What an evening I landed on.
Dry Delhi almost reaching 48C to rainy rainy Bombay.
No taxis, no autos at the airport.
A never ending line of passengers ready to pay triple the amount and get home or where ever.
And I never shy away from saying that I tend to overpack.
So there I was stranded with a big red suitcase with two hours to run to my Bandra home, get dressed and be back at Orchids, Ville Parle. Mohammed, my taxi man for the evening, came to rescue.
An incredibly sweet person ready to help.
But despite his sweetness, the music he was playing made me want to jump out of the cab.
Songs I had overheard from the little garment factories in Zakir Nagar, where I grew up.
Songs that brought memories of countless terrace romances , of mine and others.
The traffic jam extended from the airport upto Lilavati. Phew.
And I had given up hopes of reaching anywhere that night.
But finally as the blue neon Orchid sign loomed out of the dark, I knew I was there.
And now, as I hunt for my wallet, I don't find it.
I ring up home. 'Yes the red thing is here...right on the bed you've left it.'
****.
Feeling guilty, feeling stupid, getting late, feeling more guilty. All of it together.
I pleaded with Mohammed if he could come home the next morning and collect.
'Madam..aap mere ko itna bhi nahin samjhe? Paisa Kya hai...
I wanted you to reach safe and sound', he said with that sweetest smile ever.
This was the city where I had been robbed off a mac on my last visit be an autowallah.
This was a city where there was Mohammed.
This was the first red carpet in my life. Yes. There was red carpet everywhere.
I was happy for 'Four Women and a Room' for it is the film that has taught me so much.
Has challenged me to more than my limits.
Has given me endless sleepless nights.
Has for days put me to unrest.
Has forced me to look inwards before looking anywhere else.
And has repeatedly said, 'let your passion drive me to where it takes...'.
I don't feel the need to make pictures strangely enough.
Not of any moment/person that evening. I meet long lost friends.
But for some reason, I can't stop thinking of Mohammed and his life in the city.
If at all, I need his picture.
And then on my drive back home with a friend, as we discover that we have a lizard as our fellow companion, all I can think of is my drenched copy of 'The Namesake'.
Dry Delhi almost reaching 48C to rainy rainy Bombay.
No taxis, no autos at the airport.
A never ending line of passengers ready to pay triple the amount and get home or where ever.
And I never shy away from saying that I tend to overpack.
So there I was stranded with a big red suitcase with two hours to run to my Bandra home, get dressed and be back at Orchids, Ville Parle. Mohammed, my taxi man for the evening, came to rescue.
An incredibly sweet person ready to help.
But despite his sweetness, the music he was playing made me want to jump out of the cab.
Songs I had overheard from the little garment factories in Zakir Nagar, where I grew up.
Songs that brought memories of countless terrace romances , of mine and others.
The traffic jam extended from the airport upto Lilavati. Phew.
And I had given up hopes of reaching anywhere that night.
But finally as the blue neon Orchid sign loomed out of the dark, I knew I was there.
And now, as I hunt for my wallet, I don't find it.
I ring up home. 'Yes the red thing is here...right on the bed you've left it.'
****.
Feeling guilty, feeling stupid, getting late, feeling more guilty. All of it together.
I pleaded with Mohammed if he could come home the next morning and collect.
'Madam..aap mere ko itna bhi nahin samjhe? Paisa Kya hai...
I wanted you to reach safe and sound', he said with that sweetest smile ever.
This was the city where I had been robbed off a mac on my last visit be an autowallah.
This was a city where there was Mohammed.
This was the first red carpet in my life. Yes. There was red carpet everywhere.
I was happy for 'Four Women and a Room' for it is the film that has taught me so much.
Has challenged me to more than my limits.
Has given me endless sleepless nights.
Has for days put me to unrest.
Has forced me to look inwards before looking anywhere else.
And has repeatedly said, 'let your passion drive me to where it takes...'.
I don't feel the need to make pictures strangely enough.
Not of any moment/person that evening. I meet long lost friends.
But for some reason, I can't stop thinking of Mohammed and his life in the city.
If at all, I need his picture.
And then on my drive back home with a friend, as we discover that we have a lizard as our fellow companion, all I can think of is my drenched copy of 'The Namesake'.
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