It was a funeral kind of day. The sky overcast with dark, threatening clouds and everything brushed in shades of grey. The rain threatened all day but had stayed away so far. Turning on to the main street, I keep walking, letting my feet guide me. Mumbai was still as much Bombay as it was not. New shops, new brands, new people, but still Bombay. The streets feel familiar under my feet.
Just like that, without a conscious thought, I am at Anand Vihar. Why was I here? Why did my feet guide me here? I had no idea. No, actually it made total sense. It was the only place I could go to today. The only place where I could try and make sense of what had happened.
Opposite the entrance to Anand Vihar is Anwar bhai’s cigarette shop. It seems smaller than I recollect. Anwar bhai smiles at me and holds out one Four Square King Size without me asking. Even he seems smaller that I remember. A small man sitting in a small box of a shop, selling small things. The smile was familiar. It was a genuine one. I try to recollect whether his face was always crisscrossed with so many lines. It couldn’t have been. Thirty years ago his face would have been smoother, more handsome. Did he always look like he looked today – a man defeated by life?
I don’t have the heart to tell him that I had given up smoking. Or maybe today I need a smoke. “Do I still know how to light one,” I ask myself as I pick up the cheap, transparent lighter. I press the yellow button and with a click the flame appears. I bring it up to the cigarette and inhale. “Don’t cough”, I tell myself.
The smoke rushes in and slides smoothly into my lungs. Almost immediately, I feel the lightness in my head – a sensation I hadn’t had in a long time. It transports me to a moment over thirty years ago. For some reason, that moment had always stayed with me. The first time I inhaled tobacco. If you ask me why that memory stayed so clear, I have no answer. It was an ordinary day. Not like today. It wasn’t a day that portended anything special.
Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak was the rage in the city. Not just the city, we were told it was a rage in the country. Who was Aamir Khan? Who was Mansoor Khan? Who was Udit Narayan? Papa Kehte Hai played from every music box – Tea stalls, restaurants, cigarette shops, bedrooms, living rooms, radios, it was ubiquitous. “My father says I will go on to do great things”, croons Udit Narayan. But we saw only the sweet, innocent face of Aamir Khan as Raj. A screen name that would, interestingly, become synonymous with another actor.
“Raj. You must have heard the name”, Shah Rukh Khan will repeat in more than one movie. None of the viewers ever thinks of Raj from QSQT. Raj is forever from DDLJ.
We’d just come back from watching the movie – Sameer, Kishen, Murali, and myself. As was customary, we ordered four cuttings from the Akbar bhai’s tea shop next door, which was no longer there, and two cigarettes from Anwar bhai. As I sucked at the cigarette, I told myself to inhale. I had never inhaled before that. It went in smooth. The light-headedness felt nice. I was too scared to stand up, lest I stagger like a drunk. So I continued to sit.
The bench is still there, next to Anwar’s box. It too looks small. How did the four of us spend so much time on it? How did we fit?
Gingerly, I sit down on the old bench. I raise my head and look into Anand Vihar. It’s about 200 meters long. Just 200 meters. Was that it? How did 200 meters contain an entire childhood? So many childhoods.
The mango tree was still there. It looks smaller too. I was 12 when I climbed it the first time. It had seemed gigantic then. Climbing the tree to pluck a mango from the highest branch was a rite of passage for the boys of Anand Vihar. Rashmi’s tree. That’s how we always referred to it. Never Nair uncle’s tree or Lakshmi aunty’s tree or Dhruv’s tree. It was always Rashmi’s tree. Its base was in their compound, but the tree couldn’t be contained in the compound. As soon as it was taller than the wall, it veered out towards the street. None of the mangoes ever fell into their compound. They always fell on the street outside.
Like her mango tree, Rashmi too wouldn’t be contained within the compound. A complete tomboy – she bowled fast, batted without a care in the world, climbed every tree on the street. She was the first girl to climb her mango tree. Thin as a reed, with thick black hair that came to her hips, and eyes darker than the darkest, moonless night Rashmi was special.
Born on the same day, our mothers in adjacent beds, our families living in adjacent houses, we were like siblings until we became lovers. There were no secrets between us, until there was one.
The cigarette was down to the filter. I drop it. I assure Anwar bhai that I will stop by on my way back and cross the road to enter Anand Vihar after 18 years. It was a simple action, one I did multiple times in a day without thinking. But when I put one foot in front of the other to enter AV, it seems like a special moment. It was also scary. So much so that I want to turn around and flee.
I stop in front of Rashmi’s house that was no longer Rashmi’s house. Did she have a house any more? Where was she?
A young man comes out of the house.
“Can I help you,” he asks.
“I...I grew up here,” I explain.
“Here?”
“No. Not in this house actually. I grew up in the house next door.”
“Ah! So you knew Rashmi?”
“Yes. Did you?”
“No. But over the last two days we’ve had some people come here. Just like you they grew up in Anand Vihar. Seems like she had a lot of boys infatuated with her.”
“That she did,” I admitted.
We continue to stand there in an awkward silence. There was nothing to be said. What would we say to each other? He only knew Rashmi as the person who had lived in the house in which he lives today. He didn’t know her unfettered laughter, which would carry over to my house. He didn’t know that she wrote poetry when she was sad. He didn’t know that she loved to kiss in the rain. He didn’t know that she enjoyed Govinda films. He didn’t know that her favorite color was peach. He didn’t know that the only time she cried was when she saw the letter I had written to Pooja expressing my love for her over my love for Rashmi. A letter in which she discovered that her best friend from whom she had no secrets had a secret from her for over six months.
The rain came down without warning. The man asked me to come in. I shook my head and stood in the rain. Just like how Rashmi and I had stood that monsoon night, facing each other. On that night, the rain hid her tears, just as it hid mine today.
Comments