A Blog begun years ago as a stroll on the Funny Side of Serious
Street, highlighting India's problems. Revived by adding memories of old
Bombay, including excerpts from Dreams of One Country.
JUHU SEA'S LOVE STORM
(Old Bombay Scene: Excerpt 4 from Dreams of One Country)
The surf’s never-ending wash was part of the peace of Priyasmeet.
Thursdays, the band’s weekly holiday, were good for writing. After sunset he would
sit on the lawn and see the birds’ last flight and watch the trees darkening till
a suspicion of green in their foliage seemed a mere trick of the imagination.
One Thursday morning he went late for a run. The tide was out. The beach was sheeny
and wide. Decomposed pooja flowers and
tar-balls marked the sea edge. He passed Nirvana Junction, where white
hippies high on charas stared out at some
inner universe. There were defaecators in action on the sands ahead. Norman turned back. He
saw Priya waiting near Creado’s shack. She waved and ran down. Awkwardly. A
sari is un-athletic gear, he thought.
‘I....was at Goregaon last night,’ she panted. ‘Aaee wanted
Nalini with them. Couple of days. Some…ceremony. You like running on the beach?’
‘Love it. But this seems the only clean part left. Ay, big
clouds on the horizon.’
‘You see that man swimming with a black dog? He’s a retired
Englishman. Mr Graham. Lives alone. Dhondu calls him Garamsaib.’
‘Hot Sahb? Because he likes the Bombay heat? Bambai ka garmi.’
‘Ki garmi. Not ka. Your Bombay Hindi! It’s hopeless. Norman, I feel like swimming. I think…I’ve an
old swimsuit in the wardrobe. Let me see.’ She hurried ahead.
Norman
went straight to the kitchen. He pumped the primus stove’s flame into a blue gushing
flower and put the kettle on for tea.
‘Is this okay?’
He turned. The one-piece suit she wore was a tight fit. He
went around her. ‘Hope it doesn’t bust. Ay Priya? There’s a patch…bruise behind
your shoulder. Oh, another here. Thigh. What happened?’
‘I fell. Slipped on the stairs at home.’
‘And the tinge under your eye? You don’t wear mascara.
Tell me the truth.’
‘I told you.’ She walked out.
Norman
placed fried eggs, bread and tea on the verandah table. Not a fall, he told himself.
In minutes the day darkened. Another thought worried him. Was she aware of the
monsoon undertow? He ran out and down the path. The blow was so strong he inhaled
in gasps. Up the coast the coconut trees strained in the wind, fronds whipping
back like frowsy women’s hair. The view before him was spectacular - a vast photographic
negative with the sea and sky in blue-grey tones. Pools and rivulets glistened on
the beach. The surf spread in shimmering sheets. In the water Priya’s head was a
dot. Her arms made little splashes. Soon
brush strokes slanted over the horizon. Visibly, the distances pulled in. Priya
started wading back. He went home.
Priya returned and called out over the rain roar: ‘Started
pouring suddenly!’
He stared at her sea-beaded face. ‘Want some breakfast?’
‘Just tea,’ she said. ‘I’ll bathe first, Norman.’
After fifteen minutes he reheated the tea, then went down
the passage and called her. The bathroom door opened. She was wrapped in his grey
towel. ‘Lot of sand in my hair. Give me a
minute to dress.’
‘Wait.’ He held her shoulders. ‘How did you get the
bruises?’
‘Stop questioning me. And don’t dare touch me!’ She moved away
but held on to his right hand. In the bedroom she swung into him, open-mouthed.
He wrapped her in his arms and was hustled by an instinctive body rhythm.
Norman
lay back. Priya’s head was pillowed in the nook of his shoulder. In half-light
he saw a green flicker of window curtains. He felt tears dropping on his chest.
‘Baby, please tell me the truth,’ he pleaded.
‘Leave me alone! Go!
Oh! Oh!’
He dressed and sat in the verandah. The rain had stopped. Gutters
gurgled. A bulbul fluted bubbly notes. Sunlight opened a corner of the wet
lawn. She’s all twisted up, he thought. Why had her marriage gone sour? A
little later he heard her car starting and ran to the path. Dhondu was pulling
the gates shut. The Fiat flushed through pooled water and swung fast around the
corner.
He found her address and number from the papers in a bedroom
drawer. Priyasmeet had no phone. Two hours later he dialled her from the Juhu bus-stop
booth.
A woman answered in good Hindi. ‘Kaun chahiyey aapko?’
‘…Mrs Priya Jha.’
‘Aap kaun? (Who
are you?)’ the voice demanded.
Before he could lie, Priya said, ‘Hello?’
‘Baby, it’s me.’
‘What’s it?’
‘Wanted to know you reached safely.’ She cut him off. The Cynthia
treatment?
At the Ecs next
day he found an unsigned note in a sealed envelope. ‘Don’t ever call me! For God’s
sake! What happened shouldn’t have happened. It’s over.’
*
Tail Lights
India Cinemascopic
Check out Dreams of One Country on Amazon.com. If the novel's Revolutionary Theme - the March to a NewIndia - appeals to you, you can download it on any device: I phones, pads or computers. In the 21st Century story youth lead India's people to unite as Ek Desh (One Country), to strive together and build an enlightened and truly modern nation
