Time Out

Bombay bluesFrom a quiet Chandigarh nestled in the Shivaliks, into the lap of chaotic Mumbai, can be quite a leap. Especially if it's your...

Bombay blues
From a quiet Chandigarh nestled in the Shivaliks, into the lap of chaotic Mumbai, can be quite a leap. Especially if it8217;s your first one. But that8217;s what! As I stepped into the Mumbai office for my sojourn, a colleague wanted to know, brow tilted, 8220;So what brings you here from the pretty, pretty Chandigarh?8221; My attempt at an explanation bore just one word 8212; 8220;adventure!8221; And I could see him nod, not exactly in a direction that looked, even faintly, like approval. So there, I said, all yours. The city and its ways. Go jump!

The journey to Mumbai had been uneventful except that it was from January to June. And they called it winter. As I tried to make myself at home in this newfound winter, I could smell a lot more coming. The fish, to begin with. I mean, alright, it may be one of the most delectable things in the sea but it isn8217;t my idea of a tingling fragrance. So the city has me running all the time, sometimes after trains, sometimes away from fish marts, and at others, into trouble. A friend of mine had told me, 8220;The best way to know Mumbai is to walk its roads, travel its trains, on your own.8221; And lo, I was on my feet, with my Walkman plugs tucked well into my ears, all set for a wild go.

The first morning saw me walk out of my PG accommodation, dressed something like an Arab, the hijacking kind. Blame it on Chandigarh, the clean, clean city that it is, I just had to devise a way to keep all that pollution at bay. And so, out I sauntered, onto the packed bus, in a black scarf, black glasses and, oh well, a black pair of trousers. The combination had been absolutely unintentional but the looks I got weren8217;t. Never boarded that bus again.

They say language doesn8217;t matter, the feeling does. Sure, except that a new language can get all kinds of strange concoctions for food served to you when all you asked for was a little more curd. Then it has you boarding wrong buses all the time just because you had the Marathi 18242; mixed up with 98242;. From the look of it, it8217;s just a little twist in the middle but then, it can twist you and your wits pretty much around. Like, the other evening, when I walked to the bus-stop with that hey-I-can-handle-it-all swagger, there was only the evening breeze to be enjoyed and nothing, but nothing, could go wrong.

Except the bus. As it screeched to a halt, I made my way into the pack as gracefully as I could with one foot dangling out, hands wrestling with the handle, the bag and all. After inching in, I shoved a five-rupee note at the conductor with a cool 8220;one Shivaji Park please8221;. A studied look and a strange grin after, he said:8220;Shivaji Park? Wahaan nahin jaati!8221; My jaw could have dropped had I not held on to it, to stutter: 8220;Yeh Number One nahin hai?8221; The man grinned while I heard another one 8211; 8220;Number Nine ko One bana diya8221;! With the heavens still saving some mercy, the bus stood still at the traffic lights and out I scuttled, far far away from it, never looking back. Haven8217;t worn that swagger again. Not at bus stops. I keep track of numerals instead.

Then another day, my landlady asked me to fetch a pack of milk. Handing me five bucks and two more, she said that would buy me the needful. As I stood at the shop counter, asking for a litre pack, the man across announced, 8220;Rs 12.50.8221; I raised a brow, looked considerably hurt and said, 8220;No, I want the six-rupee pack.8221; Throwing me a sympathetic one, the man asked, very politely: 8220;Miss, which milk do you want?8221; 8220;The six rupee a litre,8221; I maintained. He guided me to a very poor looking shop. Well, I returned empty-handed, only to be told that, yes indeed, I was supposed to collect the half-litre pack, not one! It had been the Marathi mix-up yet again.So much for aamchi encounters.