Next up: a dip into Sancho’s and salt sting of a killer margarita (or maybe Old Monk in a margarita glass); slung-low sweet chair riots, a flamenco kind of feeling, tongue in flames from not-toned-down Tex-Mex taquito, that. A slip onto Escobar’s eternal dance floor, too quick to register the tune, but plenty to forever remember a lanky long-locked solo-tango-ing scriptwriter with infectious grin from Shillong, a rock ’n’ roll town up north …
Outside, a surreal lineup of overly straight-faced white-shirted men with the same haircut stared straight into my lens. Mallika’s valets?
Then, somewhere around Linking Road, 15th Road (which somehow, very non-NYC-grid-style, fed into 33rd) … through a clatter of stalls (tees, bangles, belts) … and into a no-Elbo-Room elevator.
The poster on the elevator wall clarified things somewhat: Wobble! Mumbai’s premier bass-heavy night. DJ Slinky on the decks. Visuals by Mesh. A calendar below listed nights hosted by Uri, Reji, Ruskin, Pravvy Prav, Bandish Projekt, Func International. Everything sounded vaguely familiar and totally foreign at the same time.
I hoped at least one of them was a girl.
—One of the only party nights in Bombay where people pay attention to the DJ, Flip informed us. —Braun and Blau’ll end up here for sure.
Though on a roof, the space looked more like a sparsely decked-out basement: cement floor, caramel curtains, plants glowing faintly in the dim light, which bounced off the bar bottles onto Flip’s glasses, washing out his eyes. It made him look, ironically, like a seer.
The wall behind him: sphinxed, seraphed.
A low rhythmic déjà vu drone like an amplified heart thump, a coltish stetho-skitterbeat across it.
And a whiff up the nostrilia of … another finger-lickin’ genre.
Was this the same place? Adjoining Colonel Sanders’s drumsticked space? Tonight, tarpless, a ceiling of smogged starlight. And no SoBo hos in sight; more like so boho.
—Slinky’s already on, Flip confirmed. —Ace DJ, from the UK.
He was scanning the roof, probably for Braun and Blau, when a dude with a shaved shining head and two gold-hooped ears rushed up and gave Karsh a walloping backslap.
—Karsh! Shailly told me you were in town!
—Pozy? Karsh smiled back. —Dimple, this is Pozy. He played the same festival I did in Cali.
Pozy instahugged me, nodding at my SLR. —The famous photog girlfriend! The film to his vinyl …
He turned back to Karsh and soon enough they were speaking DJ, talking like they were a party flyer. Eventually, Pozy gestured towards a side door past the bar, which was the source, I imagined, of the seismic tremor climbing my legs and thudding around my newly discovered tuk-tuk-activated perineum (which I was now squeezing for the sheer fun of it). Inside was indeed as Flip had described: The crowd was packed shoulder to shoulder, all facing the invisible-due-to-them decks, heads snapping back and forth, haunching up and down, surfing the sea-deep beats. The visuals were excellent — weren’t even bound to the walls but projected around the space, video-tattooing this attentive audience in laser squirls of red, blue, neon green.
The crowd was clearly loving it, and if they’d been scared off by those crackdowns, no sign of fear here, just pure bliss merging with the bass. I got a few shots — most blind, camera held overhead — but was having trouble navigating the space, and the beats were doing my doused head in at this point. Plus, as usual, it all kind of sounded the same to me. Verse, anyone?
Bridge?
I figured I could get better pics on the roof, and exchanged the bassheads for the tobacchanaliast scenesters outside. The usual was going on — imbibing, inhaling, hand rolling, and a thick giggly ripple of flirtblurting. I wove through the crowd, shooting the human scenery, everyone trying so hard to be different, they ended up looking kind of the same, in that way hipsters do. But they were friendly hipsters, these. Brown ones usually were. At least to me. I even got several hellos and smiling nods from them.
And then Flip was back, Gudang Garam between lips and a chain of intros streaming from them. A mad o wot stylist/blogger with sculptural how-do-you ’do. A production designer/Everest climber. A NorBlack-NorWhite-donning half-Indian, half-Icelandic makeup artist (who appeared entirely Argentinian) soon shifting to Santa Cruz (the cheaper Bandra) from Khar (also the cheaper Bandra) — typical landlord pressure on single women to decamp their dubious moral vibe. A DJ/fine artist. A poet/WeThePpl-er/permaculture-eco-practitioner.
In New York, they’d all be slash-waiters.
Rumor had it a banker and private equity analyst swigged amongst us — but neither was admitting it. A scrap-plastic-bowtied boygirl was presenting one of those buttery leather billfolds at the bar now. She gave me a smile like running bathwater as she moved off with her brews.
—Wow, I said, feeling it rush over me. —There’s so much love in this room!
—Ha! That’s ’cause they’re all shagging each other, Flip snorted. —I could tell you some tales. See, Lala: In South Bombay, they talk about you the second you leave the room. In Bandra, they talk about you the second you enter it.
It was a lot like … campus. In any case, it felt like we were at a private party, where everyone knew each other. And knew each other. I guess we kind of were, since those in this country who could afford the cover, for one, were few and far between (a hipster, after all, was often basically a hippie with a credit card. Who’d showered).
Karsh joined us now, tickling my lower back and radiating gig joy.
—Look! Flip said, excitedly motioning for us to pay attention. —Our coolest star of all … the new leader of our tribe!
The human wave parted, multi-heads spinning, to make way for what could only be described as a goddesslike girl who seemed ripped out of some tribal past and cut and pasted onto the scene. She donned a halter top patchworked in vivid mirrored fabric like our Rajasthani wall hanging. Her ebony hair, sparked henna in parts, swung freely to her waist.
She was immediately accosted by … everyone in the joint. But she turned towards us now, face lighting up. Her somnolently lidded eyes were Cleopatra kajal’d, and white decorative dots rained above her brows, bordering an intricately painted bindi. Thick silver bangles clanked down her enviably toned arms as she raised them in a dramatic salutation … revealing a hint of six-pack below her halter.
—Shailly? I cried. What had happened to the Lower East Side buzz-cut pink-haired punkstress of yore?
—Homies! she addressed us warmly, elegantly uncurling her middle fingers.
—Nice to see you, too! Flipping the bird is the new form of greeting?
—Dimple. It’s a mudra.
She promptly dropped it and pulled me and Karsh into a hug, reaching over to rumple Flip’s hair. I smiled.
—Frock, Shy — what, you play sitar and speak Hindi now, too?
—Um. No sitar. But I’m learning Hindi.
—Kya ufzee, I agreed, trying out my own brand of the national lingo. —Honed, woman. Been out harvesting the mustard fields?
—That’s a little racist for an NYUer, na? she said good-naturedly.
Come to think of it, her sinewity was probably just from lugging gear. The hair, however, had to be extensions. How could it have grown so fast? The heat? In the mustard fields?
—But how can it be racist? I’m from the same race, I countered, though I wasn’t so sure I was anymore.
—She’s got to stay fit to keep up with her Crosstreet crowd! Flip smiled proudly. —How’d the meeting go, Shy? Venue confirmed?
—The Fifth Room seems game, she said excitedly. —Which is pretty gutsy, since the shutdown last time. We can’t secure the mystery artists till they confirm … but it’s looking good! You guys have to come if you’re still in town. There’s a big expat crowd; you’ll fit right in.
We’d fit right in? I wondered what her landing card claimed.
—We’re Bombay’s number one antiparty, she concluded, though sounded like the Shiv Sena was a pretty close contende
r.
—And they’re still drawing the best acts in town, Flip attested.
Shy smiled modestly. —It’s probably the cheaper beer…. Anyway, we’re doing a brainstorm set at Manhole next week, to figure out ways to ensure we respect the neighbors around The Fifth Room. You know, honor the fisherfolk — after all, they are the indigenous people of these once islands.
She was down with the Kolis, too?
—Looks like being Indian’s working out for you here, I laughed. —How’ve you made traditional so hip? Dare I say … the E-word?
—Do. Not. Dare. This isn’t exotic. It’s a personal trajectory.
—Shy! It’s me! Come on — what up with the Incredible India wibe?
She was about to jest with me like back in New York, when she noticed Flip had pulled out that notebook.
—Maybe modern-day India has a nostalgia for its culture preglobalization? she suggested. —Look at Raghu Dixit Project. Gorgeous band of boys in lungis, all barefoot, singing in Kannada, Hindi … as well as English.
—They … we … eat that shit up, Flip affirmed.
—And Shaa’ir. She’s shamanic.
I’d never seen a female shaman before. Nor a male shaman, come to think of it. I thought they were always pretty far above sea level, hanging with Castaneda and drinking mate from gourds.
—Blending cultures into a new cool, making up our own rules. That’s what this tribe’s about, Shy concluded in pull-quote friendly style. She handed me her card. In swirly script bound to a bar that Devanagarized it: Shailly AKA Tamasha: DJ, producer, scribe, inquisitor, & cultural conduit.
—Anyway, sorry I’m late, she went on. —Had to make an appearance at Mehboob, support some bands. And unfortunately, I’ve got to split: killer PT session in Joggers Park at the crack of dawn. Let me just go check in with Slinky.
She mudra’d off. Still buzzing, I pulled out my cam to shoot more of the scene. And double vision struck: I noted two identical gigantesque dudes in Tantra tees by the entry. From the way Flip’s face lit up, I knew who they must be.
The pair were predictably tall — six foot plus — but unpredictably, unsunburnedly tan. And they sure were wobbling, which was a little nerve-racking, given their stature. They toppled through door onto roof, one belly-flopping across three seats at a terrace table.
—Dudes! What the fuck? Flip cried, sprinting over to pull an extra seat under twin two, who landed with a tremor that tipped the ashtray.
Karsh and I made our way over.
Flip sighed. —Dimple, Karsh. I’d like you to meet Braun and Blau.
I raised my lens and photographed the DJs, who were now snoring. In harmony.
Bandra — at least here, now — was a kind of desi Brooklyn. This surely portended well for Karsh’s show.
—You know, Karsh, I whispered, —you’ve got nothing to worry about. Methinks an Indian DJ, from New York, playing UK-roots bhangra will really strike a chord here. This crowd is so Apple at heart — if New York loves you, wait’ll these guys hear you!
We were outside the club now — after a frenzied exit that involved the staff’s availing all remaining darudiyas of plastic cups to portablize their potions, and then a mad rush (club owners’ last-call patrol paranoia?) out via the emergency stairwell, which seemed crazier than the party itself: dizzy with falling-over-drunk and sideways-high partiers tumbling down the trash-flecked steps, trying not to land on their faces. But Flip looked like he was just warming up, a visible six foot plus times two load off him now that the twins were taxied up and airport bound.
—A last stop? Or, a first, Flip offered cryptically as I noted that all that time we’d been in a strip mall. —Let me take you back to zero. Wanna see where it all began?
Need he even ask? I had a feeling I wasn’t going to be saying no much in this Maximum City. For the infinitieth time that evening, we three were off, in our eternally recurring tuk-tuk.
When we emerged from it onto Waterfield Road, Flip indicated a pubby place across the way.
—Lagerbay? Karsh asked, unconvinced.
—On the site of what used to be the magical mythical Zenzi, eulogized Flip. —Once upon a time, not so so long ago, this was the place that started it all. Zenzi was like … Bombay’s CBGB. Not punk, new wave, but it became the platform for the Bombay indie scene. Shaa’ir + Func played their first show here. Sridhar/Thayil. Even, rumor has it, the duo that makes up that mystery band, io, met here one night in the alfresco area where musicians played, artists gathered, chattered, coconspired. There were Open Mind nights, salsa classes, art expos, gay/lesbian events, stand-up, live graffiti. Kris Correya. Bhavishyavani Future Soundz. Indian Hipsters — this French duo — used to have a party there, too. Zenzi was the hub, the nexus, the catalyzer. The wheel. Built by expats, full of ’em, too.
He waxed on as if in a trance; the pub twisted and transmuted as my mind’s eye filled with a glowing room, a tree growing right through it into open sky, and a group of like-minded creatives coalescing, subsumed by a space crackling with energy, synergy.
—People fell in and out of love there, Flip murmured. —Like anywhere … but here, it would end up in a song, a painting, a poem. An after-party where musicians would jam till the wee hours. When Zenzi closed, there was a ten-day farewell — and a kind of grief. No one wanted to say goodbye.
—Patti Smith played the last slot when CBGB shut down, I offered now, nostalgic for that Bowery venue I’d never known.
—So what happened? Karsh asked.
—Unhappy neighbors, broken regulations, Flip replied, shaking his head a little sadly. —The rules.
—Is there a new Zenzi? I piped in.
—Half the places we popped into tonight had a five-second new-Zenzi moment. But nothing’s quite compared … until now. The closest we’ve got, a place with the potential to carry on that legacy is The Fifth Room — totally off the beaten path, just off the Sea Link in Worli … and smack in the middle of a six-hundred-year-old Koli fishing village. Sounds like Shy made some headway today. But until then, no more Zenzi …
He paused now, then added:
—But at least she’s still here. Tai.
He nodded towards a bordering shanty where a plump woman who looked like my grandmas squatted, face haggardly elegant, sari folds rippling, roiling on her lap. —And here. I got this from her.
He rooted around his pocket. I awaited the emergence of a New York City Metrocard for some reason, but what came out was a little ziplock bag with a suspiciously hand-rolled item in it.
—What do you say? In honor of the source.
—Shhh! I shouted, my eyes darting around paranoically. —Aren’t you worried about getting caught?
Flip grinned. —Without some, you mean? Come on. Even the gods spliff up in this town.
He lit up, took a leisurely slurk off the joint, looking momentarily like a Bengali poet, and then magnanimously held it out. Karsh, to my slight surprise (given his mild case of hypochondria since landing), took a drag.
I looked at him. He shrugged.
—When in India, he said. I hoped for his sake it was organic.
—Pot and me, we’ve had our differences, I explained to Flip, passing on my go.
—Pot? Here, allay any doubts, Flip replied, digging into his alchemical pocket and presenting a carefully wrapped, mud-russet splodge. —Smell this shit in its raw state.
The scent reminded me of freshly laid tar on the streets across from Mirror Lake. And Silly Putty.
—Mmmm! I enthused, although I had no idea what shit was supposed to smell like. (Except my own. And even then.)
—Manali, dude. Best of the best. A pure Himalayan high.
He passed me the joint. I considered it skeptically.
—This stuff is really mellow, he insisted. —You won’t feel any different.
—Then what’s the point?
—I mean, you’ll just be a mellower version of yourself. Frankly, it’s a quintessential Bombay experience.
&
nbsp; Lots of things seemed to be a quintessential Bombay experience according to Flip, and I guessed that’s what I was here for. I supposed a mellower version of me couldn’t be a bad thing. For starters, maybe I’d stop worrying about someone seeing us lighting up if I was lit.
—Up to you, Dimple, Karsh said gently. —How safe do you feel?
It struck me now that I felt stunningly safe. Here with Karsh, my rock-solid, and just as critically: in Bandra, where I was sure not to run into any relatives.
I took a hit. Maybe because I was so used to holding my breath in life, I ended up doing so quite naturally with the rock and roll-up.
Flip snorted, laughing.
—For fuck’s sake, Dimple, you don’t have to go totally scuba on its ass! Save a little for the rest of us!
It felt lovely, smooth. Himalayan. Were the Himalayas smooth? I tried to picture that snow-godded range, but all that kept popping into mind was sixty-five-million-year-old Gilbert Hill in an Andheri window.
—Who’s Gilbert anyway? I inquired politely now.
My boys looked pensive. I appreciated the pensing.
—I don’t feel anything, I added.
—I know. Isn’t it awesome? Flip grinned.
After another inhale or three, that mellower version of me suddenly needed to sit. Now. Slowly, I lowered myself into an invisible chair.
—So. Still not feeling anything, Dimple? Flip asked as my Awkward Pose branched into Tree Pose.
—Nothing, I sighed. Moonlight slipped into my sigh and spun me slightly around the universe as I slid down into my inner self.
My outer self joined us. I found myself in a Tai-like squat on the sidewalk.
Karsh stuck a couple of gentle up-pulling hands in my armpits. I thought, Isn’t it the loveliest of ever to have someone stick their hands in your pits? Such a safe serene sensation. I longed to give something back to the community. I rose, turned to Karsh, and jammed my palms into his pits. A perfect fit.
—Get a room, grinned Flip. He was perpetually grinning. Did that count as grinning, or was he simply a-grin?
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