WorldWar2: Old Bombay

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.

World War II in Old Bombay

For me, as a child, watching the street below from the common balcony on the third floor of the 5-storey tenements on Dadar Main Road was fun. The Krishna Vishranti Graha hotel right in front and the two Irani restaurants at the corner would compete in blaring out film music on their radios. The local goondah's men would play crazy pranks on the road. But when they did things like knocking off a lame beggar's walking stick and then stood around laughing at the man's misery, I would fume at their meanness.

Those were the days of World War II. The Japanese army was racing north after knocking the British out of Singapore. Every now and then the air raid siren would start its winding music - sounding like the world's biggest saxophone. WAACs of the Women's Auxiliary Army Corps (British, some Indians - mostly Anglo-Indians, all smart in jacket-and-skirt uniforms) and members of the air raid patrol wearing ARP armbands would shoo away people. Streets would empty. If it was nighttime all the street gaslights were put off and dark curtains were drawn across windows. I was thrilled to watch searchlights crisscrossing the skies and the Divali-like flares, explosions and showers of light as antiaircraft guns opened up on some suspicious object. Possibly groups of birds! The Japanese never tried to bomb Bombay.
In the evenings I would hang hang around the balcony to see my father returning from work. Some days he was late, and the longer I had to wait the more I worried. Then the boys ran by shouting 'Clojingggdalaay!' ('Closing Daily!') and sold slips of paper giving the last digit of the American cotton selling price for the day. (The last digits of the opening ('Opaaandalaay!'yelled the boys) and closing prices of American cotton were used for organized gambling across the city those days.) That meant it was past nine, and I would run to my mother for some kind of assurance. What a moment of relief (of joy) it was when my father finally appeared at the street corner!

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Tail Lights:
1. 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.
2. A Happy Marriage
Everyone wants to be happily married...not married-and-harried! The most important ingredient for a happy marriage is love.The most important ingredient for love is for the partners to be the very best of friends.
The most important ingredient to be the best of friends is to accept each other as equals or equal partners - for neither to try to belittle, dominate or walk over the other or the other's family.

Needless to say, the reverse ideas are the perfect formula for an unhappy marriage!

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Juhu SunsetGlow Story

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.

A Juhu SunsetGlow Story

(Excerpt 6 - from  A Three-day Lifetime, another chapter in Dreams of One Country - Amazon Books. There are many scenes of old Bombay in the novel, a story of young dreams and fresh ideas inspiring the people to unite, to build an India dedicated to humane and progressive ideas - indeed, to join the most developed countries of the world, like Denmark and the U.S.)

Priya placed an LP on a portable player she had brought. Begum Akhtar’s dreamy ghazals bridged their silences. She lay on him, snuggling in his arms.

After sunset they walked barefoot in the tide’s wash. A red gash showed where the sun had gone. He asked her the meaning of a ghazal’s refrain rewinding in his mind - Meyrey humnufus, meyrey humnawah, mujhey dosth bankey dagah na dey. A kiss cut off her explanation. Tidewater curled around their feet.

They found a seaside restaurant with a garden and ordered dinner. Coconut fronds dipped below the eaves like a giant bird’s pintails. In the distance shore lights danced on the waves. ‘Norman? I feel we’ve always been together,’ she said. 

‘Man and wife in the universal reality. So said Jack Kerouac.’

‘Who? Oh, the beat writer.’

A waiter gave them the evening paper. In a speech Prime Minister Indira Gandhi had again claimed great achievements.

‘I used to admire her,’ said Priya. ‘When the Grand Alliance threatened to defeat her, Papa and I were worried. After coming to Bombay we had to re-register to vote. A helpful local Congress leader took our forms. On election day we found our names missing. We learnt that the leader had charged poor illiterates to fill forms, but hadn’t submitted any. He pocketed campaign funds too. At his victory meeting Mrs Gandhi praised his patriotism. He’s now President of the Slum Dwellers’ Union. His goondah enforcers collect rent from slums. He and a builder opened a new hospital. Just a matriculate, but he is the hospital’s head. We heard rumours of nurses getting pregnant. A lady doctor resigned accusing him of molesting her. Nothing happens to him. I lost faith in Indira. If she supported such parasites, what hope have our poor?’

‘Their hope…as a great man said in another context…is as weak as soup…’

‘Made from the shadow of a pigeon that died of starvation.’

‘Right!’ he exclaimed, delighted she had quoted Lincoln back at him.

***

Tail Lights
1. 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.
2. Face Values Can Deceive: Whether it's people or events try not to jump to conclusions by Face Values. Look beyond sur-faces.In case of people what you initially see may be their cosmetic faces. In case of events look beyond the surface ripples. The deeper undercurrents are those which move events in different directions and determine their outcome.

Old Bombay's Bollywood

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’s Bollywood

In my childhood and early youth we lived on Dadar Main Road, a street with three film studios. There were other studios like Famous at Mahalaxmi; but our Dadar street was the home of Bollywood those days. Later as an adult, by coincidence, we lived in Juhu surrounded by the homes of 'stars.’

On Dadar Main Road crowds gathered at the gates of the studios – Ranjit, Shree Sound and Ranjit Movietone - to mob the big name stars (but not the hardly known producers, financiers and directors) arriving in cars. Other denizens of the film world - among them stardom hopefuls, technicians and ‘extras’ who crowded the chorus lines of the innumerable song-and-dance numbers or ‘fight’ and crowd scenes so essential in every formula film - walked in through the gates. Even as a kid I had no interest in Hindi movies. I enjoyed Tarzans with Johnny Weissmuller, pirate movies with Douglas Fairbanks Jr., Errol Flynn adventures, Dean Martin-Jerry Lewis or Bud Abbot-Lou Costello comedies etc. My favourite Hollywood actress was Ava Gardner - whom I had every intention of romancing and marrying when I grew up. (I believed Ava had the most beautiful face in the world…till I met my wife-to-be in college. And, I was certain, here at last was someone who - with gentleness added on - could feature by feature give Ava a run for her money.) Those days Aurora at King’s Circle was my favourite theatre. My friend Atma and I would reach hours ahead of the show to line up between railings for the 5-anna or lowest stall tickets. Then the ‘ruffian’ boys would arrive and they would walk on our shoulders and even heads to go ahead of us in the queue. At times we wouldn’t get tickets though we went so early. We solved that problem by befriending a theatre usher called Bhaskar - who got us tickets, if we were walked-over.

When we moved to a Juhu flat we were surrounded by the homes of top stars (some of whom still get top billing today), as well as a whole host of Bollywood hopefuls, almost all of them poorly educated, most of them arriving from north India with dreams of making it big in the world of Hindi films. Most of them – both men and women - drifted away painfully into the nefarious underworld of Bollywood. Some became hangers-on or ‘chamchas’ of Bollywood personalities by specializing in saying: ‘Wah-wah! Kya kamaal kiya aapne!’ Some succeeded, further digging Bollywood into the hole of producing movies that often blissfully ignore reality. The curious thing about the ‘hopefuls’ was that if they got a chance to break into Bollywood they could no longer greet old neighbours. One such ‘hopeful’ was a next door neighbour. He was married to the sister of a top male star. As soon as he got the chance to assist a producer he stopped wishing us. And he would look right through us, as though his mind was preoccupied with ‘genius’ ideas for a Hindi film.

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Tail Lights:

1. India Illuminiscopic:
Check out Dreams of One Country on Amazoncom. 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
2. Why never give up?
If your objective is good and fair, there's no point ever in giving up. Think. Plan. Keep trying, using fresh ideas or modifications. Look at history and remember how often success after success led to the greatest defeat. And, yes, how failure after failure has led to the greatest success! So never give up!

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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.

*

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

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.’

*

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

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.

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

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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.

*

Tail Lights

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