Bombay Blues

by Tanuja Desai Hidier

  —I started with the Wall Project, on Tulsi Pipe Road. Government commissioned; pretty much anyone can turn up and paint. But I like being on my own more. I believe street art should maintain its punk approach.

  Did Sangita just say … punk?

  A smearing on stone. A torrent of half-goddess half-girl half-sea-soul shoal. Saraswati in sneakers, veena plugged into amp with a mertail cable beside it. Laxmi in Mallix-style stilettos, flashing credit cards in finned fingers. She-vahanas with longboard limbs, rick-tipped toes, scootering shoes, surfboard wings. All with that same tag: LGB(t).

  —I was waiting so long for a wall, she told me now. —For someone to make room for me. Then I realized I could make room for myself.

  —You realized you could build a window.

  I shot every bit of merflesh we fell upon as she recounted to me how she’d sometimes come alone, sometimes with Deepak night-driving her. Genuflecting in her alfresco chapel, her utterly outdoor sanctum sanctorum, by the light of a flashlight, valise of tools in tow — a reverse Cinderella shredding her old saris to paint-rag tatters, a little mermaid opting for fins and feet … she’d take these deadened spaces and into them pour paintblood.

  We walked a long, long way before we fell into a speaking silence.

  We turned down another bungalowed bylane, stood by a street vendor, where Sangita bought one Classic Milds.

  —A few more are here, she said, indicating a minuscule paint patch to the side of the stall. A starfish, each tip swirling with fins, in the center a whirl of cerulean girls, angel lips curving together in kisses. —These were for Kavita. And Sabz now, too.

  —So … you knew? Even before the rainbow mugs?

  She nodded.

  —LGBT, I said aloud now, realizing.

  —Little Girl Blue, Sangita explained. —True. And yes, the acronym was also a reference to Kavita’s sexuality … which I didn’t realize until I’d acronymized my blue girl herself. Anyway, true colors are always in view. It’s just we look and we listen, maybe … but we don’t see, don’t hear. Till we spell it out for ourselves.

  Spoken like her mother’s daughter. And it sounded a lot like me and Karsh, come to think of it. Or like me and me.

  —I suppose it was my way of coming out with her. Declaring it on the street — little knowing we’d come out together off the street, in our home one day. I’ll bring her here. With Sabz. Soon.

  I was going to ask her why she hadn’t told anyone about her tag, her true identity, but I knew the answer, and she spoke it.

  —Nothing is a secret, she said. —Not if you know it. Though it still feels nice to keep it. To have something to yourself. But — and it would have to be the right time and place — I’m beginning to feel I can share this now, and still keep it to myself. Do you know what I mean? That no one can take away what you give away.

  Lens to eye now; something very familiar about the doorway, that bungalow across the way …

  Breathe through the eyes.

  Zoom. That tiny depiction of a waterwound blue Mary, intertwining fisherman.

  But this Mary had fins. And wings. How had I missed this? In that submerged experience of the out-of-frame, this entire village — even the portal to my own experience — I’d dodged as I’d burned.

  Sangita had followed my gaze. My throat went dry, but I reeled up the words:

  —That fisherman’s dream?

  —That was my starting point. For this entire Piscis Volans — flying fish — series: imagining what that dream might have been, and the moment that statue of Mary was conjured up by the tides.

  —But why … this house?

  She shrugged. —I don’t know. Something drew me here. I knocked to ask if it was okay, but no one was in. Or no one answered, in any case.

  I’d felt that pull as well. The swimming cities of Bandrissima. I’d been swept along, even compelled the current to this very place, collecting debris, trash, treasure, along the way, souveniring as I steered, reveniring now.

  I missed him. Would I always?

  —But then I imagined, Sangita continued, —what if Mary had had the dream? What if she was the one floating on fins, then flying on wings, who saved the fisherman … or simply herself?

  I would, always. And Mary: As the waters seamed over her head, I knew what she’d felt, for I’d felt, too: that flip of fear onto its belly, a surfer’s soul arch into the wild blue — and, lungs returning to their gilled infant state, a sudden sense of levity under liquid sky. She’d found herself floating, body learning a new way to breathe, lips shipping bubbles far deep wide — a greeting to the lands that lay ahead.

  A dream within a dream. Mary saved the fisherman by dreaming the fisherman — not the other way around. She dreamed herself into being found. The streets swam with flying fish. Little Girl Blue was none other than the blue-skinned goddess beside me. We had always been awash in clues.

  My heart skipped a beat, or maybe my head. I could see now that that door I’d once, twice, infinite times poured myself through was ever so slightly ajar.

  Who knew who was inside? Whether it was him or that mysterious cinematographer. Or no one at all. A wind at the door; no more port of call.

  It didn’t seem to make a difference.

  I decided then to keep missing him.

  A merMary. I would swim.

  Sangita crushed out her cigarette. I hooked my arm in hers.

  —This would have been the day of your sangeet, I said. She smiled a little ruefully, perhaps awaiting some kind, but unwelcome, sympathy.

  —Well, I guess, then, what better place to have been than a chapel, or a church with seven steps?

  —But, Sangita, I said, an idea abrew in my head, —I beg to differ. A sangeet is a dance and music event. So what better place to be than Manhole tonight? We can go after my meeting. Come along?

  —Thanks, Dimple. But I think I’ve got to do another song and dance — go home, keep trying to break down that wall with Mummy.

  Dripdrop by brushstroke, I knew she would eventually do it: find the skylight in that wall by, ironically, filling it in, as she’d done with her flying fish.

  Time to face the music. She walked me to the Samudra hotel, first landmark on Flip’s address.

  But before we parted ways, she touched my arm and removed that string of beads from around her neck, placed them around my own.

  —The tears of Shiva, the god of destruction, without whom there can be no creation. Whatever you’ve lost, Dimple, is not lost. It is simply reincarnating.

  And she was gone. But not really gone.

  When I got to the right street, I wandered up and down seeking the address, finally phoning Flip.

  —Lala, he saluted on first ring.

  —Pinto. Niño. Santa Mario. Methinks I’m getting warmer but can’t tell.

  —Landmark? What do you see?

  —I see … brown people, I whispered.

  —Ha! You’re in the right country, then. Passed the Hanuman mandir?

  —Passed the Sai Baba mandir.

  —That is the Hanuman mandir. See a couple little vendors just down the way? Head towards them….

  —There, I confirmed. —I mean, here.

  —Great. Okay. Now … ever so slowly approach the stall….

  I did so, feeling engaged in an unlikely round of Mother May I.

  —Lean in towards the vendor …

  Mother May I. Yes, I did.

  —… and pick me up a couple of Gudang Garams?

  I should’ve known.

  —Slacker! Why don’t you come down and get ’em yourself?

  —I’m in a meeting.

  —Yeah, right. I’m in that one, too.

  —Dude, he pleaded, laughing back, busted. So I tried to get him the bads from the first stall, which looked exactly like the second one, but the mustached vendor pointed to that latter stand, with a world weariness that made it seem his entire day was spent correcting this particular error.

  Flip must have heard
me close the deal, for he proceeded to give me another set of directions that included walking back to where I’d been to begin with.

  There seemed to be a disproportionate number of signs for dentists around here. I could discern a rhythmic thump and the overwhelmingly plaintive pitch of a lone voice warbling in what I can only describe as an ancient way. I turned to discover it emitting from a significantly less ancient-looking man leading a horn-painted cow up the road and beating a drum, choli tote strung off his shoulder.

  —Landmark: singing beggar, I informed Flip.

  —Dimple. Did you know the difference between a mendicant and a beggar is a mendicant makes music for money?

  —Okay, so landmark: busker with nandi. Nandicant, I clarified, digging out some rupage for this street musician, wondering now how Flip seemed to possess this psychic compass for my whereabouts … and why the mendicant’s melody was hitting me in stereo, from the phone as well as the street. I glanced up to find my man waving at me from a window out which he’d surely overseen all this circling smokes-purchasing nandicant-donating activity of mine. He already had a Gudang Garam in hand.

  —Why didn’t you just say to follow the smoke? I called up to him now, clicking off.

  —Third floor, Lala, he said with a grin, indicating I should enter by a building society side passage. As I did, I crossed paths with a petite industrious-looking woman in a sari, who gave off a lovely stomach-rumbling odor of tarka.

  Every floor up, my eyes splashed with street art again — or stairwell art. Ground floor: a painted panel depicting Mary, flowers sunbursting in her heart space, Sai Baba waving a foot away. First floor: a skinny-boy Ganesha stickered to the wall, faded swastikas painted directly onto the humidity-hacked patch beside him. Second floor: Jesus hanging off a cross … a Guru Nanak by his side.

  No wonder there seemed to be little resistance to street art here: People had been painting the walls and ground (rangoli) — and even the cows — for eons. And what was Holi but a massive paint-gun party?

  Third floor: Flip stood in a flexing, levitating X in his doorway, as if he were single (well, double) handed-and-footedly keeping the frame from caving.

  —Good day, Lala?

  He slid the few inches down, nabbed the smokes with one hand, high-fiving me with the other. It was on the tip of my tongue to fill him in on Sangita’s street art secret, but I kept it there, and simply nodded.

  —Sorry, I couldn’t leave till the maid came and went. She makes a killer mung dahl.

  The maid was a cook? I kicked off my sneaks and stepped in. The apartment was redolent of this famous dahl — was, in fact, redolent of that industrious woman I’d just crossed.

  —Nice to finally meet an Indian in Bandra who eats Indian food, I commented, pulling out my camera and snapping his Clairefontaine, open on the mattress behind him. —You ever put that thing away?

  —Do you? he countered, striking a pose so cheesy, I nearly offered him a cracker to lay it on.

  —Touché.

  And then I couldn’t resist.

  —How’s that profile going? I asked tentatively. I didn’t know how much he knew about my situation with Karsh.

  —It’s going. Though could be going faster if I could only track down some of my subjects. I figure I’ll catch a few tonight. Shy for sure.

  I now accepted the ceremoniously presented shot of Flip’s ever-present Old Monk. A gulpable, not clickable, one. It burned and I let out a fire-breathing sigh of relief.

  —Okay. I’m officially in a meeting now, I rasped. Flip smiled, lidded the Monk, and slid it in his messenger bag, followed by the Clairefontaine.

  —Actually, you are supposed to be officially in an actual meeting about now, he pointed out. —Chalo. I don’t want you to be too late. Just IST late.

  Pinto hath spoketh: We had to make like a lentil and split.

  —Is it ten to fifteen minutes away? I asked, a little worried now.

  He sighed. —Are we in Bandra? And heading to Bandra?

  He after-you’d me out the door, then slapped a friendly hand on my back as we headed down the deified stairwell.

  —Lala — only, what, three more days in Bombay? Bol: Will you ever understand where you are?

  I slung an arm around him.

  —I hope not, Pinto, I replied. —’Cause then I wouldn’t be there anymore.

  Bandra was buzzing tonight. As we jumped in a rick, Flip’s friend Slinky messaged to say he was DJing a really cool art opening near Pali Village Café if we wanted to join. Kavita and Sabz were off to some kind of AntiValentine’s event, probably linked with AzBaaz, on Ambedkar Road. Flip mentioned that io was maybe doing an acoustic set in Pali Naka at Mrigmeg’s, which I guessed was either a venue or a human. And Mahesh had texted me directions to his place by now — involving landmarking IMPPA, the Indian Motion Picture Producers’ Association (acronym making it sound like funding was secured via the devious work of gnomes) — with a PS that he hoped I’d stick around for afters.

  Although I was booked for that meeting with him and then Shy’s ponderfest, I recited all our options to Flip, who was with incredible grace managing to slug his Old Monk in the cantering rick.

  —And there’s something on at Mesh’s place again later. We could hit it after Shy’s, I concluded. Flip gave me a duh look.

  We alit in Pali Village before a lovely little balustraded bungalow, half obscured by a peepul (or neem? or tamarind? Gulmohar, Flip sighed) tree, scaled up to a swoozily pink balcony, and stepped in and onto a stoked-yolk floor paved with manhole lids. Circular skylights echoed each one, scadding day-end rays throughout and illuminating the mellow-yellow brick road leading from entry room down a long corridor that branched into a couple spaces on either side and at the end.

  Double take: Those skylights were bulbed, not paned. The buttery walls and high-raftered paper lanterns and hanging plants ringleting everywhere amplified this feeling of natural light.

  As did the circular windows drawn upon the walls.

  This space was rolling in zeros.

  Camera out, I nearly bumped into a sign reading MANHOLE: DROP IN & DROP OUT.

  —Welcome to every event you’ve been going on about for the last ten to fifteen minutes, Flip smirked.

  Mahesh’s place turned out to be … Manhole. As did Mrigmeg’s. Pali Village, Pali Naka. Landmarks Pali Village Café, Ambedkar Road, IMPPA all pointed here.

  —It doesn’t feel like an art opening, I commented, considering Slinky’s message.

  Flip shrugged. —There’s art, and it’s open. That’s more the way Mesh runs things. He wanted to create a space where people connect more to the artists, not the frames. Hence none here, or if at all, circular ones. To invite people in rather than boxing them out.

  —It feels like a home.

  —It is a home.

  Most of the entry room was taken up by a table covered with coffee dispensers smelling of chai, as well as a few bottles of white wine. Mrigmeg, of the how-do-you ’do, stood solemnly beating a bongo in the corner, then noted me eyeing the bar and swiftly reincarnated into a bartendress (first female server I’d seen in the Bay), pouring me a plastic cup of the disquietingly fizzing vino.

  —Happy AntiValentine’s, she greeted, presenting me with not only the drink but a surprisingly perky perished rose.

  The warmth of the space was heartening, unlike the stark white walls of umpteen galleries I’d been to. Somehow this — probably coupled with the fact hardly anyone was here yet — made it feel there was less pressure to buy something. Which would maybe make it easier to enjoy the art itself, some of which I glimpsed a little farther down the hall.

  —Have a look around, Flip told me, parking by the minibar to avail himself of his own Old Monk. I moved into the corridor, unframed fine line drawings sweeping across the walls: anatomical renderings of the heart, the four chambers filled with tiny cartoonish figures (by none other than Pozy). The floor was lined with ripped paper hearts, still more being scattered now
by Mrigmeg, along with dried rose petals and empty chocolate foils.

  To the left: an office space, brilliantly muraled; someone with dreads hunched over a laptop there. To the right, a topsy-turvy room that made me bleary at first glance. The furniture — a couple chairs and tables — was painted the same rainbow arcs as floor and walls, creating a wonky world for happy little bluebirds to fly.

  At the far end, the passage tributaried into a larger room from which low-key beats and a soft swell of conversation hummed. I was about to head down there, but the dreadlocked dude in the office now swiveled around, caught sight of me, and gestured me in.

  It was a turbanless Mesh.

  —Mahesh! I smiled. —It’s beauteous.

  He grinned back. —Glad you like.

  He gestured me around to face his laptop, and with a mouse click a photo slide show kicked in.

  It took me a moment to recognize what it was.

  Those io shots, from Heptanesia. As Mesh scrolled through them, he filled me in. Apparently, i and o had been gone on the pics. Furthermore, all the (to my eyes) errors, the accidental in them, were what they loved most. The way their heads blurred decapitatingly into little lights, whizzed together while they played. The sprayglazings from my flash hitting too hard, rendering microphone a sharded blast of a mouth on the girlthing’s face. Plugs evanescing into the ether. Guitar strings rippling like the neon aftermath of a fireworks display through the boy’s whirring fingers.

  Out in the hall, I could hear the murmur of people arriving, but I couldn’t take my eyes off my own work.

  —I think everything unintentionally blurred, I confessed now. —Because I was unintentionally dancing along with them.

  —Well, some kind of capital-I Intention was at work nonetheless. They said your photos perfectly conjure the third absent presence they make and melt into together whenever they create music.

  It occurred to me some of this fortuitous stray light, mistakes turned takes, may have come about from our flashes colliding. Conspiring.

  Me and Mahesh.

  —They’re doing an album launch at the next Crosstreet, he confided now. —Mum’s the word; news isn’t supposed to leak who the mystery artists are till the night. But they wanted to see about using your images for it. If it’s cool by you, we can also show them here for some acoustic sets they’ll be doing after.