Chowpatty Cinemascopic

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.

Chowpatty Cinemascopic

(Old Bombay Tour; Excerpt 5 - from Dreams of One Country)

Norman's Dad was seriously ill. The circumstances were such that he had to collect the money urgently needed for his father's treatment from Priya Jha on Chowpatty Beach...when the Jhas took their Ganpati for immersion on the final day of the festival...

Overcast bay. A warm afternoon. From Marine Drive’s embankment he saw families taking smaller idols to Chowpatty, avoiding the later crowds. In the piled rocks and concrete tetrapods behind him crabs scurried like last minute shoppers. In front of Priya’s apartment building across the Drive a procession was lining up. Minutes past 5 a chorus of ‘Ganpati-bappa Moriya!’ signalled the groups were moving. Fireworks rattled and boomed. Norman crossed a divider hedge to join the spectators.

A brass band in orange Ruritanian tunics led the way towards a street crossing. A lejim team followed, performing the dance-drill to the jhing-jhing-jhing of chains of small cymbals. Next came men jigging to film tunes played by a trio on the shehnai and drums. Some of the dancers - one, the most conspicuous, a fat man wearing a red bush-shirt - flung themselves around with tipsy abandon. He suspected they were the goondahs. A flower-draped cart drawn by Brahma bulls carried the idol. Among the men walking behind the cart he identified Priya’s husband and father-in-law. Uncleji, a heavy-built man, had a mane of shoulder-length hair. Rajinder’s flowing silk kurta added to his Hindi actor looks. Cars for the family party came last. He saw Priya enter a dark blue Mercedes at the rear. Norman read its number plate and walked away.

He found a vantage seat on the first floor of a glassed restaurant near Chowpatty footbridge. The machinery-like throbbing of drums on the beach did not abate a moment. Clouds hid the setting sun and huge idols - a generation of golden giants - rode above the concourse. Reflections of neon ads on Malabar Hill pulsed in the tides of a darkening bay. Boats were taking bigger idols out into deeper water. Norman spotted the Jhas’ Mercedes under the footbridge. He gulped his cold drink and got up.

He pushed past busy food stalls to the klieg-lit entry point for processions. Human rivers flowed up and down Sandhurst Bridge, the main procession route. Banners on trucks announced where each idol came from. Perched on top of a van, two Japanese aimed a movie camera at a dancing idol from Kamatipura, a red-light area. The gaggle of girls on board, their lips paan-reddened, shrieked in delight. Norman stayed at a safe distance as the Jhas went down the ropeway. On the open beach people eddied in disorder. The Jha procession stopped near the sea. Norman squeezed through spectators to a rope held up in a circle. The four-foot idol sat on a low stool in the glare of a petromax lamp. A Brahmin priest was about to begin the final pooja. Priya stood in a group of women, her blue sari vivid against a ruby west. Nalini was in her arms. A woman’s reedy voice rose in a chant. Others joined in, some clapping, some clinking little cymbals. Spectators surged forward. Norman struggled to hold his place.

When the jostling stopped Priya was no longer in the circle. Norman worked his way out and glimpsed her at a tableau of idols from the R.K. Film Studio. But by the time he reached the RK truck she was out of sight. Frantic, he turned around, caught a glimpse of blue in the press between two parked trucks and rushed on. Norman saw Nalini gazing at a three-headed Brahma. He touched Priya’s arm. ‘Sweetheart?’

She swung around. Her cheeks looked pale, flatter. ‘Oh Norman! He…he wants a divorce,’ she said breathlessly. ‘With Auntyji’s help he cooked stories about me. And Uncleji found his son was wasting company funds. Gambling. Making movies with a friend. I’m certain Uncleji will take us away. I’ll write to you, my love. Don’t know what the future is. I hope they don’t harass Papa-Aaee any more.’

For moments he gazed at her. ‘Baby, we’re meant for each other. We’ll surely find an answer. It may take some time.’

‘Other thing…I don’t know when it happened. Whether it was my last visit or…I wasn’t careful earlier. The nausea began. I got the test done at Goregaon. We have a baby, my love.’

‘Hell!’ he blurted out. ‘I’ll find a doctor tomorrow. Go for an abortion.’

‘Papa knows a good doctor at Goregaon. Only if there’s no choice. I’ll see if I…’

‘What choice, baby? Just do it! Abort it!’

‘Are you sure? Norman, I want to keep our baby.’

‘No, sweetie. No. You’ve enough trouble already. We’ll have kids later. ’

Priya pressed his hand to her belly, warm over a new life. ‘I’ll miss you.’ From her bag she gave him a manila package. ‘Forty. I’ll go now, my love.’

He tucked the package under his vest. His lips brushed her hair as she turned. She gasped. Her hip knocked against him. Arms came around from behind and held him. He got a hooch stench. A thick voice ordered: ‘Chup-chap chalo!’ (Come quietly!)

He reacted instinctively, turning to make more room. A fist scythed back crotchward. The man behind gurgled, releasing Norman. He turned and saw Red Shirt bent over. Ten feet away Priya’s husband was closing in, yelling at the men: ‘Behnchod ko choddo math!’ (Don’t let the s…er escape!)  Two hooch-filled goondahs tried to grab Norman. His fist went for a crotch, a knee for the other. The men clutched their middles, groaning. Norman plumped down and crawled under the near truck. He rose on the other side and ran straight into a procession boiling out of the entry route. Behind him he heard cries of ‘Chor! Chor! Pickpocket!’ Invitation for a Bombay public lynching! Norman ran to the other side of a truck chugging towards the street - to get out of sight of his pursuers. He made sure the package was inside his vest and clambered on the footboard. A funny thought traipsed by: Where did I learn to go for the balls? The tension eased a bit. A boy grinned out from the truck’s cab and smeared Norman’s face with vermilion dust.     

The truck wobbled like a toy in the ploughed-up sand near the street. It crossed the Drive. Norman jumped off into the pavement crowds. Police whistles blew and halted the flow to and from Chowpatty. Don’t tangle with the cops, he warned himself. They’re out in force. In the mass of people waiting on the beach side he noted Red Shirt. The man pointed across at him. Norman walked past reserve policemen idling on the steps of Aram Restaurant. The dark huddle of Wilson College loomed ahead. At the corner he turned into the deserted street to his right and sprinted. He went past Bhavan’s College. Huffing for breath, he leaned on a postbox and waved out at taxis. One stopped. He got in and dusted the vermilion from his face and clothes. Both the knees were bleeding, his trousers torn. His fingers rubbed a bruise on the forehead.

At Himalay he found the house locked. He went up to get the spare key from the Lawsons. Cynthia opened the door. Her jaw dropped on seeing him. I must be a horrible sight, he thought. Norman told her briefly about the trouble at Chowpatty. Cy was biting her lip, as though she would cry any moment. She came downstairs with him. He washed up. She helped him apply antiseptic on the cuts.

‘Cy, I got the money for Dad’s operation. The big worry now is what’ll happen to Priya. Her husband saw us together.’ He glanced at Cy. She was rubbing her eyes.

‘Oh-h-h!’ Cynthia sobbed out. ‘It’s no use, Norman. It’s all over!’

The second stroke had happened about the time Norman was at the beach restaurant. Dad had not come out of a coma.

*

Of the funeral day what he retained most was the unremitting pain. Several hundred people paid their respects to Dad. Before they left for the cemetery Norman sent everyone out of the drawing room except close family. He studied the familiar facial features and felt his father’s old abdominal operation scars, hoping to burn them into memory. If at least I’d held Dad in my arms at the end, he thought. But I wasn’t even there. He placed his face on the lifeless chest. His tears flowed on his father.

*

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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

Juhu Sea's Love Storm

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.’

*

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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

JuhuBeach Monsoon Jog

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 BEACH MONSOON RUN
(Old Bombay Scene: Excerpt 3 from Dreams of One Country - Amazon Books.)

The dawn skyline south was obscured by windblown sea spray, layer on layer of bluish-grey. Mercury vapour lamps glimmered along the coast. It was exhilarating to run into the fierce southwest, the rain pricking his face like needles. He felt he could run forever. Crows beat their wings and stood still in the air, then tumbled over and were hurled landward. Transparent air-sacs of little physalia went plop under his feet. In the wet sand the button shells - little univalves intricately varied in colour and design - looked like jewels strewn around by a squanderer. Strangely, in the monsoon sea wind he smelt the herbal fragrance of khuskhus roots. Was that an olfactory hallucination? Between Priyasmeet and the beach was the thatched house of a Michael Creado. He belonged to Bombay’s Roman Catholic fisher community, the East Indians. Michael sat in his porch every morning, his face swollen and sore from a surfeit of alcohol. Some days he wore a T-shirt and a traditional langot (a coloured cloth triangle that left the bottoms bare), and fished in waist-deep water.

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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

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Love Lost in Colaba Fog

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.

LOVE LOST IN COLABA FOG 

(Old Bombay Scene: Excerpt 2 - From my novel Dreams of One Country)

On the last day of her leave Norman planned to talk of his feelings. Cy crossed over at the old Taj corner, looking cuddly in a fluffy white cardigan. ‘Let’s go by cab to Colaba Camp,’ she said. India’s taxi drivers decide if and where they go. Like other meek citizens he pleaded in vain with two. Cy commandeered a taxi with disdainful authority. They got off at R.C. Church. Dense fog ahead. On Defence cinema’s huge hoarding the Tamil hero, MGR, rode a prancing horse. Norman’s soliloquy trod neutral ground as he inched towards the big moment. He paused. ‘Anything wrong, Cy? You’re so quiet.’

‘Can’t you think of anything nice to say to me?’

‘Like what?’

‘I must tell you what to tell me?’ Cy wobbled away into the fog on platform shoes. 

‘Off the road!’ he screamed. A car swept by like a shadowy monster. He ran and pulled her under a peepul. Whiteness swirled around them. The sun was a luminous white disc. As his arms went around her, he heard a fluty sound. Two birds were hopping on a low branch. ‘Look, Cy! Beautiful! Golden orioles!’

‘I’m sure you prefer an oriole to me.’

Her charming glare thrummed his chordae tendinae. ‘Never! You’re my only bird.’

‘I’m not your bird, stupid!’

‘Ma’am!’ He raised a classroom hand. ‘Whose bird are you?’

She wasn’t amused. ‘Ra phoned from London. He said he would have taken me tonight to Talk of the Town. To hear the Indian pop star from Canada. You? Will you?’ 

‘Sorry.’ Suddenly it seemed a day to quarrel. ‘Too expensive. I can’t afford it.’

‘Dammit, I’ll pay. Money is all you think of.’ Cy stamped up dust.

‘Shit! I thought you gave up the high life.’

‘I’m going home.’

Cy sulked all the way back to the Causeway. Near Shalini’s Boutique she waded in to shoo off an aimless crowd pestering a party of Uzbeki women tourists - all wearing multihued gowns and scarves, all plump and uncommunistic in their happiness. One of them asked Norman - with signs and many smiles - to snap their group against a horse gharry or victoria, a relic of old Bombay. Atop the carriage sat another gray relic wearing khaki clothes and a fez. Norman almost dropped the Russian camera: it weighed a ton. Next the Uzbeki asked him and Cy to hold hands at the group’s centre. He warned Cy it would be documentary proof that they were once comrades-in-arms. The woman clicked. (And so, somewhere in the old Socialist Republic of Uzbekistan, there exists a picture of Cy and him - in colour and resplendent company.)

When they walked on, Cynthia’s comment about ‘their birthday party dresses’ tinkled in his mind. Me, moron! At least twice she had mentioned her birthday to him.

‘Sorry I forgot!’ He wished Cy and promised her a gift by evening. ‘Cy, please…’  

Too late. She hailed a taxi to go to a restaurant lunch with her parents.

*

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1. 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

First Date First Show

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.

FIRST DATE FIRST SHOW

Excerpted episode from Dreams of One Country - 1

 (An old Bombay Scene)

Collegians packed the Sterling’s lobby. Norman waited, suspecting more deception. When Cy ran up the steps he heard in the caverns of his mind music akin to 20^th Century Fox’s triumphant trumpets announcing the Next Attraction. At this first outing he was a rank amateur. His arm muscles twitched at the lightest touch on the armrest. Distractions surrounded them. Paper bags popping to celebrate screen clinches. Wisecracks. And the love calls of a pair of human koels - the male’s rising “ku-oo, ku-ooo, ku-ooo” in a melancholic crescendo; the female replying “keeek-keeek-keeek” and breaking into a flirtatious shriek – had the student crowd in splits. In the foyer at the Interval Norman glared at louts ogling Cy with glutinous eyes. She had three meat patties in quick time. He ordered three more. Chimes invited them in. Irma la Douce began.

‘I doubt you’re getting your money’s worth,’ said Cy. She smiled into screen glow.

He was admiring her profile. ‘I am.’

‘Of the movie, yaar.’

‘In any case,’ he reminded her, ‘you spent for the tickets.’

‘Not me. My boss. Ra (for Rakesh). He had an unexpected board meeting. So I…’

So Norman shut up. In the taxi going back, his lips itched to kiss her. They stopped at her Cuffe Parade office. In a last chance gamble he clutched her arm. Cy – not too politely - withdrew her precious limb. They stepped out into a mellow January sun.

‘Bye, Norman,’ she said. ‘I think you’re funnier than Shirley Maclaine.’

‘Cynthia, wait! Will I see you at the Ecs (the restaurant where he was a crooner in the band) soon?’

‘That depends.’ She stepped away.

‘On what?’ he called out.

‘Your imagination.’ She ran past the glass doors, out of sight.

Cynthia Lawson left him quivering. Back to Ra, he grouched. Great executive god in his carpeted shrine!

*  

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India Cinemascopic

My novel Dreams of One Country - for download on I-phone, pad or computer from Amazon.com - is a moving panorama of young dreams and ideas inspiring India's people to come together as Ek Desh (One Country) and build a truly modern nation.

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Old Bombay Whizz Tour

 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.


                                               
Old Bombay Whizz Tour

This homecoming to Funny Lines returns to the past. So many memories of old Bombay – like the cinemascope scenes of thousands of commuters crisscrossing the city in any contraption that moved on wheels to defy the All-India Railway Strike and the Ganpati spectacle on Chowpatty beach – are part of Dreams of One Country. As in life, my novel is funny in parts, sad in parts.

The story is purposeful. Taking off from a heart-hugging love story set in years-ago Bombay, it tracks the only way India can lift herself from 135th out of 185 countries in HDI (Human Development Index) rating and rise to join the world’s most developed led by Denmark, Norway, New Zealand, Singapore and the U.S. Denmark has never launched a space probe. Quietly, this north European country pursues her objective of using every resource to enhance the people’s quality of life. Denmark is one of the few countries that offer free quality healthcare and education (school and university) to all citizens.

1. India Illuminiscopic:
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

*

INDIA DISCOVERS IDEAL PASS-TIME

In a country where youngsters consider SMSing jokes to each other as a happy 'time-pass' and an elderly man meeting another often asks, 'How do you pass your time?' IPL cricket games are a sparkling innovation. Revelling crowds pack the stadia. And they get the works - music, fireworks, imported cheerleaders - to accompany games that have none of the state, country or club relevance that could raise passions. At least a quarter of the crowd comes from slums, eager for 'time-pass' even if they have to forego a day's meals for the family to buy a ticket.

Of course, the happiest of all are those raking in the big moolah - the organizers, the advertisers, the team franchisees and the TV stations which broadcast the Ideal Pass-time League games.

Incredible India? You said it!!!
For more India Realities stories see other blogs here and at www.myspace.com/india_realities (i.e. india underscore realities).