Mumbai Triptych : Part III
Mumbai Triptych : Part III
Smoke
Picture the boy. He is wearing brown shorts and a grey printed t-shirt with White & Red Adidas Superstars.
His hair is longer than you remember - in fact it is almost long enough for him to wear a hairband. In 2 weeks it will look fine but right now it causes the hair at the back of the head to stand out like a peacock plume. He realises it, but doesn't care overtly - though his hands keep finding their way there as he walks. He seems happier than when you saw him last and if you focus you can almost see a spring in his step.
It is 2 AM and its Friday and this is Five Gardens near the Parsi Fire Temple and the boy and his friend are the only people on the road. It is silent apart from the vague drone of cars on the main road which permeates through the air heavy with trees and sounds almost hushed as if scared to wake the sleeping stone. The friend is talking animatedly and uses a lot of hand gestures though it is not clear what he is saying. It is not especially relevant and the boy does not remember any of it the next day anyway. He is now busy hopping between the road and the footpath and does a spin every few steps and his body shows an exaggerated sense of accomplishment at this though the gap is less than 2 feet.
The friend passes the joint back to the boy who takes about 5 little drags with split second intervals causing sparks to fall on to the pavement. He exhales slowly and the thick cloud of smoke stays in the air behind them as they walk as there is no wind and you cannot hear the leaves or the crickets or even the traffic anymore. And the smoke settles there smelling of better dreams made of Dutch Truffle Cake Shakes (TM) and home-made pizza and paint thinner.
The friend is wearing a black t-shirt, long white shorts and brown slippers. He walks on the footpath silently and is no longer saying anything. He slumps slightly while he walks his mind swimming in far flung depths. Amongst other things he thinks of Duty Free liquor and EMIs and how his boss buys carpets from Istanbul.
They take turns at random neither of them saying anything. The joint is over and was stubbed 20 m ago. The buildings around them weigh down like Millennia and the arches and white columns remind the boy of Athens somehow. He has stopped hopping and walks straight and silent.
The world is on mute and they walk in a painting. 2 darker color blots on overlapping greys broken by cones of melting yellow streetlight. If you pay attention you can see shadows of owls.
The friend always wanted to live here for the sense of perceived community. He thinks of gardens and Sunday Afternoon Cricket, Grand lunches at Navroze , kids on bikes. An older Mumbai asserts itself on him. He is wary of nostalgia, but when pressed would agree that things were better back then.
The boy is shrinking into himself - he feels like an intruder. The city does this to him sometimes. It turns the volume low and dims the lights and the electricity seeps in from the roads and the air making him quiver. He is by himself and all around him is the Blue Screen. He is scared someone will notice and turn off the special effects. Every dark window is a love story and he feels naked as he walks about them.
The moment builds for a time - getting heavier till it gives in under the strain. Plop.
The car goes past them, it is a grey 2007 Honda City and now they are awake. The car slows and stops at some distance and they are both a little straighter and the boys rubber shoes make a slight shuffling sound. The friends slippers are still silent.
The boy thought he saw a couple in the car which is silent ahead of them and walks with forced casualness. He fights the urge to run to the car. He fights the urge to run away.
The windows are tinted. The passenger side window is not fully rolled up and he catches a glimpse of a slender dark waist with a white top drawn up to the shoulders leaning against the driver. The friend also notices and they share a silent smile and walk almost too normally neither of them looking back.
The boy wants it to be him in the car with faceless strangers clawing at him in drunken slurry affection at 2 AM on a quiet road in Dadar. Since 15, he has looked for passion and heartbreak and love and fucking in every shadow. Seeing it now, he wants it more than anything in the world. He believes that only then will he not be left alone with the blue screen.
The friends thoughts are quiet and you cannot read them.
They find their car and as they drive past the Honda City, the boy sees a head near the steering wheel. "Love Lockdown" starts on the stereo. The friend hums along as he drives. The boy is thinking of Google image search results for "Desi Party Girls" and how each picture is a perfect little world as the car drives through collected dope-smoke of this and other times and it dissipates to be absorbed by stone walls.
Smoke
Picture the boy. He is wearing brown shorts and a grey printed t-shirt with White & Red Adidas Superstars.
His hair is longer than you remember - in fact it is almost long enough for him to wear a hairband. In 2 weeks it will look fine but right now it causes the hair at the back of the head to stand out like a peacock plume. He realises it, but doesn't care overtly - though his hands keep finding their way there as he walks. He seems happier than when you saw him last and if you focus you can almost see a spring in his step.
It is 2 AM and its Friday and this is Five Gardens near the Parsi Fire Temple and the boy and his friend are the only people on the road. It is silent apart from the vague drone of cars on the main road which permeates through the air heavy with trees and sounds almost hushed as if scared to wake the sleeping stone. The friend is talking animatedly and uses a lot of hand gestures though it is not clear what he is saying. It is not especially relevant and the boy does not remember any of it the next day anyway. He is now busy hopping between the road and the footpath and does a spin every few steps and his body shows an exaggerated sense of accomplishment at this though the gap is less than 2 feet.
The friend passes the joint back to the boy who takes about 5 little drags with split second intervals causing sparks to fall on to the pavement. He exhales slowly and the thick cloud of smoke stays in the air behind them as they walk as there is no wind and you cannot hear the leaves or the crickets or even the traffic anymore. And the smoke settles there smelling of better dreams made of Dutch Truffle Cake Shakes (TM) and home-made pizza and paint thinner.
The friend is wearing a black t-shirt, long white shorts and brown slippers. He walks on the footpath silently and is no longer saying anything. He slumps slightly while he walks his mind swimming in far flung depths. Amongst other things he thinks of Duty Free liquor and EMIs and how his boss buys carpets from Istanbul.
They take turns at random neither of them saying anything. The joint is over and was stubbed 20 m ago. The buildings around them weigh down like Millennia and the arches and white columns remind the boy of Athens somehow. He has stopped hopping and walks straight and silent.
The world is on mute and they walk in a painting. 2 darker color blots on overlapping greys broken by cones of melting yellow streetlight. If you pay attention you can see shadows of owls.
The friend always wanted to live here for the sense of perceived community. He thinks of gardens and Sunday Afternoon Cricket, Grand lunches at Navroze , kids on bikes. An older Mumbai asserts itself on him. He is wary of nostalgia, but when pressed would agree that things were better back then.
The boy is shrinking into himself - he feels like an intruder. The city does this to him sometimes. It turns the volume low and dims the lights and the electricity seeps in from the roads and the air making him quiver. He is by himself and all around him is the Blue Screen. He is scared someone will notice and turn off the special effects. Every dark window is a love story and he feels naked as he walks about them.
The moment builds for a time - getting heavier till it gives in under the strain. Plop.
The car goes past them, it is a grey 2007 Honda City and now they are awake. The car slows and stops at some distance and they are both a little straighter and the boys rubber shoes make a slight shuffling sound. The friends slippers are still silent.
The boy thought he saw a couple in the car which is silent ahead of them and walks with forced casualness. He fights the urge to run to the car. He fights the urge to run away.
The windows are tinted. The passenger side window is not fully rolled up and he catches a glimpse of a slender dark waist with a white top drawn up to the shoulders leaning against the driver. The friend also notices and they share a silent smile and walk almost too normally neither of them looking back.
The boy wants it to be him in the car with faceless strangers clawing at him in drunken slurry affection at 2 AM on a quiet road in Dadar. Since 15, he has looked for passion and heartbreak and love and fucking in every shadow. Seeing it now, he wants it more than anything in the world. He believes that only then will he not be left alone with the blue screen.
The friends thoughts are quiet and you cannot read them.
They find their car and as they drive past the Honda City, the boy sees a head near the steering wheel. "Love Lockdown" starts on the stereo. The friend hums along as he drives. The boy is thinking of Google image search results for "Desi Party Girls" and how each picture is a perfect little world as the car drives through collected dope-smoke of this and other times and it dissipates to be absorbed by stone walls.