Bombay Blues

by Tanuja Desai Hidier

  —I’m sorry, Sangita, I said, taking her hand. —I didn’t mean you and Deepak. Honest.

  —No issues, Dimple. Look, whatever way you cut it, a relationship’s a wager. No guarantees. You decide to stick it out or you don’t.

  She squeezed my hand. —And don’t worry. I’ll never tell a soul, either. I know how sensitive these things are. Commitment. To what and whom … and whether to.

  —That’s a more poetic way to put it. The usual language is so awful, I said, grateful. —Maybe it’s just … having a connection.

  —Yes, Sangita nodded, voice hushed. —And that’s something you have to figure out on your own. It’s best to keep some things to yourself. Once your friends, family, society get involved …

  —Um, having a wedding isn’t really keeping something to yourself, Sangita, I said gently.

  —No, it isn’t. But it’s still important to have something that’s all yours.

  Then, gently as well, still squeezing my hand: —Do you love him?

  I hesitated, then nodded.

  —You don’t have to talk about it, she said softly. —But if you ever want to …

  I didn’t.

  —Look, I said. —This whole … situation. Maybe it’s something I needed. For me. It’s pushed me out of my comfort zone, made me ask questions — about dichotomies, dividing lines. It may even help me grow as an artist.

  Sangita now examined me a slow moment, nodding.

  —Then all I can say, Dimple, she finally replied, lifting my camera bag off the sidewalk where I’d set it between my feet and handing it to me, —is you better get to work.

  It was out of the blue and into the black as my rick dithered south, hers north. And I only realized after she’d vanished completely from sight that, when she’d said you love him — she hadn’t specified whom, which one.

  Did it even matter?

  Was my heart big enough for both, for all of them?

  As soon as I got to my room, I pried off my peep-toes, took a breath, and sat down to work. I scrolled through the photos from Heptanesia and found they were royally frocked up, just like that day had by and large been: band shots all blurred, light straying to all the wrong spots, skinting on the right ones. Why had I felt so good about them when I’d taken them? Maybe I’d been moving too much to io’s blues. I felt a slight pang at the thought that Mahesh had these photos from my flash drive, what he would make of me.

  I hardly knew what to make of myself.

  Out the window, across the waters: the noctiluca lights of Worli.

  And then, abruptly, that seaface with its crest-and-crash insinuated skyline went dark: power out.

  I panicked — could I find candle, flashlight in the hotel desk drawer? — before realizing nothing had happened Bandra-side. Here: a watted, wired midnight.

  I hit the bathroom to wash up. Such a cold light: that blinding bright second bathrobe. I tore it from the hook, held it close. Then hid it under the bed and lay down upon the mattress, eyes wide with shock. Who was I?

  What the hell was I doing?

  I was still in the same position, eyes opening wide again with shock, in the morning. I knew nothing but this: I had to get as far from Bandra as possible, as if that would undo the incredible indelible goings-on of late, reset my slate.

  When had my path gone awry?

  That day I’d tried to go to Chor Bazaar, taken the blue.

  I figured that was where I had to head now. Back to brown. A revised new beginning.

  On autopilot, I showered, packed up my camera gear, and flung open the door … only to find Karsh standing in the hallway, hand poised to knock. I froze.

  It felt like years since I’d seen him.

  —I thought you left, I stammered.

  —I’ve been in Juhu, at ISKCON. Gopal’s father isn’t doing so well, so we delayed, he explained, almost shyly. —We’re aiming to leave Bombay tonight.

  If laying eyes on Cowboy had been like viewing a projection, beholding Karsh felt like staring down a wraith. But that specter tilted a very real head at me now.

  —I called you a couple times, but no one picked up.

  —I was in a meeting, I said. He was averting his eyes, I noted during a nanosecond non-avert of my own.

  —I got to thinking, he continued, still averting. —I. I wanted to make sure we visited Breach Candy. To photograph that rock. Where your parents … ? I already booked Laxman, that hotel driver; he’s giving us a deal to keep him for the day.

  —It’s okay. I don’t want to make you late or anything….

  But Karsh shook his head.

  —No, Dimple, he said with surprising firmness. —Today was the day we’d planned on, and a promise is a promise. Come. He’s waiting downstairs.

  The elevator and lobby were smugly frenetic with the hormonally amped arrival of the Parsi Youth Congress. Outside, I switched my cell back on. In a moment, the missed calls from Karsh came in, as well as my parents’ twice-nightly resend of their sweet-dreams-and-no-tuk-tuks text.

  As we approached the Link, Laxman at the wheel, the network bar vanished from my phone, which I’d been gripping in my hand like a cliff edge. This disappearance filled me with irrational relief, as if Cowboy could clamber over the letters of his brief evocative texts and join us on the backseat hump if I got a signal.

  I zipped the phone hastily into my bag, closed my eyes, and told myself it was all going to be all right. Karsh and I were together again — en route to Breach Candy, the site of my parents’ first kiss. It would remind us of our history, our connection, allow us to begin anew.

  Still, I felt like hurling.

  —Sea Link bridge! Laxman announced, alert squirrel eyes in the rearview, Om symbol dangling off it, about where his mouth would have been. It was pretty evident we were on the bridge, given the sizable body of water below, and the fact we weren’t wet. He indicated the sign by the toll as if to verify his own words, or ability to read.

  —Beautiful! Karsh nodded encouragingly, as if we’d never seen it, and leaned forward to hand him the change.

  We crossed the Link, cables overcrowding my viewfinder, as if closing us in. I kept the camera pressed to my face — and that face turned towards the window, staring between the slants at segmented silty blue sky.

  —What’s up, Dimple? You’d rather be in Bandra?

  I panicked, turned.

  —No! Of course not! I’d rather be in … Worli. Not! I mean, I am in Worli. Almost.

  Karsh laughed, a little confused, and indicated my bloody Shy-gifted I’d Rather Be In Bandra T-shirt. Time for it to reincarnate into a dishrag.

  —Oh, I said, sheepishly. He just smiled at me, shook his head.

  We got off the bridge — or, rather, the slip road, as Sangita had correctly noted — following the sign indicating South Bombay to the left, but looping around right after a short stretch.

  Going the wrong way in order to go the right way. Was that a metaphor for my behavior?

  (A sign of … ?)

  Thing was, it was one thing waxing all iambic and philosophical and French about your new freewheeling love life when, for example, you were engaged in a parallel existence with an almost-stranger in a Bombay suburb. But it was a wholly other thing to sit beside the very person you’d run over with that freewheel (whether he knew it or not) and truly face him for the first time.

  The part that was hardest was the part that was softest: that old well-known face. It wasn’t theoretical. It could be touched: The lids could be kissed while it slept, a fingertip tickle the tip of its nose; a hand could be held to its cheek. It could go places no other face had gone till recently. I knew: I’d kissed those lids, touched that cheek. I’d joyfully accompanied on those journeys.

  Something about Karsh was a little weary, a little wounded, but I saw an old light ignite when those auriferous hot-honeyed eyes fell upon my own. So bright, an unblown birthday wish. I had to look away before my own guilt and gutlessness snuffed it out.

 
Haji Ali Road: through the window, that mosque floating in the sea, a luminous lifeboat, and the perpetually peopled pier leading up to it, coming to a standstill as traffic did as well. Laxman-ji leapt out of the car, carting a clear two-liter bottle of Coca-Cola I’d spotted on the front floor. He scurried ahead of the vehicle — was he abandoning us? in this state? — then threw open the hood and refilled the water, bounding back into the driver’s seat with a second to spare as the traffic jam got quasi-moving again. Karsh gave me a smile.

  —Funny, he said. —I was sure this car preferred Pepsi.

  Looking at his mouth hurt; I could still feel it, the full lips, slightly fuzzed — but I tasted another mouth at the same time. As soon as I made eye contact (or eye-to-mouth contact) without the protective shield of the lens, I was done for, had to turn away again, stare fixedly out the window.

  Of course this was precisely the moment traffic stalled once more, and an intrepid little girl who’d been weaving among the cars, carefully balancing a teetering tower of books and magazines, stepped into frame, eyes intently meeting mine. Coelho, Chopra, Follett popped up in my pane like toast as she flourished her wares. Laxman tried shooing her away, but she next held up a copy of Asian Bride magazine.

  Karsh reached across me, buzzed down the window, and was trying to give the girl a one-hundred rupee note, gesturing that he didn’t want anything in return.

  She shook her head, refusing cash without the sale. She waggled the magazine, a little more emphatically — again, looking at me. I could see Karsh side-to-side capitulating; the girl accepted the payment, tendered the Asian bride.

  —Don’t do it! I cried, and with the urgency of a mother volleying herself in front of a freight train to propel a stroller out of harm’s way, I rolled the pane back up before the magazine could be his. The girl jerked back in the nick of time.

  The traffic jam lunged forward. As we pushed off, Karsh just stared at me.

  —It was a bridal magazine, I explained weakly.

  —So?

  —I don’t know if we should be supporting the institution of marriage … especially in a country where so many girls are forced to marry. And dowries and stuff.

  —I didn’t think of it as supporting the institution of marriage, said Karsh slowly. —I kind of thought of it as supporting the girl. Maybe help her get khana, food. As she seems to be pretty much supporting herself.

  Like I needed more guilt in my system.

  —And what’s wrong with marriage? Karsh asked. —Isn’t that why you’re here, on some level? That’s a little killjoy, no, with Sangita’s big day around the corner?

  I opted for the adult thing, and chucked some culpability his way.

  —I don’t know. It’s just … what does a piece of paper prove, anyway? That it’s not … illicit?

  —Wow. Romantic! Are you sure you want to do Breach Candy today?

  —It was just a kiss, I said, although that kiss hadn’t been just a kiss for my parents but a preamble to a lifelong ramble: a journey that would continue across years, continents, to this very moment. Still, I couldn’t back down now. —A kiss doesn’t necessarily mean anything, does it?

  We were clearly having two different conversations. I was seeking absolution from the very victim of my wayward behavior … who looked like he wasn’t sure how to react. Furthermore, my own kiss, on any level, had certainly not been just a kiss.

  —Anyway, Karsh said finally. —It was just a few bucks. She could probably use it.

  As we drove towards Breach Candy, Laxman pointed out the local sights. Former site of the US consulate. Ahead, thrusting a flagrant twenty-seven floors up, Antilia — Island of the Other, Ilha das Sete Cidades — the more-than-a-few-billion-bucks Ambani house (where it was rumored no one lived). I kept looking at Karsh’s face reflected in my window; he kept glancing at me, as if he wanted to say something, then thought better of it.

  Laxman’s nonstop impassioned declarations fuzzed to a nearly comforting white noise, and when he pointed out the windshield — Lata Mangeshkar house! You are hearing Lata Mangeshkar? Too much famous singer only! — it even elicited a smile from Karsh in my direction.

  —Your favorite, he whispered. Lata Mangeshkar was probably the last thing I’d put on my iPod, shortly after samples of fingernails dragging across chalkboards, children’s cartoon character voices, and mewling peacocks.

  I smiled back. This insideriness made me feel a little better, like time and memory were in our favor and I could just delete anything that wasn’t.

  Finally, Laxman-ji stopped on Bhulabhai Desai Road — or maybe it was Warden. I was so used to the endless waits in Bombay traffic that it took me a minute to realize he was, in fact, parking. We were across the street from the park access.

  —Very seaside near. When ready, you send me missed call, he instructed us. —I wait exactly here.

  We thanked him and got out. Somehow, it felt immediately awkward — despite the blare and buzz of the Bombay street — to now be alone with Karsh.

  We entered by the iron gates. From the outside, it all looked the same. The park. Even us. We were both a little skinnier, tawnier, locks longer and wavier. But still, to any passerby who knew us, it was Karsh and Dimple, Dimple and Karsh, sound and vision, the beauty-and-beat four-eyed-and-eared beast back by popular demand, DKNY, KDNY, strolling amongst the other (skinnier, browner, wavier) lovers at Breach Candy.

  We didn’t say anything for a long time. Just walked, our steps scuffing up pebble and dust, offering the false comfort of old metronomy.

  —So this is where it all happened, Karsh said at last.

  —Where what happened? I said, defensive.

  —Isn’t this where they had their first kiss? Your parents?

  —Oh! Yes. Yes, it is. I came here with my dad last time around, to see the famous rock. But we couldn’t quite locate the exact spot.

  —Still, Karsh said. —You’ll never get closer than this.

  He reached for my hand and squeezed. I squeezed back — and squeezed back tears at the same time. Holding hands with Karsh felt like a remnant of a distant past, whereas the memory of that few-years-old day with my dad seemed minutes ago … and his own memories on that day, the most present of all. My father’s shy, slightly embarrassed smile, but an embarrassment of pleasure, of riches. The rock may be gone, he’d told me finally, after we’d concluded our futile search. But the emotions remain.

  When I looked back at Karsh, I could see his eyes were watery as well. Reflecting the sea, or me, or his own private ache.

  —I’ll miss you, he said now.

  —Will you? I blurted without thinking, planning. —I missed you before you left. Even now.

  It came out bird throttle, a strangled sound. Our sliding glass back door back in Springfield; one clear summer day, a sparrow had sailed headlong into the pane and tumbled to its death, not recognizing a wall had risen, invisible but impermeable. There was something unspeakably sad about a winged creature downed like this, a song cut off mid-flow.

  —What do you mean? Karsh was asking.

  I hadn’t meant to have a heart-to-heart; I wasn’t sure where it would lead. But seemed my heart was not only in my mouth, but vocal cords as well.

  —It’s been lonely, Karsh. Even with you here.

  If there’s one thing a liar knows, it’s the truth, and this was it.

  I felt a goodbye underpinning my words, and didn’t understand how it had arrived there. What was wrong with me? We had everything. We had friendship, (had had) loyalty, devotion, art, family, love angel music baby.

  What was making me nearly exchange that … for … ?

  —Yes, he replied quietly. —It was. It is.

  Our hands had fallen apart. Not in an aggressive way, more matter of course. Which seemed worse. No struggle, no strain. I pocketed mine. Before us our shadows unwound from our ankles, stretched animal, mystical, as if they no longer belonged to us, would come untethered if we didn’t keep moving.

  We
didn’t keep moving.

  —We’re not so together, are we? I said now.

  Sadly, he shook his head.

  We stared through the fencing at the rock face tumbling seaward. Every visit, a little more of the beach had been blocked off. All open, wild, wave-swept in my parents’ time, Scandal Point (as it was also known) had been unbound, only jaggedly and precariously defined, as seemed fitting for its legacy of shadowy liaisons. My mother had stepped gracefully out across rock tips in a swirling yellow sari and chappals, hooked only to the toes, her mane then a thick spill of squid-ink ebony to her hips; I doubted I could do that even in my jeans and sneaks and scrunchied hair without a bruising fall. Clearly, she’d had the gift of ocean-crossing even then.

  The rocks were fewer these days; the park had leveled off a lot of them, even compared to my last visit to India. Now the division was defined: A rusty grille fence kept park park and seaface sea, a distinct border between the unruly and tamed. We came around the bend, towards the Children’s Park, and looked over a low barrier down to the beach, flanked by buildings in the distance, hovering palms thrusting down from overhead, and the drop of the wall below us.

  No one walked the beach, save a ragged little boy with a stick, picking his way through the rubble on some kind of private mission.

  A patch of vibrant color; someone’s shirts and sheets spread to dry by a small tarped enclosure. Someone’s home.

  How times had changed. My parents came here for their first kiss — first anything, with anyone, and then, tick, tick, tick, married, migrated, made me. I was here, with a boy I’d frocked and rocked and held so close yet couldn’t get close enough. I’d slept with my hand in his boxer hem, the safest place, woken with his pillow crease on my cheek. His fingers hooked my back jeans pocket during New York–New Jersey sidetracks where it didn’t matter where we’d go, everything meandering but our emotional atlas. We’d peed, pigged out in front of each other, our words underlain with unspoken promises. The future tense was as easily used as past and present, was, in fact, not tense at all.

  We’d called each other daily. We’d called each other friend.