Page 11 of Made in Mumbai

And so she began to narrate the never-ending story of Rahul Raichand and Rohan Raichand and Poo and many others. That story was so long that it went on through their dinner, walk back to the station and train ride to Khar.

Gautam, having a full belly and the best day, listened intently. The cool night wind and M’s dramatic skills kept him smiling.

Then they got off the train on Khar Station and she turned to him with a huff — “Alllright then, it was fun doing this. We should do it again some time, huh? Now that you are going to become a Mumbaikar!”

His smile fell. “Umm… yes. Sure. Can you tell me how to go back to Carter Road from here?”

“Why?”

“I wanted to sit there for a while.”

“Don’t you want to go home? Didn’t I tire you enough?”

“I’m fine.”

M thought about it a second, then grabbed his wrist — “Come on, then!”

“Where?”

“We’ll sit together. My friend still hasn’t texted so I will anyway have to spend the night on her balcony.”

The walk from the station to Carter Road was long. She insisted on taking a rickshaw but he was down to his last two hundred, and wanted to save them in case of an emergency. So on the pretext of seeing the twinkling city at night, he walked. He felt a little guilty for making her walk, but she was as hyped as ever — stumbling and dancing, walking backwards in front of him to tell him more about ads, hoardings, movies, festivals. Her energy seemed never-ending, her chatter didn’t cease, and her feet were still fitted with spring.

“Here,” she plopped down on the ledge of the Carter Road promenade and turned until her feet dangled out. The sea was quiet in front of them.

He lowered himself beside her, his feet dangling too, his body far enough from her to maintain decency. The people were thinning, it was after 11. In his village, this was the time of ghosts and demons to come out. You couldn’t be found roaming around like this. If you were an unmarried boy and girl, then definitely not.

“So,” she folded one knee up and made herself comfortable. “Talk, my boy.”

“What?”

“Talk about yourself.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. I have given you my expert commentary. Now it’s your turn.”

“What should I tell?” He chuckled. “I am 19. I like Bryan Adams songs. Ghazals too, because I have been listening to them for a long time.”

“And your family?”

He stilled.

“Oh, like that. Don’t worry, mine is like that too. I mean,” she blew air from between her teeth. “They don’t look like that. If we go to an event or a party they are ‘Oh, Viren, ha ha ha, you’re so funny,’ and ‘My wife is the best cook, I tell you,’” she imitated in mock voices. “But when they are home, they live like non-paying roommates with a girl they made before they lost interest in each other.”

“So… they have divorced?”

“No. And they never will. But,” M shrugged, not at all embarrassed. Or sad.

“Anyway, talk more about yourself. Something good?”

“Umm… I always wanted to see Mumbai one day.”

“Did you like Mumbai with your pro tour guide?”

“Yes,” he turned towards her. “It was the best day of my life so far.”

Her mouth opened. Then that small, shy smile crept over her lips. M was pretty and all, but at that moment his breath caught in his throat. Because she was beautiful.

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