Off Limits

Bombay. The city meant liberation to me at age 19. At 24, when I finally barged into its labyrinth, a secret unfolded. There was none. Liberation that is, not secret. Duh PU.

The liberty, not of being clad in skimp or drinking like no tomorrow or having clandestine affairs, but of being at ease. Grabbing some me-time from no-time and withdrawing. Ridding myself of restlessness and a forced sense of duty. Effectively.

As I sit on my balcony ledge, a menthol in one hand [yes Neel, still prefer the ‘shit’ to all else] and Azar Nafisi’s book in the other, the thought crosses my mind: my hostel was even beautiful-ler.; why didn’t I ever sit and read there as happily? On the terrace, in the porch, the lounge, the stairs, the library, why my room even! There was more open space to be found there. More guiltless abandon for routine [skip washing clothes one day, ironing a heap another, miss a meal, avoid calls from folks]. Even more breeze and wider seat space too.

Ledges at angles perpendicular to vertical walls to lean on are my weakness. A member from my Nanaji’s beloved collection of transparent glass tea cups sits on the painted marble like a stowaway. Mint tea half finished – a thin film of मलाई on its surface – cold.

A light breeze graces the otherwise only near-perfect frame, gently cradling the 3-storey high palm tree; the Bottle Brush in an overreacting sway, tickling my elbow against all my attempts to brush it away.

My legs too carelessly rest beside the cup and the pack and phone, on one of the slippers – the other shaken off, lying capsized on the floor: all superstition be damned.

First 11 pages of Lolita Read in Tehran later, I’m so “infinitely happy”, I get off the unsafe part of the first floor, collect all the gleesome items and once more, latch the door to my private haven. I perform the studied routine of pinning my hair into a bun, washing up, gargling with Listerine, marinating my hands in copious amounts of sanitizer and sprucing up. More silent, more composed, at peace.

*Cuz the carpenter cleans up after he's done for the day. the bai's a ucking excuse left to herself.

Dombivli is not in Bombay

Neel thought we’ll reach there from Powai in half an hour. Sure.

Parag’s engagement ceremony turned out to be eventful in more ways than we could fathom. Ever. It was supposed to be an evening outing that we figured in the course of our journey, should’ve been more a day trip.

Bare facts:

• Dombivli is a valley town about 20 minutes from Matheran. [*smirk* Ever heard Marianne enunciate the name?]
• It is probably a station away from Panvel, the official gateway to the ghats from Bombay.
• It is beyond Kalyan.

It’ll remind you of the old area of your town – tiny bylanes with one arterial road to which they all meet. There are shops that sell sweet meats, auto parts, tailoring services, provisions, watches.

So we hitched an auto at the Infotech gate, warned by our autowala that we’ll have to change at Mulund Check Naka.

Neel: Parag, chutiya saala!
I: Shhh!

Off we were, blabbering about the week gone by. Traffic began to thin so were fancy commercial establishments. I don’t remember any malls en route.

“This isn’t Bombay”

We knew this little factoid of life, even if local trains extended to there and beyond. And it was the highway! With green fields on either side, and hills on the horizon, Dombivli still a bleak possibility, “Dude, this is definitely not Bombay. The auto’s moving faster than a Lamborghini!”

Our autowala may not have taken too kindly to our entertaining banter. We had just entered the ghats. This was alarming enough. Who asked for his express advice? But he went on, “ यह Mumbra bypass है.” Uh oh – wherever that was, the name was spooky enough, “आप रात को कैसे जानेवाले हो?”
Neel: Cab से, क्यूँ?
Auto guy: यह area danger होता है. बोहोत खतरनाक.

I panicked at “खतराक”. Neel found it all highly amusing. As usual.

More vroom vroom and having crossed the ghati patch, Neel utters another set of his golden ones, “We are definitely nowhere near Bombay anymore, yaa Priyanca.” Yes Neel, I needed reminding.

Directions were already becoming confusing. Two calls to Parag and one on Baby’s cell and we were still measuring the perimeter of Dombivli. And then came Neelanjan Dasgupta’s priceless-of-the-evening,

“Let’s go back.”

I could hear the sound of vacuum for a while. “Shut the fuck up, moron!@#%$%,” is what I wanted to say. Instead the more mild, almost bland “Don’t be silly. We’re almost there” came out.

6 intonations of “गोग्रस्वादी किधर है?” and lots’a a backing and forthing later, we found Patharli road, at the end of which our destination lay. But as soon as soon as we entered the lane, our irritation, fatigue, complaints about inaccurate directions – and time – all melted away.

Our own sets of memories took us back in time to different places – Neel to Kolkata, I to a bylane in the Lakdi Pul area in Baroda. Tiny shops, a बकड़ा, simple life...

It also gave us both an insight into where this guy we call “friend” comes from: his childhood, his present, how he perceives us, how he perceives it all, his daily commute [and we complain], why he’d do it at all!

Like a pilgrimage, going all the way gave us a capsule of life the way we’ve lived one time not long ago, but shunned to the back burner in our struggle to maintain mundane routine.

The ceremony itself, the milieu, the people & their garb, the food, it all said, “We haven’t succumbed to the pressures that that Dumpyard lays on us.” Its superiority lies in its simplicity, in its non-flashiness, in its welcoming-with-flowers-and-attar and introductions to one’s kith and kin. I was instantly humbled and felt honoured that Parag chose to invite me!

I know he’s as much a tiny-towner as I and it’s perhaps that much easier for him to take to me than all of Bombay’s glamour-collective. Dombivli’s indeed beyond Bombay. Even above.

Haji Ali

We look for peace in the most obvious places – despite also its obvious absence. Our sense of subtlety takes a royal hike, a half drenching walk half a kilometre into the sea on a barely safeguarded pathway notwithstanding; even if the sight of beggars all along numbs you - random limbs absent, too apparent for accident. Also sandwiched is the walk with a trail of makeshift-vendors on the other side – wares ranging knick knacks to religious books, chaddars and sweets. And you almost flip when you spot a goat on the roof of a makeshift shack among many – constantly swept by the sea – a plethora of dirt and rubbish ironically left behind.


My trip to Haji Ali was satisfying, though not spiritually. I found all that I had expected – to comfortably walk right up to the tomb; little interference from the police; lovely elaichi chai and piping hot vada pau inside the dargah periphery; and of course, Nidhi’s suggestion to see the back side that allowed for an audience of qawwali. But ibaadat is not for public consumption. Praise must come from the heart.

That was my last day at L&T – two days before I’d leave Bombay for at least a while, if not good. But god comes in myriad forms. Shafquat Qualandar’s Damadam Mast Kalandar flowed in the languid force of the scorching Swaraj Express’ already late huddle to Bombay. The singers, a trio of young men, barely old enough to squeak “As Salaam Valai Kum” sang in the voices god: loud, clear, never-out’a-tune and ever reverential. The dholi’s throat was ivory – washed in perspiration, veins throbbing as he sang, “हर दम पीरा तेरी खैर होवे. ” Another older percussionist, with a hoarser pitch, no less forceful, chorused the first’s young passion. The third voice on the harmonium remained just a voice. All I remember of him was that he conformed in garb – chequered blue lungis and mulmul kurtas with black knitted caps on each of their heads.

These boys sang with authority – a quiet dignity – a love for the creator. It is predictable, God will come to them; to them he will yield; to them he will deign; them, he will reward.

Why are we so afraid of praising god? Why do we hesitate to believe in our own faith? What holds us back from loving? Is it the fear of losing our own positions? Is it the fear of losing our object of affection? Has the fear of god’s tests and wraths ever held us from committing our daily quota of minuscule crimes and sins? How do you explain sleeping dreamlessly despite them? Is it fear at all?

To be afraid of praise (whether for oneself or directed towards another) is to be afraid of criticism (often being diplomatic or vain to the point of irritation). To be afraid of loving then, would amount to fear of pain itself – all inevitable? It is to merely breathe like vegetable, afraid of converting the potential of each living moment into a kinetic event.

Sometimes it feels criminal to equate peace with silence or inaction. Sometimes peace comes in the satisfaction of exhaustion. Sometimes it seems to percolate to the very core of chaos.