Bombay Symphony.

It was raining; it was always raining in this city. She had to go out to complete her assignment and meet the deadlines, but how was she supposed to take photographs in such a rain, with so little light. She had wondered initially that why do people come to Mumbai, its ugly and dirty, it is expensive, it is full of slums, and has narrow lanes, there is not enough space for anybody, and it is always raining, but within a week’s time she had known she could call no other place home. Surely something was attracting millions here, to this city. She noticed that everyone here was running away from loneliness; she saw it on trains, on the street, in the pubs and bars which were spread everywhere to assuage this feeling.

She found out that without the distraction of beauty, people find respite in each other. Yet the sparks between the two could never qualify as companionship. In Mumbai, people do not offer too much talk or touch, rather they look each other in eyes, like soldiers, wounded and brave and crazy. And lucky to be alive, if not happy.

It had stopped raining, she rushed out of her tiny flat, and began walking, she had to reach Bandra and take photographs to complete her assignment for the magazine she worked – ‘Lifeline’, and then she saw him, the old beggar, it was third week of March and celebrations of Holi were long past. He was walking, yet he was lost, he looked defeated, as if the life itself had sucked out the essence of life from somebody, but it was not this that caught her attention, his white hair were still light pink from the colours of holi. Colours which were now too old for everybody else but still lingered through him, which washed from the fresh rain was dripping a drop at a time on his dirty white make-shift vest. She took out her camera, with a firm hold, ready to shoot. As much she liked all her photographs in black and white, this one had to fulfil its objective in colour, and she trapped him for her collection, forever.  Labelled – Leftover from Holi.

It was Mid-April, she reached the Versova beach looking for her potential subjects, she looked at the guy selling bhel-puri in paper plates made of Marathi Newspaper, she looked around, and then her eyes rested on him, sitting there on the sand, his face towards the sun, yet his eyes closed, as if he was trying to remember something, she kept looking at him, he was wearing a cheque blue shirt, a jeans and had a lean yet strong body, she looked at his narrow waist and his black hair, she was drawn to sincere youth in his body, yet he looked too elegantly mature. He opened his eyes and turned and looked towards her as if some greater power told him about her, their eyes connected for a moment and he got up and started walking towards her, when he reached next to her, he said to her “Are you here to shoot somebody “, she was taken aback, he pointed towards the camera hanging from her neck and said- “Normal people don’t roam around with camera that bulky” and she smiled. He started walking signalling her to follow him, and she started following him, he pointed towards a couple sitting there, they must be in their late fifties or early sixties, man was wearing a white shirt and brown loose pants held tight by a worn out leather belt, his hair were completely grey, he was wearing glasses with big black frame, the couple reeked of middle class, she looked at them and imagined their life, their children must be in some other city or somewhere else, having left their parents alone, soon the couple will go back to their home in a dirty chawl and the woman will cook something for both of them, she was wearing a blue sari, her hair were dyed black with grey roots coming out, she was smoking a bidi , and smoke was coming out from her mouth. They were not talking to each other, just sitting together, looking into something distant, unknown, and just knowing they had a shattered yet fulfilled life.

She at once steadied her camera to take the shot, and as she looked through the view-finder, she saw the woman passing the bidi to her husband, and she at once released the shutter. The same photo-graph would be published in near future as – Aged Solace.

She turned back and looked at him looking at her, she came back to him and said “Thanks”, it was his turn to smile,

“Are you going to publish it? Do you work for some newspaper or magazine?”

“Yes, I work for Lifeline and No, this photograph is for my own collection, I am just taking random photographs to document Moods of Mumbai, I have no plans to publish them” she replied.

“Moods of Mumbai” He repeated, and then stood silent for long time, and then he turned and started walking, he didn’t look back.

“I want you to photograph me” were his first words when he called her around a month later; she was shocked and surprised. Curious when he reached home after that day at the beach, he lied awake thinking about her. Next day, he went out and bought the latest edition of Lifeline , he browsed through the magazine carefully to look at all the photographs, trying to guess which one are hers, there was only one female photographer credited in that edition. Each time he saw photo credited to her he saw what he had suspected on meeting her: her incendiary talent, so huge and rambunctious, in coming month, he bought all the previous editions of the magazine trying to find photographs shot by her.

“I want you to photograph me” he said.

“What?”

“I remember you telling me, you are documenting Moods of Mumbai, let me help you.” she remembered telling this to only one person till now, could it be him, it has to be.

Two days later, she boarded the local train to Bandra She got up and went to stand at the gate of women’s first class coach, and she saw that little boy, sitting in a corner in the train near the gate, he was scared and vulnerable, there was sadness in his eyes. Did he even know where is he going? She noticed all the women giving him a dirty look. He was sitting with his knees next to his chest and holding his knees from his arms, taking as little space as possible, his fear and sadness looked so real and pure, it felt they are bleeding out of him like monsoon of august sky. She wondered why nobody else could see that. She took out her camera, focused it on him and took the photograph and mentally named it – The ticketless traveller.

He was waiting for her out of the station, his hair longer than the last time she had seen him, he smiled when he saw her and she smiled back, she looked at the carefree way he was walking, he lit a cigarette.

“I told you, I can’t shoot you” she said,

He smiled and said “Yes I know, I need to be either news or moods of mumbai”.

“Where are we going?” she asked, and he just smiled back.

While walking through the maze of criss-crossed narrow lanes, she stopped at once, in front of her, on one of the walls; there was a hand-drawn poster of an old classic, Roti Kapda aur Makan. Poster was showing poorly drawn faces of Amitabh Bacchan, Manoj Kumar Jeenat Aman, Shashi Kapoor and Mausami Chatterjee. On the top of the poster, in hindi, it was written in white Roti, Kapda aur Makan, but somebody had crossed aur with coal leaving black smudge marks and had added aur paisa in the end, making the name Roti, Kapda Makan aur Paisa. She kept looking at the poster for few minutes and then looked through her view-finder to take the photograph of the poster, heroes of an old classic now fighting for the things required to survive in this world Roti Kapda Makan aur Paisa.

After walking some more, he finally pointed towards a chapel outside Carter Road, without saying a word, he bought a dozen candles from an adolescent vendor in a coca-cola emblazoned tee-shirt. He passed six of candles to her, and started walking to light the candles inside the church. She had never been to a church before, she didn’t know what to expect except for what she had seen in movies. When she entered the church, she saw a person, sitting in a wheel-chair, moving the wheels of the chair with his hands, he reached next to the statue of Mother Mary, and he took three candles out of his lap, and gently placed each one of them in a metal tray. He then lit the white tapers using a match stick. Candles burned bravely in the rapid wind, melting into sooty, gnarled heaps on the metal tray. He then closed his eyes and started praying. She wondered what he must be praying for. She took out her camera again, and took his photograph; to remind herself in the future at least, if not to god: his candles, his closed eyes, and his prayer.  3 Candles, one matchbox and some Faith

-----------x-----------

“I want you to take my photograph” He said again.

It was 2^nd week of July, they were meeting for the fifth time now. They were sitting on the marine drive since last half an hour, she looked at him and smiled and shook her head and turned and started looking at the sea again, at the distant sun and she listened to the noise of waves crashing against the tetra-pods. Understanding it is better to be silent, he didn’t say anything further.

After some time they got up and he took her to the Leopold café, she ordered a rum and coke and grilled veg risotto.  Even for a Thursday, the café was full of people and their vibrant energy. She looked at him and felt a ridiculous attraction for him, they passed the night flirting lightly and after few hours in that loud environment, they came out of the café.

He drove her back, and invited her to his flat in Colaba. His flat was in a quiet neighbourhood, on 22^nd floor. She stood waiting in the side while he unlocked the front door, she took the keys from his hand to look at the key-ring, a stick figure sitting alone, she looked in his eyes then, it was unquestioned that they will part yet, unquestioned, though they hadn’t met for more than 4 or 5 times, but they knew something precious had been stumbled upon, a new born connection that could not be left unattended. The apartment was nothing like her tiny flat; it was a big lush apartment, overlooking the sea outside from French windows. They started kissing in the balcony, he kissed her roughly and aggressively, it was nothing like school-boy kisses she had had before. He started un-buttoning her jacket and removed her shirt uncovering her breasts and causing the keys in her hands to fall on the marble floor with a loud noise.

Later that night she stood naked bending by the window looking outside at the sea. He looked at her, her small hair finished right at her neck, he looked at her lean body, she had smaller than average breasts, and had long legs; with her hands kept on the window and supporting her, she was looking at the brightly lit city, and could hear the faint sound of vehicles passing down below on the road. She saw a group of friends laughing and smoking near the sea.

He sat in the bed and lit a cigarette, while taking a long drag of the cigarette, he started talking, without even looking at her, he told her, around 14 years ago, on 7^th December 1992, his uncle had rushed back home late in the evening, soon the house filled with relatives, everybody was panicked, having his school suspended, he was at home, he could not understand the reason of all the chaos in the house. In the coming years, when he learnt the whole bus in which his mother was travelling was set to fire, he re-lived each and every event that occurred in that day; trying to understand the aftermath of the same. He accepted it would be wrong to say that this day was the pivot when his life changed, but he still remembered it. Surprisingly he could not remember much of his mother. He didn’t object when his father planned to re-marry. He collected all the photographs of his mother and put them in a small box.

After few years, one morning, after breakfast, he left the home and walked around the town, carrying that box of photographs. He reached a beach and sat down there. Sky was a different colour that day, but it was the water which seemed more unforgiving, violent enough he knew to break him apart. He roamed around in the same state for a week, he had never been out on himself, and he liked it, no-one in the world knew where he was, and he felt at peace. It was like being dead, his escape allowing him to remember the simple melodies his mother used to sing him.

One evening he reached the Versova beach, he found a spot in the middle of the sand and sat there, he felt the wind strong enough to rip apart and chew everything. For a long time, he watched the approach and retreat of the waves, their thick caps crashing apart against the rocks, that eternally restless motion had an inversely calming effect on him. The following day he returned to the same spot, this time bringing with him the box of his mother’s photographs. He sat on the ground, opened the box, and began going through the pictures one by one, as if they were pieces of mail that he was quickly scanning and would read later on. But there were too many pictures, and after a few he could no longer bear their sight. A slight lessening in the pressure of his fingertips and the ones he was holding would have blown away into that wild sea. But he could not bear that either, and so he put them back in the box and began to dig a hole. The hole was not impressive, but it was big enough to conceal the box, he covered it with some sand and stones. The moons first light was shining down when he was done. He remembered the melody his mother used to sing to him, called Bombay Symphony. He murmured it softly and walked back. He felt that love between two people was frequently betrayed because it was inherently imperfect; however an acceptance of the imperfection and betrayal could go long way in securing its vitality, perhaps even its permanence.

He continued – “I had long forgotten that melody, the other day when we met, I was sitting over there, trying to remember it, and after years, it finally came to me, I finally sang it, and then something made me open my eyes, and I looked at you and the melody once again vanished from the clutches of my brain.” He finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ash-tray.

She was still looking out at the sea, and in some unknown way; she had offered him the balm of sensible and comforting silence, respecting and providing all the spaces that ought to remain un-vandalized by language.

She looked at that group of friends; they had stopped laughing and smoking by now. Tired of the day, they looked for a taxi and soon boarded one, all of them rushing finally to their own home.

He got up in the morning to notice she was gone. He went to the washroom, and while brushing his teeth, he looked in the mirror, paused for a moment and decided today he is going to convince her anyhow to take his photograph; he didn’t yet know how he is going to do that, but he had decided he is going to do it anyhow.

Later, he sent a text to her ‘I will convince you today to shoot me’. She looked at the text, smiled and ignored it. She had a dead-line to meet, she looked at the time in her cell, it was 03:37 PM, 11^th July 2006, she had so much work left to do, and she got back to her work, thinking about him in the back of her mind.

She received another text from him asking if she is free for dinner. She again smiled and replied Yes, and you can’t bribe me to take your photographs.

“I am coming to Borivali Station, I will reach in 20 minutes or so” He said later in the evening when she picked up her call.

“I will come to pick you up then, I have been thinking about you the whole day.” She replied.

“Let’s meet in few minutes then.”

She looked at the time, twenty minutes past six; she got up and left for Borivali station. She decided to walk rather than to call for a rickshaw. She had been walking for 10 minutes now, and then she got a call from her editor, thinking he must be calling about the photographs that she had to submit, she contemplated whether to ignore the call, after letting the phone ring for 30 seconds, she finally picked it up, wondering what excuse she should give for not submitting the photographs.

“Where are you?”,  came a very panicked sound from the phone, “there have been bombings in the local trains 10 minutes ago, friends have confirmed bombings in three trains till now, do not get into locals right now, and sorry for being an ass, but see if you can take any photographs.”

Her mind stopped processing things for a moment, she thought it’s some kind of joke, but she knew her editor better than that, after a minute, she started running towards Borivali station.

She tried to call him once again, but by now, phone’s servers didn’t let her though, her heart was about to give up when she heard “All lines to this route are currently busy” once again, she looked at her cell, it was 18:37, 11^th July 2006, and she entered Borivali to a rush of people, running screaming.

After sometime, she saw a burning and blasted train in front of her, and after looking for 20 minutes, she found him, his dead body, it was not burnt much, she kept looking at him, in a shocked state. Her phone rang once again, it was her editor, once again showing concern, but asked her to see if she can take any photographs. She didn’t say anything and hung up.

She took out her camera, zoomed it on his body, looked at him through the viewfinder and clicked through for a series of photographs.

---------x-----------

It had been 11 months since the incident; she was sitting at the same spot at Versova beach where she had seen him for the first time. She had a copy of the book she had finally published, of all the photographs she had taken to document moods of Mumbai. The title of the book read, “Bombay Symphony; for what was once forgotten”. She had dedicated the book to him, and it read “May be I will never be able to give you your Bombay Symphony back, this is just an attempt. ” She turned few pages to look at the first photograph again, his photograph that she had taken, and closed the book again.

She started looking at the distant sun, and started humming an unknown tune; she liked to believe it was Bombay Symphony.