Bombay Blues

by Tanuja Desai Hidier

  Kavita nodded urgently to her sister.

  —And when you find that kind of kinship, two souls truly meeting? she said, near desperately, near testing.

  —You have to clasp it with both hands, and hold it to your heart, Sangita nodded back, very calmly. —And never let it go.

  Kavita was still standing by the open door. But it was I who used it first. I burst into tears, ran out of the room before anyone could ask me why, or where I was going.

  I didn’t get very far, of course. To the courtyard slaphappy with cricket-playing kids, mothers, fathers, dadajis, ma-jis observing them with end-of-day fatigued pride and abdication. In a matter of moments, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  —Dimple, you okay? Kavita asked me, eyes moist with concern. I just shook my head. —I’m sure she didn’t mean that stuff about Shilpa Maasi. And sorry about all that NYU friends business back there. It’s just …

  —Do you need the hotel?

  She nodded, a little sheepishly. —I just need space for a bit. I have a meeting. It might go late.

  Her hushed tone worried me.

  —Kavita. Are you okay? Who are you meeting?

  —Someone special, she whispered. —And you can meet her later, too, if all goes well.

  Another set of footsteps and a rickety sound rolled up behind us. Sangita, dragging her battered valise, now in another plain blue sari. She looked at Kavita.

  —I’d like to meet someone special, too, she sighed. A silence. What did that mean? —Anyways, it’s cool, we can go. Daddy said to take some girl time; he’s deep-breathing with Mummy, trying to calm her down. I’ve got some things to take care of a little south as well. Share a ride?

  Kavita and I nodded. We all headed down the slope of Ramzarukha, linking arms like when we were the kids playing kabbadi in the courtyard.

  At the bottom of the drive, by Shoppers Stop, Sangita turned to us as a rick drew up.

  —Where to? she said. But we all knew. And we all said it.

  Sangita asked to be dropped off near St. Andrew Church.

  —You want me to take your bag to the hotel? I asked her. —So you don’t have to lug it?

  —No, that’s okay, she said quickly. —I’m meeting Deepak.

  —Again?

  —I’ve got to drop some things off for him. And I don’t want to overwhelm Karsh.

  —I doubt you will, I assured her. —He’s out.

  I wasn’t sure I felt like discussing just how far out he was at this point — and drifting further from my life — so I gave her the catchall: —In a meeting.

  The rick stalled so Sangita could dismount.

  —Are we going to see you later? Kavita asked. —There’s someone I might want you to meet.

  —Message me where you’ll be. I’ll meet up with you in a couple hours.

  As Sangita disappeared down the lane, she pulled her sari overhead, sheathing her locks from view.

  —What was that all about? I whispered. —The double life of Sangita Pradhan.

  —The double life, Kavita sighed, —of all of us.

  I shut up. I’d almost forgotten about my own, because it didn’t feel double when there was only one of you leading it.

  Kavita was staring at me with wide worried eyes: Was she onto me?

  —What do you mean? I finally said.

  —Dimple. Sabz is here.

  We landed up at the hotel where Mrs. Kapoor still technically had a room. I got a second key for Kavita. As we rode up, she filled me in.

  —You know she was invited for the wedding. Ages ago. After all, she’s the roommate who made my first year at NYU bearable, as Daddy and Mummy know her, and Sangita, too. But I never expected her to show!

  —Have you seen her, Kavity?

  —Not yet. But today’s the big day. Leave it to Mallix, of all people, to pave the way. She claims we belong together — that our love is still true, even if Sabz wasn’t true to me.

  Turned out Sabz had been staying with Mallika for the past couple of days, preparing for contact.

  —I don’t know why I’m so nervous, Kavita said, glancing around the room. —Nice nest you lovebirds got …

  But for me, these digs were depressing as all hell. I tensed, expecting her to ask me where Karsh’s stuff was, but she was too wrapped up in her own tale to notice.

  She flopped down on the bed. —You’re so lucky things are so easy between you and Karsh. No sneaking around, no double-timing history …

  I started to feel nauseous, and excused myself to freshen up.

  In the bathroom, the two-bathrobe blues infused me immediately upon entering.

  But I showered. I changed. All I knew was I had to get out of this five-star mindfrock. Kavita was meeting Sabz. Sangita was meeting … Deepak? What the hell. I had to be in a meeting, too.

  —I’m going to get to work on my photos, I told Kavita. —Feel free to use the shower, whatever.

  She was already at the minibar, slugging Jack.

  —We’ll meet up later, she said. —If Sabz and I are still talking, that is.

  I handed her the second key.

  —In case you’re not talking, I told her. —In the bad way, or the good way, too.

  Sundowner. I walked waterside, never once lifting my camera, vision blurred, doubled, troubled, tantalized by sensation: skin sun touch stung, heart revving hum, an incessant below-naval hammering. A bellowingly bit-lipped retuned body, mine, thrumming with the summons of that camera obscura, a darkened kamra — the karma of that room.

  A sign, tide-side: DO NOT THROW POOJA FLOWERS IN THE SEA. EVEN THE GODS WOULD NOT APPROVE.

  I felt I’d walked miles. I wondered if I was getting nowhere.

  A text on my phone, just then:

  Are we close?

  Depends where we are, I replied.

  Heading to Carter Road …

  No. Me. Bandstand.

  Same road …

  I’d walked till one became the other. He asked me what I saw. A café. Coffee Day. He told me, That’s a landmark.

  He told her, Let’s meet there.

  She told him, I’m crossing.

  He told her, Go nowhere …

  I stood perfectly still outside that space. The juncture of Carter Road and Off Carter Road, as it was known. The border between frame and out of frame. Fear and anticipation.

  That sea-green Jeep sidled up. Half door half open. I slipped in, didn’t see where we were going or how we got there, just that pair of hazy eyes, front then side view, charting out the route.

  And then, again: sundrowner. A light-tight room. Here in that kamra obscura. Developing.

  Contact sheets: Bed, Bandra.

  He was staring at me as if seeing me for the first time. Finally, he spoke.

  —I feel so connected to you. Can I ask you something?

  I nodded hazily.

  —Are you the bridge?

  I suddenly thought: Maybe I was. The missing link. Not even in terms of what I meant or would mean to him, what would transpire over time. But in the sense that where I’d thought there could be nothing, there was something. Where I’d seen dichotomies, disparates, impasses, an impossibility — it was up to me to bring them together. A bridge between two unknowns — whether that be a stranger turning friend or the you you thought you were meeting the you you were somehow destined, destining yourself to be, if only for a moment, both sides equally valid, impartially necessary to support that transit. It wasn’t the waters that were the worry — but rather the two sides, where there was no conjoining.

  And we were conjoining, all right.

  —Sea Link? I replied, lying there like a beachcomber mermaid on our Chuim Village skiff. Solarized despite the day dip: half shored, half swimming.

  —A forty-five-minute journey taken in seven minutes. We’re making up for lost time.

  —Do we have seven more? I rolled over and whispered. —With some major delays?

  He nodded.

  —Then, I said, —throw me back in t
he sea.

  Were we still here?

  We were. Suspension of silver. Salt. Skin.

  In deep: no ripple, no wave.

  Was I falling in —?

  —I — I said.

  —I do, too, he said.

  We did. We did. We were.

  Showering …

  Dressing …

  Outside, about twenty Celsius. Inside had felt like one hundred Fahrenheit. The perfect temperature for making a color picture. Nothing was black and white.

  My pupils stone-skipped: wide, wider. Walking, dazed, down the darkling lane. His cell phone buzzed then, and he glanced down: a sepia image of a young boy, a mini cowboy on-screen. It resembled him; a picture from his childhood?

  He looked like he was contemplating not answering but, upon a fourth vibration, did.

  I pretended not to listen, kept my eyes averted. But he was all I heard.

  —Yes, he said. Then, —No.

  Then: —I’m just finishing a meeting.

  Then, pause, so gently: —I do, too, baba.

  I came ungilled, breath held.

  We walked in silence a few paces. Passing a lone streetlamp. I’d stepped out of its halo, was washed out in the sinewy shadow of a banyan tree, when he turned to me and smiled.

  —You look beautiful in this light….

  I was in the dark when he said it. We got to his Jeep. He asked if I needed a ride or a rick, but he was hailing a rick as he did.

  Yet his eyes: They were still full of a kind of love. Or was it my own gaze, reflecting in that haze?

  I said I didn’t need either. Wasn’t going anywhere.

  And then he was gone. And I was still there.

  I decided to burn the last few frames of our exchange, if that’s what it had been. Stop processing.

  Remain in the safelight.

  I’d prepared for, and even looked forward to, a mind-numbingly long trek, but Out of the Blue, where the girls were meeting for a nightcap, was about one horse-in-motion frame from where I was standing.

  Despite the hour, the space radiated an ambiance of deep dappled sky. I couldn’t see my cousins, or Sabz, or Mallika, who’d been invited along. The front area spun round with low tables and seats piled with tasseled cushions — the kind that look invitingly plush but, when you actually sit on them, are too far down, your graceless descent marked by spilling limbs and immense difficulty in straightening up.

  Finally, I spotted Mallix. From her perfectly chignoned coiff and lined lips, it seemed she had a little of her mojo back, at least compared to that sighting at LoZo’s.

  —Dimple! Where the hell have you been? she demanded without delay. I wondered if I was walking different. I mean, Cowboy was obviously not my first time, but it was my first time at double-time.

  —Um. Traffic?

  I sat awkwardly in the low seat, took a mammoth gulp from someone’s cup.

  —This coffee’s frocking amazing! I exclaimed. Mallika stared at me.

  —Dimple, she whispered. —Are you on drugs?

  I wondered whether to run with this. She shook her head.

  —It’s fresh mint tea!

  My phone buzzed. I slammed my hand over it.

  Mallika narrowed her eyes. —Aren’t you going to see who that is?

  —It’s not important. What’s important is seeing you! I grinned clownishly, raising my free hand for an unreciprocated high five. Slowly, I set it down on top of the other one … then, ever so carefully, moved it to the side of my pinned-down phone. —Where is everyone?

  The phone dinged now: voice mail left. I fumbled to switch it off.

  —Sabz and Kavita are on their way. They were getting reacquainted.

  I could sense we only had about a minute’s worth of small talk left, and luckily, Sabz and Kavita showed up within that allotment, acting like arriving together was totally normal.

  Actually, it felt kind of normal. For one, their vibe was a tad tense — just like their good old last days together. Kavita’s mouth was set in a line, and she chose a seat across from Sabz for good measure.

  —Hey, Dimple, Sabz said, nonchalantly and yet irritatedly, as if I’d just been hanging with her back on campus five seconds ago and the proximity of her to Kavs was not breaking news. Her spiky ’do had naped down a bit. Though she still sported those thin-rimmed specs, she was squinting, slightly suspiciously, which I supposed meant defensively. On her finger, a split-sky geode ring.

  —Uh. Hi, Sabz. So you changed your mind about the patriarchal objectifying nature of conjugal unions? I said, remembering one of her choice lines about why she didn’t want to come to the wedding anyway from a few weeks ago.

  Kavita shot me a look to shut it, and lo and behold, soon-to-be-patriarchally-conjugated valise-trawling electrolyte-drink-swigging Sangita arrived, in blemished jeans and tee, sari nowhere to be seen. Where had she changed?

  —Did I miss anything? she asked, scanning our faces and tightening her ponytail. —You all look kind of funny.

  —Just waiting for the face readers and palmists to show up so we don’t have to talk, Mallika said, nodding towards a nearby vacant table with signs for both.

  —And where are they? I ventured, playing along. —Hanging with the Todas, singing ghazals?

  —The Todas don’t sing ghazals, Dimple. You’re mixing your tribes, Sabz corrected, raising her rock-ringed finger.

  —Face readers are everywhere, Sangita piped in, pouring herself a cup. —They’re just people who are open to connection, communication. Who pick up on signals. Artists.

  —Well, there’s a lot of shit to pick up these days. Wi-Fi, cell phones, satellite, Sabz commented. —It’s got to be clogging the clairvoyant channels.

  —I think everyone has that power, I jumped in. —And all the stuff that drives people to make art — basically, fear of death, of being alone — we all have that angst. Maybe some people numb it with talk shows, or bake it away, or kickbox it into oblivion …

  —Or screw it out of their system, Kavita added sweetly.

  —Whatever, I said quickly, wondering if I could blame my own tryst on a primordially morbid fear; it was an angle, and I filed it away just in case. —But everyone’s got those feelers; we just don’t always extend them into the universe.

  —Everyone in a privileged economic stratum in a relatively safe country who is not, like, fighting a war or dying of famine, Sabz agreed in her discordant manner.

  —But it may be true that artists, artistic people, feel it more: the vibration, the connection. That’s why so many signs come to us, Sangita remarked. —For example, today I was reflecting on a different kind of blue. And a woman getting into the rick in front of me had this Cass Art bag — that London art supplies shop — and on it was the word cerulean. And that was exactly the shade I was mixing!

  —I love when that happens! I chimed in, although I wasn’t sure it ever had to me. Still, I felt relieved for some reason. She smiled at me, then glanced at the menu.

  —Maybe, Sangita, you saw the bag out of the corner of your eye first and that’s why you thought the color, countered Mallika.

  —Or maybe Sangita thought it … and that bag appeared just then, supplanting what had been a Prada clutch only moments before, Kavita suggested.

  —I’d be fucking pissed if some art supplies sack replaced my Prada clutch, Mallika snorted.

  —It’s probably a consumerist conspiracy, Sabz hypothesized. —Maybe ads have been subliminally whispering cerulean to us for the last year.

  —I think these signs come to us because we’re desperately screaming to the universe for help! I blurted, getting worked up. —We’re begging for it! For someone to tell us it’s going to be okay — there’s some sense in the chaos, a little piece of fate and destiny so we can relax our grip on the wheel for just one bloody minute and not have to feel so … lost … so confused … so guilty all the time!

  I was met with a dead silence. Maybe I’d gotten carried away. Sabz — Sabz! — turned to me wit
h a look of such compassion I nearly wept.

  —Yes, she agreed. —So we’re a little clumsy sometimes, trying to make sense of the world, of ourselves. Maybe if someone could just cut us some slack …

  She dared glance at Kavita.

  —Or perhaps the problem’s when you cut yourself too much slack, Kavita replied frostily.

  —We must first forgive ourselves, Sangita proposed now. —So we are free to be who we want to be, to love who we want to love.

  —Or shag who we want to shag, isn’t it? Kavita added testily.

  A slightly uncomfortable silence ensued during which I tried to figure out who knew what about whose sexuality at this table. Then I realized everyone kind of knew everything about everyone at this table. Except about me.

  —We are free to shag who we want to shag, Mallika pointed out. —Always. A certificate hardly keeps people in line — guarantees monogamy or love forever. Trust me.

  —That’s terrible, Mallika! I cried. —To say … to Sangita.

  Sangita didn’t look particularly perturbed, though. Nor Mallika.

  —No matter what the wedding, Sangita said with a nod, —it’s a gamble what you’re bedding into.

  —I have no problem with the idea of marriage, of making a commitment, Kavita spelled out, glaring a little too significantly at Sabz. —If you choose the right person.

  Mallika shrugged. —Whatever that means. You know, monogamy doesn’t necessarily mean love, friendship, commitment, either.

  —And likewise, just because you’ve been physically involved with someone else doesn’t make you any less committed to the one you love! Sabz declared. —Sex is just sex. Short-term encounters, short-term. They in no way invalidate the longer-term ones. You can be loyal without being faithful.

  —So if you cheat on someone you love … ? I hazarded, figuring I could get the girl consensus on my own behavior, incognito.

  —Everyone makes mistakes! Sabz cried vehemently.

  —But what if it’s not a mistake? I cried, almost as vehemently, then lowered my voice. —And it’s a different kind of true?