Bombay Blues

by Tanuja Desai Hidier

  Port Authority — splitting a massive salt-studded pretzel. Penn Station — falling asleep on his shoulder, Boston bound. Christopher. Jane. A loft on Mulberry: impromptu party — rooftop slow dance — into my ear, he, telling me something that had gilled my heart so, I thought I’d never forget it.

  I couldn’t remember it now.

  An alphabet of bridges so beautiful, a bit of you died to behold them.

  Tunnels we’d cruised through, radio cutting out chunks of song, the delirious joy of music lunging back to us at the other end.

  NYU spilling into the city itself. Skateboarders, hackeysackers, Union Square unicyclist in wire halo. Houston. HotPot. Tompkins Square. Our bench.

  Sex with Karsh had been a beautiful, safe place: sinking into the known, so porously close it became unknown at the same time. Affection the bridge between intimation and infiltration. Friendship blanketing the edges of these encounters with something warm and worry-free. Even rushing off to class, we carried each other inside each other, ever nurturing that third being we made together.

  What I’d just engaged in here had been the opposite, sinking so deep into the unknown, it became nearly known. Creating a third space rather than a third entity.

  Feeling now so rawly, nakedly alone. Yet it was a familiar feeling, at the root of things, all things. Enlightening, nearly, if it weren’t so goddamn scary.

  Or because it was.

  At most, we pressed our solitudes together. But Karsh’s had encircled mine so roundly, protectively, it had turned second skin.

  City Hall. South Ferry. Lady Liberty thrusting up her triumphant hand, a perpetual hello. And yet I couldn’t pick up that phone, couldn’t say that hello.

  —I’ve got to go, I whispered now. —I’m sorry.

  —No sorries, he said.

  I had no idea what to tell him now, sought a tidy box for the mess I was surely making.

  —So … ? I finally uttered. —How does it end?

  —It only begins, he said.

  I rose to go, this time self-conscious, charting my way back to my clothes via bed shadow, corner darkness, a penumbric trail.

  —We will meet again, Cowboy said quietly. I couldn’t look at him. Because when I did, I forgot every other place and person I’d been and only wanted to meet, to meet, to remain in a state of greet again.

  L’arrivée d’un train en gare. This city was made up of crumbling amphitheaters, ancient water tanks, I thought as I pulled my overboard clothes back on overhead. It was an odyssey of Pisas and Penelopes.

  And I realized, despite it all, I was still leaning towards a Yes Yes Yes.

  I went back to the hotel. Seventeenth floor.

  As expected, no one was home. Through the window: Arabian Sea. Bluish through panes. Brownish, I knew, when you stood just before it.

  I took off all my clothes. Again.

  I stood in front of the mirror, and, as if out of body, examined my wayward self. I could as if for the first time see the true beauty of my physical being, and felt grateful and ashamed I’d complained so often about it before. Perhaps it was simply when I tried to squeeze into sizes and shapes that didn’t match, mummifying fits, that the self-doubt and downwards spiral began.

  I stood there for a very long time. On the surface, I was still. On the inside, tidal.

  I suddenly felt the full impact of what I had done. The repercussions around the bend. The pain this could cause were it to be discovered — the pain it was causing me even now.

  I looked myself hard, chasteningly, in the eye.

  But the girl in the mirror was smiling.

  And it struck me that, after losing the map, losing my boundaries, losing my way: It was the first time I’d thought of this place as home.

  After about five eternal minutes of lying there alone, philosophizing, I put myself in a cab with my set of keys to Ramzarukha, speeding up the Western Express before you could say kabbadi, kabbadi, kabbadi.

  Back in Andheri, I went pranayama, took a deep breath, and stepped in through the magic door.

  To find: my uncle and aunt, Kavita, Sangita, Akasha, and even Deepak sitting around the table, drinking tea.

  —Dimple! they all cried delightedly.

  —Beta, we have missed you! my uncle exclaimed. —How wonderful you came by!

  I cringed; I hadn’t been expecting a full house — had just been longing for a semi-populated sense of normality.

  Something about their expectant expressions, combined with my highly strung state, caused me to laugh a touch spasmodically. It began as a hiccup, evolved at lightning speed into a gaspy, nearly gastric guffaw, and quickly Vesuvius’d into a full-body convulsion.

  —Dimple! Are you all right? Kavita fretted, jumping up and readying her back blow. Then she diagnosed: —Asthma.

  Sangita suddenly flung her head back, shaking with giggles, too. She seemed possessed, but from under her face-flung disheveled hair I could see she was staring at me. I stared back. Something passed between us then — I didn’t know what it was, a kind of bond? I won’t show yours if you won’t show mine?

  Luckily, no one else seemed to catch this telepathic exchange. Meera Maasi was already off to the kitchen to boil something, tea being the salve to any malady in this town.

  And Akasha brought out her guitar.

  —Shot through the heart! she burst out. She strummed her way over to me, shook her bangs wildly in my face, then fell to her knees, still whipping her head around. The bandanna flew into my lap, a nation surrendering.

  I began to panic as she proceeded to lay all the blame on me, was on the verge of genuflection, of some kind of confession myself … when I realized she was singing that Bon Jovi song. Kavita was quicker on the uptake than me, as she joined in almost stridently on the chorus.

  And then, weirdly, Sangita did, too — in fact, leaping up! — just as Kavita and Akasha dropped out.

  —You give love a bad name!

  Deepak tittered nervously now, rising. Sangita looked him right in the eye with a swoony crooner expression, but repeated that refrain with badass conviction.

  —Sangita! Sit down at once! Maasi cried, coming back from the kitchen. —What will poor Deepak think?

  But Deepak — shockingly — was smiling. At Sangita.

  And she was smiling back.

  —No issues, Mummy, Deepak soothed her. —But before I go, it is time to reveal this new and improved work from our resident artist — and our gift to you!

  He undid a package that had been tucked behind the sofa, then rose to hang its contents on that blank patch of wall.

  Sangita’s painting was back in place.

  Dilip Kaka gazed from it to the grilled view of Gilbert Hill my grandfather had so loved, clucking his tongue happily.

  —Deepak got it framed for me, Sangita shyly revealed. —I’m calling it Sister Cities.

  —Sangita, beta, this is outstanding! Kaka proclaimed. —Such a weritable likeness! Yet … something looks different?

  Meera Maasi peered in more closely, stern face softening.

  —It is lovely, Sangita. And this hill is filled with so many tiny, tiny paintings. What are these little images?

  —I redid it. A collage of New York and Bombay, since the people Dadaji loved most and who loved him most are part of these two cities, Sangita said quietly, blooming with pleasure. —Actually, Dimple’s photos of New York and New Jersey, and even some of her Bombay ones, were a basis. I sketched off them. So it’s a collaboration.

  —You did? It is? I said, amazed. She nodded, smiling.

  Deepak bade us farewell as we admired the tableau. It was impressive. Sangita had applied her gift for portraiture, both human and landscape, and miniature painting to great effect: This first-glance acrylic replica of precisely that mount out the window was in fact composed of teeny New York City taxicabs, delicatessen awnings, runway avenues, subway stops — all, I could see now, pulled and painstakingly rendered from photos I’d sent the family over the years. And, of
course, the dreaming dust, sweltered clench and clang of the city in which we now stood. Perhaps Zara’s magic slippers, with their urban collage, had been an inspiration? Often the muse was right under our nose. Why not upon our toes, too?

  She’d even managed to swirl the upwards winging stairs of Gilbert Hill with bits of fin-flecked bridges from these two smittening metropoli.

  Most remarkable of all, Dadaji’s face was evoked, part and parcel of the parched pealing sky, the slum-blue beached terrain, that upthrust hunk of pre-pendulumed land. I hadn’t been imagining it (or had I sankalped it?): Head: temple top. Hair: cumulus. Eyes: headlight-taillight. Smile: George Washington Bridge–Rajiv Gandhi Sea Link.

  As her parents grew emotional over the canvas, Sangita looked like she was experiencing a different but just as intense feeling herself.

  —This painting, the original even, was one of the reasons I was accepted to art school, she suddenly blurted. —I’ve registered. I begin next term.

  Meera Maasi glanced up, stunned.

  —You what? How will you do that from Delhi?

  —It’s a full scholarship, Sangita replied, skirting the location issue. I could see she was trying to hold herself very still. —And I’m an adult. Besides, don’t you like my work?

  —Of course we like it. In fact, it is proof you need no schooling for this pursuit! Kaka smiled.

  —Is that why you’re giving it to us? Maasi cried indignantly. —What is this — chai paani?

  —Chai paani? How can you call this gift bribery? Sangita echoed, incredulous.

  —Be practical, Sangita, my aunt said, a shrill edge creeping up into her voice.

  —Yes. Practical. That’s gotten me really far in your opinion of my career, Kavita interjected now with a bitter smile. —And I’m premed!

  —What’s that supposed to mean, Kavita? Sangita burst out. —I want a career in art, too.

  Meera Maasi just shook her head. Western style.

  —You’re getting married, Sangita. You don’t need an outside job — you can apply all of these skills to your home. Believe me, it is enough work running a household.

  Sangita looked her dead-on, and a little coldly, even for my comfort.

  —Is it?

  —Yes, Mummy, Kavita joined in. —Is it really?

  My aunt was speechless. My instinctive response was to pass the singhdana, but she didn’t notice. When she finally regained her voice, the words spluttered forth on a stilted, sad breath:

  —What are you saying, then? About … my entire life?

  —I’m just saying there are lots of two-income households these days, Sangita insisted, though her eyes had loosened.

  —But Deepak alone will be a two-income man! Maasi vociferated. Kaka moved gently towards her. Strengthened perhaps by his proximity, she added, —And who will look after the babies?

  —What babies?

  —Don’t worry, Mummy, said Kavita slowly. —If Sangita doesn’t want kids, I may still adopt, or find another way to make you a grandmother one day.

  Meera Maasi’s silence seemed to steel itself.

  —Yes. You will have to adopt if you keep running around the way you have been, she said finally.

  —Running around? Kavita laughed bitterly. —Premed is running around? In any case, it’s a good backup plan.

  I was pretty sure we all knew that wasn’t what was actually being discussed. I decided to hang on to that bowl of peanuts.

  —Yes, it is, Maasi said. —Look at Karsh Kapoor’s mother. Luckily, that woman had obstetrics to fall back on when things didn’t work out with his father.

  I was about to protest … except it was kind of true.

  Sangita jumped in now. —And me? If I give up my career, what am I supposed to fall back on if it doesn’t work out with Deepak?

  —Doesn’t work out? That is not an option! And for starters, you must live in the same city — the same house!

  —You don’t fall back on ob-gyn, Kavita hissed; it seemed mostly aimed at her mother, though she was shooting Sangita a hard look as well. —You train for a million years, deliver two million babies, pay three million in US malpractice insurance….

  —Kavita. No man is going to want to —

  —Maybe I don’t want any man to, Kavita cut her off. —If I were a boy, you’d be happy I was going to med school!

  —I don’t know if you’ve realized this, my aunt said slowly, —but you are not a boy.

  Kavita glanced up and down her own body then up with an Oh my god! You’re right! look on her face. Then she snapped out of it, strode to the entry area, that slumped heap of chappals.

  —Well, this trip’s decided it for me, she announced now, pulling on her little pleather jacket. —I want to stay in New York. Practice there. Oh, sorry — I mean, run around there. And live on my own!

  She kicked off chappals, slipped on Vans, picked up her knapsack, which had been by the door.

  —And, by the way, given the circumstances, she said, casting me a look, —I think it’s best I stay with Dimple and our NYU friends. In Bandra. I want to do what I want. Not fulfill some fantasy of yours.

  —You’ve always just done what you wanted! Maasi cried.

  —Well, said Kavita, a serration to her voice that startled me. Hand on the door handle, she looked significantly around the room, at her parents, her sister. —At least someone in this family has.

  She threw open the door. When Maasi finally spoke, what she said threw me even more.

  —You’re just like your aunt. I’m surprised you’re not her daughter.

  Kavita stopped dead in her tracks. I was stunned, but I wasn’t going to let this one slip through the cracks.

  —That’s a big compliment, Kavita, I announced loudly. —To both my mom and you. And me, too.

  —Of course it is, my uncle agreed just as voluminously, giving Maasi a warning look.

  —Yes! It is! Kavita exclaimed, turning back into the room. —Dimple has it all! She’s following her heart in her art, and she’s followed it in love, too. She’s all heart!

  Sangita joined in. —And she hasn’t had to choose between them. Her work is going great — and she has a wonderful boyfriend, a serious relationship.

  I decided now might not be the time to mention I was in a serious pickle more than anything else in the realm of love — and perhaps art as well, if they were as connected as they seemed to be.

  —He’s a DJ! my aunt scoffed. And then, incredibly: —And a wedding one! How serious can that be?

  —He is also in the software, my uncle pointed out, looking at me with sorrowful and sorry eyes.

  —Dimple, what are your plans with Karsh? You must be careful. It is important to … to be from the same place, Maasi said, then nodded a little sternly at Dilip Kaka. I wasn’t sure why since their own marriage had been arranged, CKP to CKP.

  —We’re both from India. From America, I informed her.

  —But he is Punjabi! my aunt exclaimed, as if we didn’t all know that. I mean, Kapoor, for gods’ sakes.

  —Yes, I said. —Indian. American.

  —I don’t know if you are aware, but Punjabis are known for being … party types. Alcoholics. Just look at his father!

  And Gujaratis were stereotyped as tight-fisted, when my father’s hands were constantly giving, granting — even his own aarti blessings to his daughter, I thought. And Marathas were known for being very brave and very clean (according to my aunt), when I was possibly neither, though my mother was both. And how many Sardarjis did it take to do whatever? None, because I wasn’t telling that joke! I felt wildly defensive of Karsh. He wasn’t mine anymore; maybe we’d never been each other’s for the taking. Maybe no one was; you just decided who to lend yourself to, give yourself to along the way. But it was still my duty, my desire, to protect him. Trying to sound respectful, mostly by lowering my voice, I finally said:

  —Actually, Karsh doesn’t drink, Maasi. Or smoke. Or do drugs.

  Or do me, I thought to myself. I
opted not to add the anymore to any of these attributes.

  Kavita nodded emphatically.

  —In America, in New York, we are all the same! she declared. —You should see at Karsh’s events, when he DJs: Punjabis, Marathis, Gujaratis … Irish people! Latinos! African Americans! Muslims — yes! Boys with boys, girls with girls, girls with boys! Bankers and bohemians! Everyone is dancing together!

  —Everyone I know in Bandra dances together, too, Sangita concurred. —I can see why Kavita wants to shift there.

  —Everyone dancing in Bandra is from New York! my aunt cried, perhaps not incorrectly. Though maybe with a little Toronto mixed in.

  —I’m done with drawing all these lines. Just like Dimple. She and Karsh will never be apart, Kavita asserted. —Because they are free. They may have met through their parents, but they came together of their own accord. They support each other as artists. They’re best friends.

  A pregnant pause.

  —Like me and Sabina were.

  —Sabina Patel, my aunt whispered.

  I looked out the window to Dadaji’s hill.

  —We should climb it one day, I whispered back, training on that turreted peak. But I wasn’t sure anyone heard me.

  —It’s not about arranged or not arranged. It’s not about girl meets boy, Sangita added, stepping closer to Kavita. —It’s about trust. Loyalty. Respect. Humor.

  Other people have ached like this, I told myself. Somewhere, in lots of places, right now, people are in much greater pain than you. This isn’t a war. This isn’t starvation, assault, robbery, even global warming. It’s just your heart, and it’s still beating. You are not alone.