girl at the Goethe Institute. I’m trying to get into —
—Her knickers? I offered.
—Events management! he cried, mock-offended.
We had one more round of drinks before hitting the ground….
Flying.
One lovely perk about being drunk in Bombay was it relieved me of all terror of traffic.
My camera was glugging away, too — and though Flip had informed me that anything in Bandra was ten to fifteen minutes away from anything else in Bandra, this demented flow of a night could not be incremented so.
We took a tuk-tuk to Mehboob Studios, a whale of an architectural hunk somewhere by the sea. I thought Flip was flashing his alcohol(ic) permit and realized only after a beat that it was some kind of press pass. Philosopunk seemed to have a ticket for everything, and when he indicated my camera to the creds checker, announcing Amrika photographer, I got in on that ticket as well. Karsh was our plus two.
A throng of partygoers howdied Flip. As soon as we headed into the deep dunkeldark of the space, he instructed us, —Do not move. I’ll make the rounds.
Inside Mehboob felt like being outside Mehboob, in an ample field beneath starless sky. With free Jack Daniel’s. The next band on was fumbling around in this viscous black, fixing their gear on the stage up front.
—I’ll let Shy know we’re here, Karsh said. Then, after a brief textual exchange, —She’s running forty-five minutes behind.
A beam hit the stage just as a shivery strum striated the space, revealing a quintet of rockers in jeans and tees. I was excited to note it was an all-Indian band, then remembered we were, in fact, in India. But then I realized I was still, in fact, excited. I gestured for Karsh to move up front with me so I could photograph them.
The musicians looked kind of old, and not very hipster, which made me relate to them more somehow. The lead singer’s eyes screwed shut; when his lips parted, a lush whorl of a melody genied forth.
—There’s a firefly … in his hand … if he holds too tight … we lose again …
A rapt bob-haired creature swayed beside me, a girl in a skintight yet somehow low-on-the-raunch crimson dress. Her childlike eyes zeroed in on the singer alone, her lips moving along to all the lyrics, an expression more proud than reverent. I conjectured she wasn’t a longtime girlfriend, since she looked as though she were receiving the song like a cherished gift rather than a button-pushing irritating-as-all-hell thing she’d heard in its every incarnation from shower hum to final bounced-down form.
Or maybe she’d loved him still longer, deeper than that. A resplendent tattoo ran the length of her arm, bougainvillea blossoms dancing in the dark.<
br />
Her joy was so palpable I ended up photographing her instead of him. She reminded me of how I used to feel listening to Karsh.
—I can’t wait till it’s you leading the dance, I told him now. I slipped an arm around his waist; he interlaced his fingers through my hand. If I had a lighter, I’d be flicking it on, doing the side sway….
Sankalp? For a lighter manifested that intention before me now.
Flip, huffingly attached to it.
—Damn, I need a smoke. This just in: Braun and Blau last seen staggering into unknown vehicle. Direction: Pali Village.
And we were out. Through the dunkeldoor; swig of Old Monk. Rick-and-roll.
I was getting the hang of it.
Rumor had it we were back in Pali Naka — Lourdes Heaven, home of Toto’s Garage, a heaving joint strung out with fairy lights, old-school Madonna blasting within hubcapped Nevada-license-plated walls. Suspensioned from the rafters, actual cars, garlands heavy petalling off their trunks. A bright red stapler dangled off a ceiling string; I photographed it.
Here, the dance moves involved lots of bum shaking, hip jerking, crazed smirking screaming singalong mouths. Moi’s included.
According to an NRYB (nose-ringed yoga blonde) named India (what else) who’d just returned from hugging Amma (as thirty million had done so far and counting) and was now guzzling a round of welcome-to-the-Bay shots with us from Flip’s old monkery, Braun and Blau had indeed been spotted here … and had blurdled off for yet another retro fix at 16th Road, the Hawaiian Shack, lei’d to the max (and also playing old-school Madonna for a euphorious crowd).
Somewhere between these venues, I was hit by a hallucinatory image of a small roadside temple, as illuminated as the surrounding bars. Within a pristine alcove, a brilliantly orange Sai Baba statue and a saried woman with erupting shopping bag just now kicking off chappals to pay him a visit. Gnarled rapunzelian locks of a magnificent banyan tree. A street sign reading LATE SHRI GULAM MOHD SHEIKH GULAM BHAI CHOWK above swirlycues of Devanagari script.
Bombay Blues Page 11