Bombay in the rain
I remember Bombay in the rain. There is always the first time one experiences what monsoons can mean in Bombay, when the sea and the sky meet in a grey line that is invisible. The waves are usually foam tipped and white, sometimes gentle and sometimes high.
This was a long time ago, when I was a new bride. There was beautiful henna on my hands and S. held my hand firmly, as though he could not believe I was here, with him, by his side. He told me about our new home, an old Bombay cottage, which he said was on the verge of breaking down. However, we were happy just to be with each other after waiting for a time period which can only be described as too long. Tepidly, I entered our first home. The first thing that struck me was the pigeons that lived in the red tiled roof… so many of them. They had made a mess of the place, but had left some of their happiness of nesting right there, as a gift for us. The windows had trees outside them and for a moment, the damp green feeling transported me into a different place…This could not be Bombay, the Bombay of numerous inhuman stories, of skyscrapers, of raw ambition, and survival fights that would make even Darwin shed tears.
I guess that’s why it rained so much.
But I remember the song from 1942, a love story. “Rim Jhim, Rim Jhim,” and can still hear myself humming it. The air seemed damp at all times. One moment that stays with me is waiting on a platform as the crowds grew bigger and the train did not arrive, leading to restlessness. Then a whisper went through and I overheard someone saying the trains were all held up as someone fell off the crowded train. A man threw his cigarette down in disgust. “I’ll be late for work today, again. Couldn’t that guy die in front of another train?’
Now, the pictures of trains in Bombay have been seen by many but this moment can never be captured in words or pictures. I still feel numb thinking of that moment, not knowing what to think or feel and wondered whose father or husband did not go home that night.
A few years later, when my husband interviewed in New York for a job and five out of the 10 people who interviewed him asked him if he was comfortable with crowded New York, and narrated this story to some of us, one of our friends quipped. “Didn’t you tell them, if the train doors can shut, its not called crowded.” And laughed loudly. I remembered that day when the man died as his grip was not hard enough, and I could not laugh. Also, we did not travel by trains anymore so it did seem appropriate to say anything.
But then I also remember the monsoon when my son was born right the day when my husband went on a short trip, a good eight weeks early. He was so tiny, that I have never seen anyone so tiny before. He was small, bony, and very soft. I agonized for years that it must have been my fault that he was so little and ill equipped to handle the harsh world and he was born as some result of my inability to take better care of him. In time I would learn, that things happen, and the best thing I can do is not let my angst affect this lovely gift of a child. So I learnt to smile….and let the rain do the crying in its season.
This was a long time ago, when I was a new bride. There was beautiful henna on my hands and S. held my hand firmly, as though he could not believe I was here, with him, by his side. He told me about our new home, an old Bombay cottage, which he said was on the verge of breaking down. However, we were happy just to be with each other after waiting for a time period which can only be described as too long. Tepidly, I entered our first home. The first thing that struck me was the pigeons that lived in the red tiled roof… so many of them. They had made a mess of the place, but had left some of their happiness of nesting right there, as a gift for us. The windows had trees outside them and for a moment, the damp green feeling transported me into a different place…This could not be Bombay, the Bombay of numerous inhuman stories, of skyscrapers, of raw ambition, and survival fights that would make even Darwin shed tears.
I guess that’s why it rained so much.
But I remember the song from 1942, a love story. “Rim Jhim, Rim Jhim,” and can still hear myself humming it. The air seemed damp at all times. One moment that stays with me is waiting on a platform as the crowds grew bigger and the train did not arrive, leading to restlessness. Then a whisper went through and I overheard someone saying the trains were all held up as someone fell off the crowded train. A man threw his cigarette down in disgust. “I’ll be late for work today, again. Couldn’t that guy die in front of another train?’
Now, the pictures of trains in Bombay have been seen by many but this moment can never be captured in words or pictures. I still feel numb thinking of that moment, not knowing what to think or feel and wondered whose father or husband did not go home that night.
A few years later, when my husband interviewed in New York for a job and five out of the 10 people who interviewed him asked him if he was comfortable with crowded New York, and narrated this story to some of us, one of our friends quipped. “Didn’t you tell them, if the train doors can shut, its not called crowded.” And laughed loudly. I remembered that day when the man died as his grip was not hard enough, and I could not laugh. Also, we did not travel by trains anymore so it did seem appropriate to say anything.
But then I also remember the monsoon when my son was born right the day when my husband went on a short trip, a good eight weeks early. He was so tiny, that I have never seen anyone so tiny before. He was small, bony, and very soft. I agonized for years that it must have been my fault that he was so little and ill equipped to handle the harsh world and he was born as some result of my inability to take better care of him. In time I would learn, that things happen, and the best thing I can do is not let my angst affect this lovely gift of a child. So I learnt to smile….and let the rain do the crying in its season.
posted by Sumita | 8:42 AM
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