Out of the events in them days of daze, now hazy with the passage of time,
stands out some days, which in themselves are losing the minute details of the
spontaneous crazy lukkhagiri that seemed perfectly normal in those preoldfart
days. It was perhaps December. Chat was going home the next day by the Gitanjali
Express, that left at the unearthly hour of 6 am from VT station. Unearthly to
us, as that would involve leaving the hostel by 4 am, and that would be cutting
it fine. Not wishing to torture ourselves by going to bed early, the choice was
clear..another nightout.
The night whiled away in listening to muzaak in the H4 lounge, one of the
frequent venues of nightouters that involved taping. I forget what exactly we
listened to, but it was some Hendrix or Dylan and the Band or ELP. Cack, gossip,
sneers on the various politicians and proffies. amidst packets of wills filter,
and a couple trips to the sole centre of late night dining, the chinese corner
or 'chinkos', that naked fluoroscent light glaring in the dark night, adjacent
to the ever hissing gas stoves, surrounded by a halo of greasy odor of sour soup
and omelettes, that served as the center of nourishment and social activity.
About 3.45 or so we started the long trek to the YP gate. 20 minutes later we
get a bus (ro--did we walk this or did we call a cab to the hostel?) ANYWAY
that's a detail not of much consequence in what i remember..
The train from K-marg to VT is fairly crowded at 4.30 am, with early office
workers, millhands and street hawkers headed to the wholesale markets to score
their days' goods. Most of them are freshly bathed but hanging on to their
truncated sleep. We are in the zone beyond sleep, where everything seems to be a
bit funny, giggles without any reason.. and indeed why must there be a reason
for everything?
Past the major stations of Kurla and Dadar, where wildeyed passengers burst in,
eyes rapidly darting from left to right in search of a vacant seat. This at 4.30
am. In another hour or so, they won't even be able to burst in, there being a
solid wall of commuters hanging outta the door. On through the old textile and
spice factories of old Bombay, that rush by in the dank chilly air,
the aromas of vandevi hing mingling with the graywater
eternally flowing from the backsides of the chawls that hug the rail line.
Finally VT with its sodium vapor lit platforms. We get out and head towards the
long distance platforms. Long distance terminal, its the gateway to the land
outside Bombay.. north to the lofty Himal, east to bengal and the northeast,
south to kanyakumari and all points un between, with all the various landscapes,
languages and cultures. International airports go one step further, other
lands...never mind that in the end every place is just a place, its getting
there, being on the move that's the essence of travel..
Okay, so back to the long distance platform. The floor is covered with huddled
clusters of passengers most of whom spent the night there. Some are passengers
on a longer journey, they do not have any particular train to catch; rather they
are wandering nomads, with a temporary home on the waiting area. We wander
around to buy platform tickets and get some chai, to steady our semi
hallucinatory state of mind, all the while stepping over people, tracing a
randomly curving path on the floor. People sat propped against the walls.
Amongst them sat a hippie girl fallen on hard times, very thin, her cheeks
sunken into shadows from the yellow lights. Amidst all the other beggars and
destitute souls, somehow it was sadder to see someone from a land very far away
lying wasted. Sure, someone may point out that she may have landed in this
situation by choice, or rather, by carelessness, but such criticism indicates
having lived a life devoid of the spontaneous freespirited dreams of youth...
The platform for Gitanjali is announced. We join the flow of people carrying
mounds of luggage, half of which probably is food for the long 36 hour trip. It used to be that
people carried huge water carriers with ice, failing which we'd rush to the water fountains
at every station, or buy cucumbers to stay cool, but today plastic bottled mineral water is
everywhere. Chat shuffling along, wincing at the torrents of Bong. We locate the compartment and
the berth, clamber aboard and sit down. Chat gives what appears to be slightly
suspicious looks at the fellow passengers, who give us equally suspicious looks.
I suppose our slightly manic state of hilarity together with us speaking english
and dressed in ITI style, patched phaded jinnpant, fatru t-shirt and rubber chaps and all that.
It gets close to departure time, as seen by the frantic lastminute selling of
chai and other assorted necessities of a long journey, and we take our leave
effusively. The whistle blows, and climaxes my wish to go along with the train,
the lust for travel.
We make our way out of the platform and out of the station. Dawn has broken. The
streets outside are stirring, just about. Most shops are closed at 6.15 am,
except a few udipi type places, opening amidst intense incense smoke. Some cabbies washing
their cars. We decide to have some idlitype stuff for breaker. Another round of chai. Then walk
desultorily towards f-street to see if Madame Burntface is there. Liberty is
showing Out of Africa, and Saha decides to see it, seconded by both of us. I had
already seen it sometime back, but felt it worthy of a second round.. the
landscape of the Kenyan highlands together with Meryl Streep and the romantic
tragic angle. But the first show was only at 3 pm, which meant we'd have to bum
around town till then.
No problem in that. I forget if we did meet Mme B'face. Probably we did, passing
freely past the hordes of sleeping mangy curs, which wore themselves out barking
inanely the past night, like every other night.
We walk on towards the sea and reach M-drive. Deserted at this time, except for a few bums sleeping
on the concrete parapet between the land and the sea. Rubbish papers dancing about
in the gusts of breeze, as the sun comes up from behind, hazy in the morning smog.
We sit on the parapet, looking at the pre-rush hour traffic. The day is slowly turning into a daydream
state, with us being from another universe (the campus can do that), trespassers into the day
from a night of wakefulness. An early peanut seller regards us tentatively and asks "channa sheng garam?"
One of us nods no, another laughs out at the optimism of the seller " who would buy peanuts
at this time of day?"
Groups of chhakkas pass by. We are obviously not worth their time.Or perhaps they are offduty,
given that they are not into the big flat claps. Another gloriously mad unkempt
bum passes by and flops down on the road. His face is supremely serene. Absolutely not bothered by the
passing traffic or the layers of grime and rags that is he. Thin and lanky and ablebodied.
We decide we need a place to crash for a while, now that the sun is getting stronger,
shining straight into the eyes. Plus its a bit windy here, and the j burns fast, wasted. Back we walk
away from the sea, and find a place in the maidan, somewhere to sit and roll. The sun comes up, and is
accompanied by an increase in public crossing the maidan. The ground and cool grass pulls us, we become..
horizontal. Next door is the Cricket Club of India, where snootsy
clubbies don sparkling white costumes and practice. Mme B'face has not failed us, and states of mad laughter
alternate with drowsy snoozes.
Locomotive Breath
Head on the ground, I become aware of heavy beats thudding louder, approaching nearer. Open my eyes and see
a huge mountain dressed in tennis clothes huffing and puffing on a track towards us. To my right is Ro, he stares
wildeyed, as if wondering what on earth is this apparition. Saha in front of us is still deeply crashed out,
and wakes at the last moment, when the mountain is almost upon him, red puffing face, mounds of flesh rippling, huffing
like a steam engine. He looks, gives a massive start and bursts out into an insane peal of
laughter -
" F@^* man, locomotive breath !!!"
Ro and me burst out, this is too much.
The apparition moves on, no doubt keeping his cool at this blatant show of ridicule. But we were
street lukkhas in their purest form, not worth tangling with.
With newly lifted states of mind, we walk on towards Colaba, the gateway, the waterline.. actually
its our feet leading is automatically out of force of habit, walking along the university's colonial
buildings, the Rajabai Clock Tower says 9.45 am, then DN Road. The morning rush has begun, taxis honking, doubledeckers pondering upon their way past havaldars and sakharams
in khaki shorts waving their arms about, blowing tin whistles to add to the circus.
The footpath booksellers are just laying their plastic sheets, on which the books would be spread. These
book displays usually are an integral aspect of lukkhaoing in downtown, but we are a bit too early.
Past Rhythm House and the Prince of Wales Museum on towards the Gateway and the parapet, the other
wall.
Colaba ~! One of the manic gems of Bombay, on par with Dadar Station at dusk (the flow of humanity
from the two railway track systems with the market chaos outside). The raw atmosphere of the frontier,
inter-nationale exoteek..opulent opium arabs in loose white robes, tight patent leather shoes, sunglasses and gold chains
in shadowy taxicabs..a magnet for sleaze. Hippies and travellers in faded kurtas, lungis, hiking boots and backpacks, shuffling from the
Red Shield House to Cafe Leopold, patronizing the kitsch shops on the pavement of the causeway, mingling
with other travellers. Travellers from the deep rural villages on a pilgrimage to Bambai shahar, mecca of the movies,
to gape at the familiar landmarks, hope to get a glimpse of phlim ishtars, standing hand in hand,
kerchief flicking sweat, bidi in mouth, grins and gapes.
Teenage couples gaze into each others eyes, oblivious to the kaleidoscope, perhaps the one place in Bombay they can be
lost in themselves..
And a few local denizens like an old parsi baba, and a jogesh taking an evening walk along the promenade.
All enveloped in a swirl of beggars, peanut sellers, tricksters, shoeshine boys, polaroid toting picturewallahs and
the men selling that item unique to the Gateway area, the circular plastic stencils that create
geometric patterns on paper..
By night its a far different world. Of sailors and kallus and damas de noches, little flames flickering next to the
wall where all the smack addicts hang out. Of "airhostesses" entering shadowy dimly lit bars and rooms
where the opulent arabs lurk about.
Well, lets get back on track. Cool sea breeze. and launches getting ready for the trip to Elephanta island. battleships anchored to
one side as are cargo ships and huge oil tankers, all anchored at diff points on the horizon. Trash bobs up and
down with the waves lapping against the wall. Beggars start their day, fishing on the early crowd of a few
firang tourists.
We lean against the parapet. blinking in the everybrightening sun, looking up at the tall Taj hotel.
PTom in front of the Taj (from a later photo)
At the other buildings. Go on strolling in the lanes with shady leafy trees. Make a big circuit and circle back to the best grub joint in all of Bombay, Baghdadi's, for which how many innurable times we made the long trek from the hostel/lakeside to the ypoint gate, then the station, then braved the crowded trains and a further hike to this hallowed greasy diner, amidst the true microcosm of the varied population of Colabah!
The spiced kababs, soft rotis as big as umbrellas, dal with methi leaves, succulent beef biriyani all washed down with the elixir of life, suleimani chai, the lemony black sweet tea that would aid a stomach in digesting almost any amount of greasy meaty food. No time to idly chat, people are waiting their turn, standing at your elbow. This place is for serious eaters, everyone's attention focussed on what they shovel into their mouths. One concession to this single trak behaviour is at the end of the meal, when in true recognition of needs, people can relax with a suleimani, and perhaps a cigarrette. Aah..
we made it for lunch, in the dim cool interior, ceiling fans whirring overhead.
By now its past one, and we leave, strolling idly, puffing on the charms, destination Liberty. Resist the temptation to go inside Samovar for a beer. Each building I look with new eyes, as if for the first time, noticing ficus roots squeezing into stone, the stone colours reflecting the seasons, gargoyles i never knew existed grinning malevolently down at the hordes of mortals headed to and fro..old mossy grimy statues of luminaries of yesteryear now condemned to stand, unnoticed, lost in the detail of the ornate roofs of colonial buildings, recieving pigeon droppings, to be washed off by rain, and again and again as the years pass.
On the way, we stall at book displays and second hand jean sellers. Nathani's record stall, this David Crosby look-alike spots me with his twinkling eyes amidst the huge gray moustache "ahh my friend, where you have been ! look at what i have now.. this aalmann bratherrrs eat a peach ! mint condition !"
The rolling continues as we stroll on. Reach Liberty, there's still 20 minutes before the doors open, and we sit with the crowds on the wide steps in front. Across the street, is a little house that has a shaded alcove in front, the walls covered in ivy and overhung with trees, some respite from the public eye, and we casually cross the street and proceed to get loaded one more time before we disappear in the cool airconditioned gloom of the theater.
In the theater we walk down the aisle, colored spots bobbing in my eyes from the glare acumulated in the retina from being out all day. The movie begins, the heroine Meryl Streep leaves melancholy rainy gray Denmark for a newly acquired farm in the Kenyan highlands amidst the Kikuyu tribe, and we hear snores coming from Saha. Deep rumbly snores that indicate he's deep in oblivion. I remember tuning in and out, and finally having to walk out when the feature gets over.
By now its like 5.30 pm. Peak rush time on the northbound trains, be it western or central. Just to get in we'd have to walk one station down ro Masjid, get on the VT bound train and then head back. Faaaaak ! We can't handle that, better wait till the rush hour gets by.
So once again its m drive, this time in the soft evening glow of the setting sun, flashing on the glass skyscrapers off nariman point, and we review some purchases we'd made on the streets earlier. Ro bought some books on vegetarian yogic recipes from some ISKON types floating around. The chana-sheng garam sellers have invaded the footpath, the smoke from their charcoal heaters mingling with the salt spray from the sea. Waves crash against the concrete boulders set as breakers below the parapet. Just a kilometer away along Chowpatty beach the sea is quieter, but humanity there is correspondingly more raucous, this beach being a real circus every day of the year except the furious monsoon evenings.
Time to go home now. A train ride to Ghatkopar (or Vikhroli, though I remember taking the 392 because of a little incident that follows).
Three of us are really bushed now, looking forward to More's chappatis and tondli fry. Really.
So tired that Ro forgets the precious recipes books in the bus. Enlightnment dawns only when we're a few minutes into the campus.
We lazily resign ourselves to the clutches of karma and prepare to walk on, but Saha, perhaps refreshed from his nap at the movie, springs into action.
He knows that the bus makes this loop inside the campus to main gate and will reappear at YPoint shortly. No time to lose. We could run real quick.
Saha, however, notices some campus kid on a mo-ped chugging towards him. A polite request to lend him the mo-ped for a few minutes draws a blank stare.
No time for explanations either. Saha grabs the poor wretch by the collar. Time is being wasted now in trying to get the mobile contraption to work.
Inspired by the renewal of energies all around, Ro does a quick sprint towards YP, notices the bus at the stop, hears the conductor's dreaded double tug, ting-ting, spurring the driver to move on.
Ro darts into the back of the bus, spots the books on the floor, mobilizes a quick recovery, and darts out, all the time with the bus in slow acceleration.
The conductor gives him a dirty look at first, but on witnessing the retreival, figures out what must have transpired and manages a wry grin.
Saha is still abusing the sullen kid. We now trudge back to the hostel. Glad to be back, but knowing that our quest for new adventures will begin to take shape again in good time.
