Breathless in Bombay

  DEDICATED

  to the unparalleled love

  of my grandfather

  SAVAKSHAW

  and all that he stood for:

  fair play, integrity, and

  dignity in the face of adversity

  CONTENTS

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Immeasurable Gratitude

  Introduction

  DHOBI GHAT

  TRAFFIC

  THE MAALISHWALLA

  THIS HOUSE OF MINE

  THE QUEEN GUARDS HER OWN

  HARAAMI

  A DIFFERENT BHEL

  BUSY SUNDAY

  THE GREAT DIVIDE

  METER DOWN

  LOVE IN THE TIME OF AIDS

  BABU BARRAH TAKKA

  JAMAL HADDI’S REVENGE

  BREATHLESS IN BOMBAY

  IMMEASURABLE GRATITUDE

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  To Jeroo, my mother, who dreamt a bigger dream for me than I did, and who gave me the strength, the confidence, and the means to pursue that dream.

  To Fali, my father, whose punctilious nature and sense of perfection are manifested in the genetics of this book and in the numerous reworks and shading that saw it to its published end.

  To Jimmy, my maternal uncle, who lit the spark of literature for me a tad too early in life, and of whom there is more in this book than one can ever imagine.

  To Firoza, my wife, my companion, who created for me the tranquillity and the space to write.

  To Porus, who with the kind support of his Guide nurtured all that is correct in this book.

  To Neville, my jolly-hearted friend, who promised me that the only book he would read in his life would be mine and who never lived to see the end of this book.

  To Vistasp, young firehorse, who read all my work voraciously and responded unfailingly.

  To Mansoor, gentleman farmer, who drove me out of my urban cubbyhole to a larger, more earthy sensibility.

  To Abhi, my transatlantic pillar of support, who helped my manuscripts reach their destination.

  To Jaideep, my firebrand friend, who backed me unstintingly in my views.

  To Chris, man of God, who took my familial concerns as his own.

  To V. B. Plumber, for her insights and her guidance.

  To Madhur, Dilip, and Param, for their prompt and prolific support.

  To George Witte, for his invaluable contributions.

  To Daniela, my editor, who with her conviction and her care stood for me at the end of a long journey, stood like a rock.

  There are others who have been a significant part of this work, if not directly, then by the very quality of their friendship and the generosity of their nature. I would like to share that writing is not the easiest of vocations; it is often a thankless task and almost always induces fear of failure and doubts of personal well-being. At such times, it is not just important but essential to have friends like Julie Brickman, Ben Fountain, J. Robert Lennon, and Melvin Sterne, who, being writers themselves, are happy to share their space and encourage one of their own. I am grateful for having known these rare friendships. They provided the terra firma on which I survived, actually thrived.

  INTRODUCTION

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  A host of mine, several years older than me and staying at Kemps Corner in South Bombay, once related this incident in between expressions of outrage. “Do you see?” he asked, pointing to groups of poverty-stricken families camping below the Kemps Corner overpass. “Do you see those migrants there? And that police chowky at the side?” I nodded, not knowing why an all-too-familiar sight should be the reason for his anger. “You are not going to believe this, but I saw them store some of their belongings inside the chowky. That was when I was out on my morning walk, and at that time the chowky was deserted, but later, when I passed it in the evening and I saw policemen there and the belongings, it simply got my goat. I walked in and demanded why the cops were turning a blind eye to the encroachers, why they were permitting these people to use our roads as their home, cooking, eating, washing, and defecating there? And how they could encourage them by giving them space in the chowky? And do you know what the cops told me? ‘Kai, sahib,’ they said. ‘Let them be, no? They also deserve to live. Where they will go if we throw them out? How do they affect our lives in any way by being here?’ No hope,” my host spluttered. “Take it from me, son; this city has gone to the dogs. Soon will come a time when you and I will have to move out and make way for these slum dwellers.”

  That got me thinking. About the fate of Bombay. About the enormous divide of classes, so latent and yet so real. About the deterioration, which was too glaring and too rampant to deny. And about my own relationship with the city, which was one of love and one of hate. Love for its sense of history and security and hate for its failure to provide us a decent standard of living: clean roads, clean water, clean air, and of course a clean system of living without the constant despair of bribes and corruption. After forty years of living here, in Bombay, breathing its air, dodging its traffic, gorging its food, sipping its alcohol, admiring its feminine beauty (which I hold to be the most fetching and beguiling in the world), I needed to put my relationship with my city in perspective—not just for myself, but for my readers who might trust my opinion, my perspective, or, if not that, at least my intentions.

  I confess Bombay has never failed to fascinate me. To walk along the streets of Colaba and to be wooed by peddlers of all trades, all motives, always imbues me with a measure of excitement. Could I possibly be a tourist in my own city? Could I shed my identity as easily as that? To sit in Café Leopold and watch the world go by; to sit on the parapet at Apollo Bunder and see the sailboats tossed on the coruscating waters; to walk past Jehangir Art Gallery and see the drug addicts huddled over their foil, while long-bearded artists stare at them disapprovingly for their failure to take life’s disappointments on the chin; to walk along the Gothic colonnades of the Ballard Estate and relive the solidarity of a lost era of architecture; to walk along Marine Drive and see the couples, their backs to the city, their heads huddled, and a universal sun casting its light on them; to walk past the Asiatic Library and see young students crouched over their textbooks in the lamplight, while the more fortunate squander their wealth in bars and pubs and gourmet restaurants—all these are aspects of home and aspects of life that only Bombay can provide. And as easily as it does this, it takes me to Banganga, and to a day and age when Lord Rama might have pierced the earth with his mighty arrow, so that he might entice the Ganges to pour forth into a reservoir, and just as easily Bombay transports me to the simplicity of another day, another age, when I mix and mingle with the crowds in the sweet, gaudy temple-town atmosphere of the Mahalaxmi Temple, and just as easily it silences me, as I discover an ideal nook to watch the sunset—off a remote lane near Warden Road.

  Bombay, my city of life—books have been written about it, songs have been composed, and collections have been compiled and anthologized. So what did I have to say that was any different? Well, for starters, I had to answer my host—people like him, people like me, who had stayed too long in the city and loved it too intensely to appreciate what was happening to it now. To go into details of Bombay’s deterioration would be arduous and unnecessary—what happened during the great flood of July 2005 is evidence of a city abandoned by its rulers, a city left to find its own methods of survival. What then has been the lure of this city that inspires writers like me and a population of twenty million to stay and toil and dream?

  To find the answers, I did what I am best at: I walked the streets; I met people. I studied their dreams, their lives, their preoccupations, their regrets, and I understood the motivation that drove them just the same. I savored the street life of Bombay as
easily and as voraciously as I had indulged in its high life, and I did so with the intention of remaining rooted, of simply carrying home an answer that was convincing to myself and to my host.

  And this is what I found:

  The story of Bombay is the story of struggle and sacrifice. Perhaps there is no other city in the world where the struggle spills so vividly and unabashedly out onto the streets, for that’s what people are here for: to make the journey, to realize their dreams—and the outward anarchy is only a reflection of their deep inner struggle, the churning that leads to a finer, more realized self. People here are not ashamed to be seen toiling and slaving out in the open. The barber does it. The cobbler does it. The chaiwalla does it. The bhajiyawalla does it. The vada-pavwalla does it. The vegetable vendor does it. The fruitwalla does it. The fisherwoman does it. The ragpicker does it. The hawker does it. The encroacher does it. The eunuch does it. The beggar does it. The cop does it. The tout does it. The dhobi does it. The maalishwalla does it. The victoriawalla does it. The taxiwalla does it. How many trades? How many dreams? How many journeys can a single city take and deliver?

  The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became—Bombay is indeed the city of evolution, the wrenching out of all desires, a miracle of coexistence and acceptance—and this is what I have attempted to capture in Breathless in Bombay: a series of journeys, through the mental lives of its citizens, their conflicts, their betrayals, their realization, and their redemption. Even with the jet-set achievers of Bombay, I saw a struggle that was all too palpable. It was there in their need to be seen in the media, their need to be acknowledged by the city.

  Breathless in Bombay is a shadowing of many lives, many conflicts. It is Bombay by foot, by train, by taxi, by victoria. It is Bombay as lived in the heads of its people. Breathless in Bombay is the Bombay of today, with its burning issues, its swamping chaos, and its underlying sense of responsibility that never fails to deliver realization at the end of a journey. I am grateful to her, my Lady of the Seven Islands, for leaving me breathless with all that she has in store.

  DHOBI GHAT

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  MATAPRASAD MAHADEV, fifty-three, dark, and fiercely mustached, was in a thoughtful mood as he sat cross-legged in dhoti and chappals on the floor of the luggage compartment of the Churchgate-bound local. Next to him was his khep, a soft white cloud of a parcel that held the clothes of his customers in a firmly knotted bedsheet and announced his occupation to be that of a dhobi.

  The train, being a “fast,” rocked and rolled and sometimes threatened to leave the tracks. The clickety-clack of the wheels was loud and slicing; after a while it settled into a rhythm, which made Mataprasad drift into reverie.

  The compartment was empty. As it was a Sunday and close to lunchtime, it was considered an inappropriate hour to travel—unless of course you were like Mataprasad, for whom Sunday was delivery day, as busy as Monday for the general order of the human race.

  Mataprasad had delivered three kheps that morning: one in Tardeo, one in Bombay Central, the last in Bandra, from where he was making his way back by train. It was a shame he had to travel so far these days, but then what to do? Work was work, and there was not enough to come by these days, damn those washing machines: front loading, top loading, tumble wash, bungle wash, whatever!

  The washing machines had put the dhobis out of business. Well, almost. It was all right initially when the machines were expensively priced, when the housewives had shied away from those fancy push buttons, flashing lights, and beeping sounds. The women had wondered whether the machines would get rid of all the sweat and grime that came with Bombay humidity. Would the clothes be damaged with all the slapping the machines put them through? Not quite sure, the housewives had decided not to dispense with their dhobis yet.

  Hilda Pestonji, his old customer from a Parsi colony at Colaba, had dragged Mataprasad in for a demonstration. She—a glum-faced, good-hearted dragon of fifty-two, an obeisant lover of fads and diversions—had led him to the bathroom, and there she’d press-started the enemy into action.

  Through the transparent lid Mataprasad had watched the trickle of water till the tub filled, then the spin rinse, back and forth, back and forth. Oh, what speed! He could barely see the clothes. The whirring noise made him fret. Was this any way to treat clothes? he thought, and here, if there were a button missing or a collar frayed, he would fetch an earful. Yet this machine bashing around the clothes was considered fine. How strange, he thought, people were happy to bury their prejudices just so that they could be seen as modern. He stood in silence, wondering if this were a conspiracy between the clothes manufacturers and the machinewallas.

  Another thing that angered him about his squat-legged, motor-driven competitor was that no individual care was given to the garments. They were treated alike in a bundle. Now, how would that remove the sweat? And the dirt that slid under the cuffs of shirts and the hemlines of skirts? He said to Hilda Pestonji, “Just think, sister, can a gadget go into armholes and seams? Can it bully the dirt out? Can it compare to the strength of human hands? You know how much work it takes to get the sweat out? Believe me, hand wash is the best!” “Nonsense,” she scoffed. “There is nothing wrong with the machine, Mataprasad. Do you think people all over the world wear dirty clothes? You are simply finding fault and not seeing the good side. See, the clothes are washed already. No waiting for one week; no giving up Sunday mornings, counting, taking stock of what you deliver and what you take. I can wash while I cook and can watch television at the same time. No jhanjhat! No khitpit! And no chance of clothes getting misplaced.” Mataprasad had sighed. How to argue with a woman whose mind was made up? How to fight that swell of chest that would go around proclaiming to the neighbors: “See, I bought a new washing machine today. Very advanced it is, and what a blessing! I don’t know how I managed all these years”? How, in other words, to fight a machine that never strikes back, that just takes over man’s life quietly, with new, new promises every day? But then who had invented this machine if not man himself? So man fights himself, puts himself out of business. And it doesn’t matter as long as there is a new toy to enjoy.

  But this was not the paradox occupying Mataprasad’s mind today. This was not why his eyebrows furrowed and why he plucked at his mustache, a greasy black and white caterpillar bristling with arms, legs, hair, life, anything that hid a lip.

  The mustache brought to his face a startling masculinity, a sense of authority, grim and sharply defined. All he had to do was stroke it and it came to life. It got people’s attention, made them sit up. This was important when you were head dhobi, officially in charge of a dhobi ghat with eighty-nine families and their problems.

  The train picked up speed. Lines of tenements flew past. It being Sunday, Bombay slept or was frozen before the television set. Overhead, the handgrips swung in unison; like gongs they hammered at Mataprasad’s head. The train seemed to toss him, make light of him and his khep. His thoughts returned to the morning: the meeting at the dhobi ghat where so much was discussed and where some trouble had appeared and settled in his mind, a burden bigger than his khep.

  THE GHAT WAS AN ARID HILL, brown and rocky, with green shrubs near the top. Behind it were two new skyscrapers: tall, thin birds of prey. At the foot of the ghat was the washing area: long, cement tanks grouted into the ground, and parallel to the tanks were the tubs, where the clothes were soaked before washing. A few feet away from the washing area was the basti, where the dhobis lived in small, dingy houses. The houses faced each other, in rows, with long narrow lanes in between—just enough space for a single person to pass by. In the houses, there were no doors, windows, or vents—only curtains, drawn back at all times.

  The houses were made of old wooden boards and sheets of asbestos, plastic, and tin. The rooms were cramped and dark. There were stacks of clothes everywhere. White clothes. Colored clothes. Old clothes. New clothes. Outer wear. Inner wear. Daywear. Nightwear. There’d be kurtas and kaftans, frocks an
d baba suits, school uniforms and cotton saris, curtains and linen, napkins and towels, and old kitchen rags yellow with stains. The clothes would be stacked in lots, on the floor, on bunks, on a wooden platform reserved for ironing.

  Mornings, an hour after sunrise, the basti would spring to life. Curtains lining the doorways would be flung open. The dhobis would emerge, yawning, stretching, and snapping the sleep out of their bones. The more religious ones would pray to the sun, or they’d chant and sprinkle water outside their doorsteps to ward off evil energy that had accrued during the night. The men would gargle at their doorsteps in the narrow lanes. Scooping water from stainless-steel buckets, they’d splash their faces, hands, and feet vigorously. The soapy water would collect and run in a steady stream, making the lanes wet and slippery. On finishing, the men would carry the dirty clothes outside. They’d be followed by a musty stench because the clothes would have been bundled up for days. The men would collide in the lanes—a clash of kheps, a conflict of burdens. One of the two would have to give way, and he who’d squeeze past on the merit of being older would invariably comment on the size of the khep—its value—that the other dhobi was carrying. Immediately there’d be a quip back about the size of the customer’s pocket, which was shrinking. Yes, everybody knew that—so why rub it in, brother?

  The separation of the clothes would have been done earlier by younger members of the family. The colored clothes would be separated from the whites, the heavy garments from the light ones. The stained ones would be set aside for special treatment. Otherwise the memsahibs would be unforgiving; they’d rail, rant, and threaten to switch to washing machines. Mataprasad had a saying for such stains, the ones that need a longer soak and intense scrubbing. “Ah,” he would say to the younger dhobis who would sweat over them, “ah, trouble is a stain that doesn’t wash easy.”

  First, the clothes would be soaked in wooden tubs called bambas. They’d be immersed in soapy water while the dhobis chatted about customers or about the scarcity of work and the rise in prices. After a while the clothes would be taken to the rinsing tanks, which were marked for three levels of water: low, medium, and high. The level would be decided by the dhobi as per his load, and the water would be released on request by a mukkadam, who would maintain a logbook of accounts. Each level had a different rate, starting with 40 rupees, going up to 120 rupees, and this would have to be totaled and paid to the municipality at the end of every month.