Vrushali Samant's Blog, page 2
August 2, 2025
Madness In Mumbai - Short Stories
The Advice:
- “ I don’t want to waste time. Two vegan set menus, and please get the wine as soon as my guest arrives. Thank you,” Reshma instructed, sharp and efficient.
Seated in the swanky Yauatcha, Reshma couldn't wait to see Smita and share the news! She was confident Smita would approve. Reshma, now a successful entrepreneur in her late 40s, valued her former neighbour’s opinion.
Having met in their twenties, the two women had come a long way over the past two decades. Smita, who had started as a receptionist in a five-star hotel, was now competing for senior management positions within the group. She had worked tirelessly and gained impressive degrees through her thirties and forties. A supportive husband and daughter had made it easier for Smita to reach her ambitions.
Whether it was the challenges she faced after eloping at eighteen, an interfaith marriage, losing her husband to death when her daughters were seven and nine respectively, unemployment, or confusion, Reshma had a tough time. The only person who supported her during those dark years was Smita.
- “Why don’t you do a beauty parlour course?” Smita had suggested to the widowed Reshma.
The latter sold some jewellery, took the beautician course, and set up a shop in her small one-bedroom flat. Smita was her first client, and it was she who spread the word about Reshma’s new venture.
Reshma worked hard. After a long day in the hall, she would go into the kitchen to experiment with herbs, spices, and other ingredients that could be used for hair and skincare. Soon, she developed natural potions to enhance beauty and used them in her home parlour. She offered free testers at the end of each service.
Smita bought large quantities of every product made. However, outside of her, there was little demand. But night after night, Reshma worked tirelessly on her products. Their daughters were in college by then.
“Why don’t you try something that does not exist in the market? You know, Botox is very expensive. Can you think of making something affordable for us? ” Smita had asked.
Reshma buckled down to research and experiment. Then one night, she struck gold!
The natural collagen cream she had created was an instant hit. This time, it was not just Smita who swore by her products. Starting with clients in the parlour, it quickly became the talk of the neighbourhood. Spreading faster than viral Instagram reels, it swept through middle-class Bandra and spread south of the bay. North of the suburbs soon caught up with the frenzy.
Reshma’s daughters could pursue education in medicine and mass communication, respectively, thanks to the profits from one collagen cream.
The magic potion enabled her to participate in trade fairs, and Reshma traveled abroad for the first time. She had to hire additional staff and secure a larger place to meet the skyrocketing demand.
Well-educated and successful daughters, a flourishing career, fame, and wealth – the sun was shining on Reshma. Finally. Now, Reshma felt that she owed her success to Smita. Had she not followed Smita’s advice from time to time, she wouldn’t be where she was today.
Now, Smita walked in. Her face radiated with the glow of Reshma’s skin care products. Over the years, they had lost touch, as both women were busy carving out a niche for themselves.
They had an aura about them — one that stemmed from hard work and sharp insight.
Smita took a seat, and after they had exchanged initial pleasantries, Reshma announced :
- There is a man in my life.
- Hey! Reshma! You deserve the best life has to offer, my friend.
- Thanks. I am happy too.
- So? What does he do?
- He is one of the largest distributors of luxury skincare products in India.
- Fantastic. Being in the same profession has its perks.
- Sure.
- Based out of Mumbai, I hope.
- Yes. Though I met him at a trade fair in Dubai.
- So? How long has it been?
- A few months now. Even my daughters like him.
- That’s superb.
- Smita, we will be travelling to Tokyo for a trade fair. I will be sharing the room with him for the first time.
- You mean you two haven’t…?
- Of course, we have. But I never stayed over.
- Hmm…I get it. Compatible?
- Yes, very. So, if the 3 nights and 4 days go well, we are considering marriage.
- Why?
- What do you mean?
- Why would you want to get married? Now?
Reshma paused to stare. Wasn’t that the natural course of things, after all? Smita had been married to a supportive spouse for 3 decades. Surely, she approved of the institution.
- Look, there is nothing wrong with marriage. But we are gazing into our fifties. We have our health and vigour now. Ten years later, one of us will be dabbling with dentures or diabetes. And old age is a pain to deal with. You don’t want to be lumped with a cranky old man. Be free na. Just have sex, Reshma, have sex.
Reshma paused to think. The waiter came with two glasses of crisp white wine. Hoisting her glass, Reshma chirped:
- To sex.
- To sex.
The two women flashed toothy smiles, silently admiring each other’s foresight. After all, Reshma had always acted on Smita’s advice – a habit that had never let her down.
The End.
- “ I don’t want to waste time. Two vegan set menus, and please get the wine as soon as my guest arrives. Thank you,” Reshma instructed, sharp and efficient.
Seated in the swanky Yauatcha, Reshma couldn't wait to see Smita and share the news! She was confident Smita would approve. Reshma, now a successful entrepreneur in her late 40s, valued her former neighbour’s opinion.
Having met in their twenties, the two women had come a long way over the past two decades. Smita, who had started as a receptionist in a five-star hotel, was now competing for senior management positions within the group. She had worked tirelessly and gained impressive degrees through her thirties and forties. A supportive husband and daughter had made it easier for Smita to reach her ambitions.
Whether it was the challenges she faced after eloping at eighteen, an interfaith marriage, losing her husband to death when her daughters were seven and nine respectively, unemployment, or confusion, Reshma had a tough time. The only person who supported her during those dark years was Smita.
- “Why don’t you do a beauty parlour course?” Smita had suggested to the widowed Reshma.
The latter sold some jewellery, took the beautician course, and set up a shop in her small one-bedroom flat. Smita was her first client, and it was she who spread the word about Reshma’s new venture.
Reshma worked hard. After a long day in the hall, she would go into the kitchen to experiment with herbs, spices, and other ingredients that could be used for hair and skincare. Soon, she developed natural potions to enhance beauty and used them in her home parlour. She offered free testers at the end of each service.
Smita bought large quantities of every product made. However, outside of her, there was little demand. But night after night, Reshma worked tirelessly on her products. Their daughters were in college by then.
“Why don’t you try something that does not exist in the market? You know, Botox is very expensive. Can you think of making something affordable for us? ” Smita had asked.
Reshma buckled down to research and experiment. Then one night, she struck gold!
The natural collagen cream she had created was an instant hit. This time, it was not just Smita who swore by her products. Starting with clients in the parlour, it quickly became the talk of the neighbourhood. Spreading faster than viral Instagram reels, it swept through middle-class Bandra and spread south of the bay. North of the suburbs soon caught up with the frenzy.
Reshma’s daughters could pursue education in medicine and mass communication, respectively, thanks to the profits from one collagen cream.
The magic potion enabled her to participate in trade fairs, and Reshma traveled abroad for the first time. She had to hire additional staff and secure a larger place to meet the skyrocketing demand.
Well-educated and successful daughters, a flourishing career, fame, and wealth – the sun was shining on Reshma. Finally. Now, Reshma felt that she owed her success to Smita. Had she not followed Smita’s advice from time to time, she wouldn’t be where she was today.
Now, Smita walked in. Her face radiated with the glow of Reshma’s skin care products. Over the years, they had lost touch, as both women were busy carving out a niche for themselves.
They had an aura about them — one that stemmed from hard work and sharp insight.
Smita took a seat, and after they had exchanged initial pleasantries, Reshma announced :
- There is a man in my life.
- Hey! Reshma! You deserve the best life has to offer, my friend.
- Thanks. I am happy too.
- So? What does he do?
- He is one of the largest distributors of luxury skincare products in India.
- Fantastic. Being in the same profession has its perks.
- Sure.
- Based out of Mumbai, I hope.
- Yes. Though I met him at a trade fair in Dubai.
- So? How long has it been?
- A few months now. Even my daughters like him.
- That’s superb.
- Smita, we will be travelling to Tokyo for a trade fair. I will be sharing the room with him for the first time.
- You mean you two haven’t…?
- Of course, we have. But I never stayed over.
- Hmm…I get it. Compatible?
- Yes, very. So, if the 3 nights and 4 days go well, we are considering marriage.
- Why?
- What do you mean?
- Why would you want to get married? Now?
Reshma paused to stare. Wasn’t that the natural course of things, after all? Smita had been married to a supportive spouse for 3 decades. Surely, she approved of the institution.
- Look, there is nothing wrong with marriage. But we are gazing into our fifties. We have our health and vigour now. Ten years later, one of us will be dabbling with dentures or diabetes. And old age is a pain to deal with. You don’t want to be lumped with a cranky old man. Be free na. Just have sex, Reshma, have sex.
Reshma paused to think. The waiter came with two glasses of crisp white wine. Hoisting her glass, Reshma chirped:
- To sex.
- To sex.
The two women flashed toothy smiles, silently admiring each other’s foresight. After all, Reshma had always acted on Smita’s advice – a habit that had never let her down.
The End.
July 26, 2025
Madness In Mumbai - Short Stories
Of Mumbai Rains and Renovation
A pall of grey shrouded over the island city. Monsoon clouds hung low, threatening an attack.
Stepping into the newly renovated squeaky clean toilet for the first time, K.K. yelled, “Vandanaaaa! Vandanaaaa!”
Someone would have thought K.K. was coming down with a heart attack. But nestled in her cramped kitchen, 65-year-old Vandana Kaki was used to her husband’s Vandanaaaaaa for over 5 decades.
Coolly, she stopped chopping the onions, switched off the gas, and twisted around. Next, she hopped ahead—one. Two. Now she was in the micro mini-passage with the toilet and bathroom adjacent.
Tapping the toilet door she gently asked, “Now what happened?”
A disgruntled 67-year-old K.K. stepped out. Fastening the strings of his white pajamas, he said,
- “I can't. I cannot do it.”
- “Should I boil some water with jeera and hing?”
- “Array old woman! I am not constipated!”
- “Then? What is it, angry young man?”
“It’s too clean. The sandaas.”
Dumbfounded, Vandana Kaki stared into KK’s eyes. With progressing age was her eccentric husband going to flare out into a full-blown nut job? Now she was worried. For herself.
K.K., short for Kanta Kamat (official name), Kanjoos Kanta (as neighbours called him), and Kanjoos Kaka ( by children of Bhakti Niwas Housing Society), was now ill at ease.
But, it had started when his son in the US decided to marry.
That his daughter-in-law was an Italian American did not faze KK. After all, if he had wanted his son to marry within the community, he should have sent the boy to Konkan for an education – not Kent.
Nor did it bother him that his only son could not fly to India for a traditional wedding. K.K. did not make a fuss about him and Vandana not being invited to the U.S. either. After all his son was in and out of the great U.S of A on work.
On the contrary, K.K. was delighted. Inviting and feeding neighbours of Bhakti Niwas whom he couldn’t tolerate was a sheer waste of time. And more importantly money. Why spend his savings on people who would eye his family’s good fortune with their buri nazar? Neighbours after all never seemed to be happy for anyone however small or big the blessing may be. So he approved of his sons’ registered marriage even though Vandana grumbled.
After all, the mother knew what the real problem was. Her son left no stone unturned to ensure his young wife did not meet his eccentric father.
So, Vandana Kaki insisted on painting their ground floor one-room kitchen flat. “Aaho it needs to look like a lagna-ghar,” she had said. Lagna ghar or not the flat desperately needed a coat of paint. Over the years its walls had acquired a yellow-grey hue. There were blotches of fungal green peppered randomly as if it were a work of abstract art. Cracks in the ceilings exposed patches of mortar which sprinkled a trickle or two randomly. The toilet commode shook every time one sat or got off the seat. The threadbare furniture of sofa-cum-bed and the folding dining table in the hall-cum-living room had dulled over time. Cushions and pillow covers were lumpy with fading fabric.
K.K. had no qualms. “A home should look lived in, not like a sanitized hotel room.” That was partly true. But KK had not mentioned to anyone why he chose not to spend money on renovating the tiny flat. Buree Nazar.
Many moons ago, KK’s parents, who lived in this flat, realized that his elder sister had reached a suitable age for marriage. So, before inviting a battery of probable grooms and their extended families, the parents decided to paint and refurbish the house. The neighbors took a sneak peek and smiled, “Array Wah Taj! Looks like you are going to find a raaj-kumar for your princess,” they said to KK’s father, a humble municipal school teacher. KK was quick to sniff sarcasm in the compliments.
One morning, his father had a cup of tea. After which he had a cardiac arrest. Then he passed away. Just like that. As if it was the most natural thing to happen.
“Maybe it was the stress of the wedding,” reasoned his mother. Now that the whole responsibility was on her, she followed her husband’s footsteps. The best way to shirk off responsibility was to kick the bucket.
KK was quick to blame the neighbours for their buree nazar. Of course he did not say it. But he made it his mission never to share or show off. He went to the other end of the spectrum. And lived so shabbily that people took no notice of him. Or his flat.
Soon enough, a habit was formed. Quietly, he married his sister off to a rich farmer in Konkan. His marriage to his simple-minded Vandana was also a low-key court affair.
“We must get the house painted, furniture polished, and upholstered,” Vandana Kaki had insisted after their son announced his decision on video call.
“Our son is saving so much money and you want to splurge it away!”
But this time around Vandana Kaki would not hear any of it. She had given into K.K’s kanjoosi all her life. And yes, there were times she admired the trait as well. For instance, KK refused to blow money on cigarettes and alcohol. And that made him a good husband. At least she did not have to bother with those problems. He had saved every coin he could and then created sensible fixed deposits. Because of his acute kanjoosi – K.K an accountant with a small firm was able to send his son to the U.S. to pursue his post-graduation.
But now they had an auspicious occasion. The flat had to look like a lagna-ghar, a festive home. That would probably change the son’s mind and he would be home, thought Vandana Kaki. But she dare not say that to her husband. It would break KK’s heart if he knew his son was ashamed of him.
About renovating the house K.K argued forth. “Array you at least wait until the end of September. Who renovates the house in July?”
“Aaho, our son is getting married by the end of July. And it won't take longer than a week or two.” Saying this Vandana Kaki packed KK off to Konkan to be with his sister while she got the flat revamped. In peace.
And now he was back. Thoroughly disgruntled at the spanking new look. And unable to take a dump. He was restless as he sat on the sofa-cum-bed. The moment he leaned back to rest his head on the wall, Vandana Kaki shouted, “No don’t. The oil in your hair will stain the wall.”
KK glared at his wife. “Have I spent money to be uncomfortable in my own house?” He wanted his old home back. The one where he could rest, take a shit, and even fart out loud in peace. He was now seated on the new upholstery and found it difficult to let loose a cloud of thundering gas.
The monsoon clouds echoed a thunder, shuddering with the force of impending wrath. In the kitchen, Vandana Kaki thought of suggesting that KK use the neighbor’s toilet. But said nothing. They would only make fun of him saying ‘KK spent so much money on his flat that he could not do sandaas in it.‘
Over the years, KK had a bone to pick with every flat member of Bhakti Niwas Housing Society because he believed their buri nazar had taken his parents away way before time. To date, he insisted on 1) contributing exactly Rs. 10/—for the Bhakti Niwas Sarvajanik Ganesh Utsav; 2) picking faults and fights with the Secretary at every society meeting; and 3) shooing the children away when they played a minute later than 7:30 p.m. on the slope of low lying society compound.
Now Vandana Kaki had an idea. She paused, cringed, and then suggested, “Why don’t you go to the Sulabh Sauchalaya? There is one near the station.” Just thinking of the unwashed public toilet assaulted her senses.
But KK’s eyes were twinkling. He had liked the suggestion. Changing quickly into his trousers and shirt, KK hopped out of the flat and walked up the slope of Bhakti Nivas. Right away a rickshaw dawdled past. He sat and sped off in the direction of Kandivali Station.
All of a sudden, the monstrous Mumbai monsoon let loose. K.K. realized he had forgotten not only his umbrella but also his mobile. By the time he reached the Sulabh Sauchalay, he was soaking wet.
5 minutes later when he came out relieved, the rains had paralyzed the city. Auto rickshaws were floating in the water. The level of which was rising threateningly. People were stranded outside the station. Few had started walking.
K.K. felt something twirl at his feet. It was a water snake mixed with filth. Disgusted, he started walking in the direction of his house. It had taken him 20 minutes to reach here by auto. He wondered how long it would take for him to reach back.
Gingerly K.K. took one step at a time. He did not want to lose his life by stepping into an open drain. The road under the rail bridge was submerged in knee-deep water. In the moment all he could think of was taking one careful step at a time.
It took him 2 hours to reach the gates of Bhakti Nivas Housing Society. He was in shock as he looked down the slope. The electricity board on the ground floor was submerged in water. So was his flat!
“Vandanaaaaaa! Vandanaaaa! Vandanaaaa!” he yelled. But this time it was not for his selfish concern. In the moment he realized how precious his wife was. Had she died in the flood?
“Aye Vandanaaaaaa!” He started to bawl uncontrollably.
Shhoo! Shhoo! He heard the signature style of one Mumbaiker calling another. KK looked straight ahead, facing the first-floor balcony. His neighbor, who was also the building secretary signaled him to be quiet and pointed inside his first-floor flat. Through the exchange of sign language KK released that his wife was changing from her wet saree into his neighbor’s wife’s dry one.
Tears stung his eyes as KK folded his hands in a Namastey. Despite his quarrelsome ways the neighbour had helped his wife. And had graciously retained her dignity by not shouting out loud that she was changing. KK’s beloved wife was safe. Thanks to the secretary of Bhakti Niwas.
Not only Bhakti Niwas but the residents of the neighbouring Shant Kutir opened doors for KK. They gave him a set of dry clothes and steaming hot varan bhaat. With a dollop of toop.
Destroying lives, homes, cattle, and livelihoods it was the worst flood ever in the history of the island city. And while it plundered away -it also restored faith in the humanity of one Mumbaiker towards another.
The next day KK was a changed man. No longer argumentative or selfish – instead, he was grateful. For his wife Vandana and his neighbours who had come to the old couple’s rescue.
By then , the water from their flat had ebbed away. KK and Vandana Kaki gingerly stepped into their home. The cheap coat of paint had chipped off the wall. The freshly polished furniture had lost its sheen. Everything was almost unusable. Vandana Kaki was visibly upset.
Just then KK felt his bowels move. He promptly entered the toilet. Minutes later Vandana Kaki heard the flush of water.
When KK stepped out, the couple stared at one another. They said nothing. But both knew. The floods had saved KK. Not only did they restore his relationship with the neighbours, but also the home K.K was most comfortable living in.
The End .
A pall of grey shrouded over the island city. Monsoon clouds hung low, threatening an attack.
Stepping into the newly renovated squeaky clean toilet for the first time, K.K. yelled, “Vandanaaaa! Vandanaaaa!”
Someone would have thought K.K. was coming down with a heart attack. But nestled in her cramped kitchen, 65-year-old Vandana Kaki was used to her husband’s Vandanaaaaaa for over 5 decades.
Coolly, she stopped chopping the onions, switched off the gas, and twisted around. Next, she hopped ahead—one. Two. Now she was in the micro mini-passage with the toilet and bathroom adjacent.
Tapping the toilet door she gently asked, “Now what happened?”
A disgruntled 67-year-old K.K. stepped out. Fastening the strings of his white pajamas, he said,
- “I can't. I cannot do it.”
- “Should I boil some water with jeera and hing?”
- “Array old woman! I am not constipated!”
- “Then? What is it, angry young man?”
“It’s too clean. The sandaas.”
Dumbfounded, Vandana Kaki stared into KK’s eyes. With progressing age was her eccentric husband going to flare out into a full-blown nut job? Now she was worried. For herself.
K.K., short for Kanta Kamat (official name), Kanjoos Kanta (as neighbours called him), and Kanjoos Kaka ( by children of Bhakti Niwas Housing Society), was now ill at ease.
But, it had started when his son in the US decided to marry.
That his daughter-in-law was an Italian American did not faze KK. After all, if he had wanted his son to marry within the community, he should have sent the boy to Konkan for an education – not Kent.
Nor did it bother him that his only son could not fly to India for a traditional wedding. K.K. did not make a fuss about him and Vandana not being invited to the U.S. either. After all his son was in and out of the great U.S of A on work.
On the contrary, K.K. was delighted. Inviting and feeding neighbours of Bhakti Niwas whom he couldn’t tolerate was a sheer waste of time. And more importantly money. Why spend his savings on people who would eye his family’s good fortune with their buri nazar? Neighbours after all never seemed to be happy for anyone however small or big the blessing may be. So he approved of his sons’ registered marriage even though Vandana grumbled.
After all, the mother knew what the real problem was. Her son left no stone unturned to ensure his young wife did not meet his eccentric father.
So, Vandana Kaki insisted on painting their ground floor one-room kitchen flat. “Aaho it needs to look like a lagna-ghar,” she had said. Lagna ghar or not the flat desperately needed a coat of paint. Over the years its walls had acquired a yellow-grey hue. There were blotches of fungal green peppered randomly as if it were a work of abstract art. Cracks in the ceilings exposed patches of mortar which sprinkled a trickle or two randomly. The toilet commode shook every time one sat or got off the seat. The threadbare furniture of sofa-cum-bed and the folding dining table in the hall-cum-living room had dulled over time. Cushions and pillow covers were lumpy with fading fabric.
K.K. had no qualms. “A home should look lived in, not like a sanitized hotel room.” That was partly true. But KK had not mentioned to anyone why he chose not to spend money on renovating the tiny flat. Buree Nazar.
Many moons ago, KK’s parents, who lived in this flat, realized that his elder sister had reached a suitable age for marriage. So, before inviting a battery of probable grooms and their extended families, the parents decided to paint and refurbish the house. The neighbors took a sneak peek and smiled, “Array Wah Taj! Looks like you are going to find a raaj-kumar for your princess,” they said to KK’s father, a humble municipal school teacher. KK was quick to sniff sarcasm in the compliments.
One morning, his father had a cup of tea. After which he had a cardiac arrest. Then he passed away. Just like that. As if it was the most natural thing to happen.
“Maybe it was the stress of the wedding,” reasoned his mother. Now that the whole responsibility was on her, she followed her husband’s footsteps. The best way to shirk off responsibility was to kick the bucket.
KK was quick to blame the neighbours for their buree nazar. Of course he did not say it. But he made it his mission never to share or show off. He went to the other end of the spectrum. And lived so shabbily that people took no notice of him. Or his flat.
Soon enough, a habit was formed. Quietly, he married his sister off to a rich farmer in Konkan. His marriage to his simple-minded Vandana was also a low-key court affair.
“We must get the house painted, furniture polished, and upholstered,” Vandana Kaki had insisted after their son announced his decision on video call.
“Our son is saving so much money and you want to splurge it away!”
But this time around Vandana Kaki would not hear any of it. She had given into K.K’s kanjoosi all her life. And yes, there were times she admired the trait as well. For instance, KK refused to blow money on cigarettes and alcohol. And that made him a good husband. At least she did not have to bother with those problems. He had saved every coin he could and then created sensible fixed deposits. Because of his acute kanjoosi – K.K an accountant with a small firm was able to send his son to the U.S. to pursue his post-graduation.
But now they had an auspicious occasion. The flat had to look like a lagna-ghar, a festive home. That would probably change the son’s mind and he would be home, thought Vandana Kaki. But she dare not say that to her husband. It would break KK’s heart if he knew his son was ashamed of him.
About renovating the house K.K argued forth. “Array you at least wait until the end of September. Who renovates the house in July?”
“Aaho, our son is getting married by the end of July. And it won't take longer than a week or two.” Saying this Vandana Kaki packed KK off to Konkan to be with his sister while she got the flat revamped. In peace.
And now he was back. Thoroughly disgruntled at the spanking new look. And unable to take a dump. He was restless as he sat on the sofa-cum-bed. The moment he leaned back to rest his head on the wall, Vandana Kaki shouted, “No don’t. The oil in your hair will stain the wall.”
KK glared at his wife. “Have I spent money to be uncomfortable in my own house?” He wanted his old home back. The one where he could rest, take a shit, and even fart out loud in peace. He was now seated on the new upholstery and found it difficult to let loose a cloud of thundering gas.
The monsoon clouds echoed a thunder, shuddering with the force of impending wrath. In the kitchen, Vandana Kaki thought of suggesting that KK use the neighbor’s toilet. But said nothing. They would only make fun of him saying ‘KK spent so much money on his flat that he could not do sandaas in it.‘
Over the years, KK had a bone to pick with every flat member of Bhakti Niwas Housing Society because he believed their buri nazar had taken his parents away way before time. To date, he insisted on 1) contributing exactly Rs. 10/—for the Bhakti Niwas Sarvajanik Ganesh Utsav; 2) picking faults and fights with the Secretary at every society meeting; and 3) shooing the children away when they played a minute later than 7:30 p.m. on the slope of low lying society compound.
Now Vandana Kaki had an idea. She paused, cringed, and then suggested, “Why don’t you go to the Sulabh Sauchalaya? There is one near the station.” Just thinking of the unwashed public toilet assaulted her senses.
But KK’s eyes were twinkling. He had liked the suggestion. Changing quickly into his trousers and shirt, KK hopped out of the flat and walked up the slope of Bhakti Nivas. Right away a rickshaw dawdled past. He sat and sped off in the direction of Kandivali Station.
All of a sudden, the monstrous Mumbai monsoon let loose. K.K. realized he had forgotten not only his umbrella but also his mobile. By the time he reached the Sulabh Sauchalay, he was soaking wet.
5 minutes later when he came out relieved, the rains had paralyzed the city. Auto rickshaws were floating in the water. The level of which was rising threateningly. People were stranded outside the station. Few had started walking.
K.K. felt something twirl at his feet. It was a water snake mixed with filth. Disgusted, he started walking in the direction of his house. It had taken him 20 minutes to reach here by auto. He wondered how long it would take for him to reach back.
Gingerly K.K. took one step at a time. He did not want to lose his life by stepping into an open drain. The road under the rail bridge was submerged in knee-deep water. In the moment all he could think of was taking one careful step at a time.
It took him 2 hours to reach the gates of Bhakti Nivas Housing Society. He was in shock as he looked down the slope. The electricity board on the ground floor was submerged in water. So was his flat!
“Vandanaaaaaa! Vandanaaaa! Vandanaaaa!” he yelled. But this time it was not for his selfish concern. In the moment he realized how precious his wife was. Had she died in the flood?
“Aye Vandanaaaaaa!” He started to bawl uncontrollably.
Shhoo! Shhoo! He heard the signature style of one Mumbaiker calling another. KK looked straight ahead, facing the first-floor balcony. His neighbor, who was also the building secretary signaled him to be quiet and pointed inside his first-floor flat. Through the exchange of sign language KK released that his wife was changing from her wet saree into his neighbor’s wife’s dry one.
Tears stung his eyes as KK folded his hands in a Namastey. Despite his quarrelsome ways the neighbour had helped his wife. And had graciously retained her dignity by not shouting out loud that she was changing. KK’s beloved wife was safe. Thanks to the secretary of Bhakti Niwas.
Not only Bhakti Niwas but the residents of the neighbouring Shant Kutir opened doors for KK. They gave him a set of dry clothes and steaming hot varan bhaat. With a dollop of toop.
Destroying lives, homes, cattle, and livelihoods it was the worst flood ever in the history of the island city. And while it plundered away -it also restored faith in the humanity of one Mumbaiker towards another.
The next day KK was a changed man. No longer argumentative or selfish – instead, he was grateful. For his wife Vandana and his neighbours who had come to the old couple’s rescue.
By then , the water from their flat had ebbed away. KK and Vandana Kaki gingerly stepped into their home. The cheap coat of paint had chipped off the wall. The freshly polished furniture had lost its sheen. Everything was almost unusable. Vandana Kaki was visibly upset.
Just then KK felt his bowels move. He promptly entered the toilet. Minutes later Vandana Kaki heard the flush of water.
When KK stepped out, the couple stared at one another. They said nothing. But both knew. The floods had saved KK. Not only did they restore his relationship with the neighbours, but also the home K.K was most comfortable living in.
The End .
July 20, 2025
Madness In Mumbai - Short Stories
The High Priestess of Metabolism.
The 62-year-old Doc parted her thin lips. The ‘Klinik’ beautician applied a light brown coat of lip color. Just then, her stylish client walked in. “Oh wow! You look ravishing, Doc!”
Indeed! Dressed in a pristine white chikankari suit, her copper-toned blow-dried hair and muted makeup added grace to the Doc’s impish charm.
“Thank you, Prerna,” she said as her longtime client walked toward the smaller section of the ‘Klinik’.
Turning around, Prerna asked, “What’s the occasion?”
“Sushma Kapoor’s chautha.”
Traditionally held on the fourth day after death, chautha is a solemn gathering to honor the deceased. While Bollywood shined in crimson during Karva Chauth; its chautha was equally spectacular. Manish Malhotra and Abu-Sandeep transformed the beige and white somberness into an art form for the understated yet grand event.
Sushma Kapoor was the screen queen of the 80s and 90s.
“Of course,” continued Prerna. “Sushma Kapoor revived her career because of you. What a comeback she had!” Saying this Prerna walked into the slimming section of the ‘Klinik’.
Doc tried not to smile, but her eyes twinkled. A generation of Bollywood actresses from the 80s and early 90s owed their figures and fortunes to Doc’s slimming expertise.
After Starry Nights editor Prabha Ray featured her on the cover of the magazine’s Diwali Bonanza issue, calling her “High Priestess of Metabolism,” there was no looking back.
‘Klinik’ was overflowing. Leading Bollywood actresses, models, TV stars, and Miss India hopefuls waited patiently for their turn.
But things were different now. Compared to her former glory, clients had dwindled to a trickle. To compensate for losses, Doc started hair and beauty services in a tiny corner of the ‘Klinik’. The beauty business grew, and soon the slimming services had to be enclosed in a small section.
Just then, Meena, the ‘Klinik’ in-charge since its inception in 1983, walked in as she read a letter. It was from the NMA – National Medical Association.
Doc was thrilled! Had the prestigious medical association really planned to honour her with a lifetime achievement award for her groundbreaking contribution to women’s health in Bollywood?
Meena looked stern as she handed the letter. Doc read :
Doctor (Mrs) S. Trivedi, we order that Dr. Trivedi’s Slimming Klinik cease operations immediately! We also prohibit you from using ‘doctor’ before your name. Your dubious slimming techniques have no connection to the honorable profession of medicine. Your practice is nothing but quackery. You are not a doctor but a quack. You must surrender your license within 7 days of receiving this letter.
Doc froze, her gaze fixed on the letter. She read again. And again. Was this letter from NMA or was it drafted by an institution full of people struggling with Grade 9 Biology textbooks?
Dr. Trivedi’s Slimming Klinik was her lifeline—did they not understand that? It had given her the one thing every woman needed: financial freedom. Money was important, especially for women, because men always seemed to have plenty of it.
When Doc was young, she had two fathers: a rich dad and a poor dad, all in the same person. Her brother always had money for expensive private school fees, while her father was poor when it came to her, so she attended a government school. Butter was expensive, so it was only spread on her brother’s slice of toast. Chicken is, was, and always will be a two-legged bird. Every Sunday, one leg was found floating in her brother’s curry and the other in her father’s.
Not the one to be defeated Doc threw herself into studies with the ferocity of a headless chicken trying to stay alive. Despite paying hefty donations for her brother’s medical college – he turned out to be a dead duck…mhanje… a bad debt. There were zero returns on investment, Pitaji realised, when the brother eventually dropped out. After that, Doc was given, not one but both the legs of chicken for her Sunday curry. That’s when she realised the power of the prefix ‘Dr.’ before one’s name.
Dr. (Mrs) Sneha Trivedi . As a general practitioner, her patients were largely women. Within a few months of practice, she was quick to realise that stress played havoc with health. Its by-product was obesity, and obesity-related diseases. While treating them she realized the power of words like weight loss, diet, and glamour. Soon, she started advising women to get into shape. Her first few clients were women post-delivery. The simple diet worked. She had introduced no milk or meat in the 80s long before vegan was a buzzword.
Soon she was advising teenagers, brides-to-be, as well as middle-aged women who were losing their husbands to younger counterparts.
The prefix of Dr. added gravitas to her consultation. She was making more money doling out diets than prescribing antibiotics for coughs and colds.
Instead of investing the surplus in yellow gold, she chose Mumbai’s concrete gold. Real estate. Right in the heart of Bandra’s shopping district- Linking Road. There she set up the city’s first ‘Dr. Trivedi’s Slimming Klinik’, in a sprawling flat. Her slimming methods were like spiritual guru Osho Rajneesh’s sermons back in the 1980s – unconventional, and yet oddly irresistible.
You are not a doctor, you are a quack.
Doc read that line over and over again. What nonsense was NMA spouting? If they had to take action against her, they should have done it when she was at the height of her fame as Mumbai’s slimming guru. What was the point of threatening her now?
“Tubelight,” she thought to herself.
But to give NMA their due – they were right. Doc’s slimming methods had nothing to do with medicine and bordered on absurdity:
Butt naked inside the steam room Prerna, her long-standing client was getting the spot steam treatment from the only remaining massagewali on the staff. Like a firefighter, the massagewali aimed a long hose and blasted tufts of steam on Prerna’s tummy and face. It felt good. She was sweating like a sports champion without any athletic prowess to back it up.
Once the spot steaming was done, Prerna wrapped herself in a Turkish towel and gingerly stepped out. It was time for a massage. But it was not just any other soothing oil massage that lulled one to sleep. This one was done with gadgets. Earthy primal gadgets. A belan and a bat. The wooden bat was the one that was used to loosen water and soap out of clothes long before the washing machine transformed from a luxury item to a necessity.
The massagewali hit the bat hard across Prerna’s tummy, thighs, and buttocks. For 20 minutes. Then for the next 10, she rolled the belan, the wooden rolling pin over Prerna’s loose flab with the zest of a fanatic.
Lying astride on the cot Prerna bore the pain with the stoicism of a brainwashed terror accused going through 3rd degree police torture. ‘No gain without pain’– Prerna chanted convincing herself that this torture was somehow good for her.
Then it was time for piece de resistance of the treatment :
The massagewali disappeared for a moment and returned with a plastic tub packed with crepe bandages. With the seriousness of a surgeon, she wrapped Prerna’s limbs, stomach, thighs, and buttocks with layers upon layers of crepe bandages. The bandages clung to her body like a second skin making Prerna look like an Egyptian mummy.
She then dawdled into the dark cavernous sauna room like the Egyptian mummy entering her Pyramid. Settling into the heat, as if Mumbai’s humidity was not enough, she sipped on chilled water handed by the massagewali.
At the end of the drill, Prerna was lighter by 2 kilos! She was then given ‘Doc’s Magic Soup’. It was delicious. Prerna had tried to make it at home but it never tasted like the one in the ‘Klinik’. Tipping the massagewali with a fifty rupee note Prerna stepped out of the slimming section.
On her way out she saw Doc . In deep thought, her trademark impish grin was replaced by a frown. Prerna thought it was best not to disturb her as she was getting late. She had to take charge of the cash counter of Papa’s jewelry shop so he could break for lunch.
In the next seven days, Doc had to surrender her medical license. She could no longer add ‘Dr’ to her name. Through the decades the title had given her prestige, trust, and respect. Not to forget, the chicken legs. How was she to go on?
And to shut down the slimming section? She worked from six in the morning to nine at night, when it was opened. Who needed sleep when there were inches to lose? Sure now it was an eleven a.m. to three p.m. endeavor – but still… she had a handful of clients who needed to slim down. Nothing gave her more joy- and a touch of pride than making a rich beautiful woman shrink before her eyes.
‘Klinik’ had never been shut in 40 years of its existence. Not the day her daughter was born or the day her husband died. Meena had even asked whether she should close the center as a mark of respect, but Doc had refused. Why stop? Birth and death were a part of life. And so was slimming.
Now she remembered when her late husband had suggested they retire and live a quiet life in Lonavala. Doc had agreed but only grudgingly. But the twitter of birds, the fresh green hues of the hill station, and its quiet chafed her nerves. She missed the city, its glamour, and her rich Bollywood clients. She missed the gossip, parties, and most importantly getting women to look their best.
If she had stayed in Lonavala even for a day longer, she’d have either killed herself or throttled her blissfully contented husband who tended to the plants in their bungalow as if they were his children.
During demonetization, clients stopped visiting because they were cash-trapped. But Doc wasn’t having it. She called every client personally and said “Money should not come in the way of beauty. You can pay me later,” said the one who only took payment in cash as it helped to save taxes.
What would she do without the Slimming Klinik? Crafting personalized diet plans and giving clients her special creation, Magic Soup, was something she truly enjoyed. And they loved it! Of course, no one from the Klinik staff told them that Doc added 2 teaspoons of packaged pre-mix soup powder to enhance its flavors. That way, an array of veggies was tucked in.
A smart woman, she had saved and invested diligently. But money was not the only driving force of life, after all.
Passion was. It added zest and sparkle to her aging eyes. And to give it all up? For what? Because NMA did not think she was fit to be a doctor??? To hell with them.
Doc called for Meena. “ Just call a painter and remove my name- Dr. Trivedi- from Slimming Klinik. And write a resignation letter to the NMA. State that I will surrender my medical license. You have the number right? I will come back from the chautha and sign.”
Saying this she adjusted her dupatta like a battle cape. And sashayed out of the Klinik into Mumbai’s traffic. To hell with professional prefixes. What sparked joy in the everydayness of life was burning passion. And that would only fade when she did.
The End.
The 62-year-old Doc parted her thin lips. The ‘Klinik’ beautician applied a light brown coat of lip color. Just then, her stylish client walked in. “Oh wow! You look ravishing, Doc!”
Indeed! Dressed in a pristine white chikankari suit, her copper-toned blow-dried hair and muted makeup added grace to the Doc’s impish charm.
“Thank you, Prerna,” she said as her longtime client walked toward the smaller section of the ‘Klinik’.
Turning around, Prerna asked, “What’s the occasion?”
“Sushma Kapoor’s chautha.”
Traditionally held on the fourth day after death, chautha is a solemn gathering to honor the deceased. While Bollywood shined in crimson during Karva Chauth; its chautha was equally spectacular. Manish Malhotra and Abu-Sandeep transformed the beige and white somberness into an art form for the understated yet grand event.
Sushma Kapoor was the screen queen of the 80s and 90s.
“Of course,” continued Prerna. “Sushma Kapoor revived her career because of you. What a comeback she had!” Saying this Prerna walked into the slimming section of the ‘Klinik’.
Doc tried not to smile, but her eyes twinkled. A generation of Bollywood actresses from the 80s and early 90s owed their figures and fortunes to Doc’s slimming expertise.
After Starry Nights editor Prabha Ray featured her on the cover of the magazine’s Diwali Bonanza issue, calling her “High Priestess of Metabolism,” there was no looking back.
‘Klinik’ was overflowing. Leading Bollywood actresses, models, TV stars, and Miss India hopefuls waited patiently for their turn.
But things were different now. Compared to her former glory, clients had dwindled to a trickle. To compensate for losses, Doc started hair and beauty services in a tiny corner of the ‘Klinik’. The beauty business grew, and soon the slimming services had to be enclosed in a small section.
Just then, Meena, the ‘Klinik’ in-charge since its inception in 1983, walked in as she read a letter. It was from the NMA – National Medical Association.
Doc was thrilled! Had the prestigious medical association really planned to honour her with a lifetime achievement award for her groundbreaking contribution to women’s health in Bollywood?
Meena looked stern as she handed the letter. Doc read :
Doctor (Mrs) S. Trivedi, we order that Dr. Trivedi’s Slimming Klinik cease operations immediately! We also prohibit you from using ‘doctor’ before your name. Your dubious slimming techniques have no connection to the honorable profession of medicine. Your practice is nothing but quackery. You are not a doctor but a quack. You must surrender your license within 7 days of receiving this letter.
Doc froze, her gaze fixed on the letter. She read again. And again. Was this letter from NMA or was it drafted by an institution full of people struggling with Grade 9 Biology textbooks?
Dr. Trivedi’s Slimming Klinik was her lifeline—did they not understand that? It had given her the one thing every woman needed: financial freedom. Money was important, especially for women, because men always seemed to have plenty of it.
When Doc was young, she had two fathers: a rich dad and a poor dad, all in the same person. Her brother always had money for expensive private school fees, while her father was poor when it came to her, so she attended a government school. Butter was expensive, so it was only spread on her brother’s slice of toast. Chicken is, was, and always will be a two-legged bird. Every Sunday, one leg was found floating in her brother’s curry and the other in her father’s.
Not the one to be defeated Doc threw herself into studies with the ferocity of a headless chicken trying to stay alive. Despite paying hefty donations for her brother’s medical college – he turned out to be a dead duck…mhanje… a bad debt. There were zero returns on investment, Pitaji realised, when the brother eventually dropped out. After that, Doc was given, not one but both the legs of chicken for her Sunday curry. That’s when she realised the power of the prefix ‘Dr.’ before one’s name.
Dr. (Mrs) Sneha Trivedi . As a general practitioner, her patients were largely women. Within a few months of practice, she was quick to realise that stress played havoc with health. Its by-product was obesity, and obesity-related diseases. While treating them she realized the power of words like weight loss, diet, and glamour. Soon, she started advising women to get into shape. Her first few clients were women post-delivery. The simple diet worked. She had introduced no milk or meat in the 80s long before vegan was a buzzword.
Soon she was advising teenagers, brides-to-be, as well as middle-aged women who were losing their husbands to younger counterparts.
The prefix of Dr. added gravitas to her consultation. She was making more money doling out diets than prescribing antibiotics for coughs and colds.
Instead of investing the surplus in yellow gold, she chose Mumbai’s concrete gold. Real estate. Right in the heart of Bandra’s shopping district- Linking Road. There she set up the city’s first ‘Dr. Trivedi’s Slimming Klinik’, in a sprawling flat. Her slimming methods were like spiritual guru Osho Rajneesh’s sermons back in the 1980s – unconventional, and yet oddly irresistible.
You are not a doctor, you are a quack.
Doc read that line over and over again. What nonsense was NMA spouting? If they had to take action against her, they should have done it when she was at the height of her fame as Mumbai’s slimming guru. What was the point of threatening her now?
“Tubelight,” she thought to herself.
But to give NMA their due – they were right. Doc’s slimming methods had nothing to do with medicine and bordered on absurdity:
Butt naked inside the steam room Prerna, her long-standing client was getting the spot steam treatment from the only remaining massagewali on the staff. Like a firefighter, the massagewali aimed a long hose and blasted tufts of steam on Prerna’s tummy and face. It felt good. She was sweating like a sports champion without any athletic prowess to back it up.
Once the spot steaming was done, Prerna wrapped herself in a Turkish towel and gingerly stepped out. It was time for a massage. But it was not just any other soothing oil massage that lulled one to sleep. This one was done with gadgets. Earthy primal gadgets. A belan and a bat. The wooden bat was the one that was used to loosen water and soap out of clothes long before the washing machine transformed from a luxury item to a necessity.
The massagewali hit the bat hard across Prerna’s tummy, thighs, and buttocks. For 20 minutes. Then for the next 10, she rolled the belan, the wooden rolling pin over Prerna’s loose flab with the zest of a fanatic.
Lying astride on the cot Prerna bore the pain with the stoicism of a brainwashed terror accused going through 3rd degree police torture. ‘No gain without pain’– Prerna chanted convincing herself that this torture was somehow good for her.
Then it was time for piece de resistance of the treatment :
The massagewali disappeared for a moment and returned with a plastic tub packed with crepe bandages. With the seriousness of a surgeon, she wrapped Prerna’s limbs, stomach, thighs, and buttocks with layers upon layers of crepe bandages. The bandages clung to her body like a second skin making Prerna look like an Egyptian mummy.
She then dawdled into the dark cavernous sauna room like the Egyptian mummy entering her Pyramid. Settling into the heat, as if Mumbai’s humidity was not enough, she sipped on chilled water handed by the massagewali.
At the end of the drill, Prerna was lighter by 2 kilos! She was then given ‘Doc’s Magic Soup’. It was delicious. Prerna had tried to make it at home but it never tasted like the one in the ‘Klinik’. Tipping the massagewali with a fifty rupee note Prerna stepped out of the slimming section.
On her way out she saw Doc . In deep thought, her trademark impish grin was replaced by a frown. Prerna thought it was best not to disturb her as she was getting late. She had to take charge of the cash counter of Papa’s jewelry shop so he could break for lunch.
In the next seven days, Doc had to surrender her medical license. She could no longer add ‘Dr’ to her name. Through the decades the title had given her prestige, trust, and respect. Not to forget, the chicken legs. How was she to go on?
And to shut down the slimming section? She worked from six in the morning to nine at night, when it was opened. Who needed sleep when there were inches to lose? Sure now it was an eleven a.m. to three p.m. endeavor – but still… she had a handful of clients who needed to slim down. Nothing gave her more joy- and a touch of pride than making a rich beautiful woman shrink before her eyes.
‘Klinik’ had never been shut in 40 years of its existence. Not the day her daughter was born or the day her husband died. Meena had even asked whether she should close the center as a mark of respect, but Doc had refused. Why stop? Birth and death were a part of life. And so was slimming.
Now she remembered when her late husband had suggested they retire and live a quiet life in Lonavala. Doc had agreed but only grudgingly. But the twitter of birds, the fresh green hues of the hill station, and its quiet chafed her nerves. She missed the city, its glamour, and her rich Bollywood clients. She missed the gossip, parties, and most importantly getting women to look their best.
If she had stayed in Lonavala even for a day longer, she’d have either killed herself or throttled her blissfully contented husband who tended to the plants in their bungalow as if they were his children.
During demonetization, clients stopped visiting because they were cash-trapped. But Doc wasn’t having it. She called every client personally and said “Money should not come in the way of beauty. You can pay me later,” said the one who only took payment in cash as it helped to save taxes.
What would she do without the Slimming Klinik? Crafting personalized diet plans and giving clients her special creation, Magic Soup, was something she truly enjoyed. And they loved it! Of course, no one from the Klinik staff told them that Doc added 2 teaspoons of packaged pre-mix soup powder to enhance its flavors. That way, an array of veggies was tucked in.
A smart woman, she had saved and invested diligently. But money was not the only driving force of life, after all.
Passion was. It added zest and sparkle to her aging eyes. And to give it all up? For what? Because NMA did not think she was fit to be a doctor??? To hell with them.
Doc called for Meena. “ Just call a painter and remove my name- Dr. Trivedi- from Slimming Klinik. And write a resignation letter to the NMA. State that I will surrender my medical license. You have the number right? I will come back from the chautha and sign.”
Saying this she adjusted her dupatta like a battle cape. And sashayed out of the Klinik into Mumbai’s traffic. To hell with professional prefixes. What sparked joy in the everydayness of life was burning passion. And that would only fade when she did.
The End.
July 12, 2025
Madness In Mumbai - Short Stories
Bai – the OG Bhai of Mumbai
“No. Sorry. Bai, not today, no…” nodding heatedly, Neha added, “Every time you have wanted leave or half a day, I have agreed … par aaj nahi. I was going to call and ask you to stay the night. I will be home way past midnight.”
Saying this, Neha took a puff from a cigarette. She nervously paced under the banyan tree in the office compound. When Bai called, which happened once in a blue moon, Neha was on her guard. It meant trouble beyond the control of the super-efficient house help.
Petty things, such as finding tomato ketchup instead of oil in the mandir diya, a chutney-smeared floor, or a 92-year-old man who removed his soiled diaper and roamed freely around the house, did not bother Bai.
She’d ask, “Kya kiya Baba?” What have you done, Baba? With kind words and gentle actions, she cleaned him up, then the house, and made sure he calmed down with a cup of hot tea or instant soup.
One morning, Bai walked in: her oiled-black hair tied tightly into a bun, saree raised just above the ankles, pallu tucked into the mismatched saree petticoat, and a firm pot of belly that entered moments before she did. A stellar example of body positivity, Bai was swirling around the house with a mop. The old man looked at her and shouted, “Bai?! Don’t you have any shame? Put on some clothes.”
His brain-chewing disease caused the old man to see forbidden things that weren't real. He saw Bai report to work naked.
“Tum ko kya dikh raha hain, Baba? " Bai let out a chuckle.
Straight from her heart, it was an unusual blend of humor and compassion—one of the primary must-haves for Alzheimer's caregivers. She smiled at the eccentricities caused by the demonic disease.
But today, Bai put her foot down.
-“Mere ko jaana hi hain.” I must go.
- “Bai, any other day I would have accommodated. Please understand. Tomorrow is crucial for me.”
-“Mera aaj crucial hain.” I must go today.
Neha was in a tough spot. The OTT channel had shown interest in some pitches the production house had made before she was hired. Now, they wanted a demonstration of 3 out of 4 shows. As a new member of the show development team, Neha was asked to present. She had to stay up all night to be pitch-perfect the next day.
One of the shows was the history of the Mumbai Underworld. Something to the tune of The Rise and Fall of the ‘Bhai’ in Mumbai.
Currently, as she argued with Bai, Neha had a sudden realization. Haji, Karim, Dawood, Shakeel, Rajan… the former dons who held the city in their grip, were all just illusions. Paani Kum Chai. The original boss of Mumbai was Bai.
In Marathi, Bai is a respectful way to address a lady. The housekeepers of Mumbai were not only the ruling ladies of the homes they worked in, but would always be the city’s real dons. If they wanted, they could hold the financial capital of India ransom.
Mumbaikers couldn’t care less about gangster Bhai… But try asking one to live without their Bai.
Now, Bai was adamant. She had to go. Neha was in a fix. The two women worked well together. Bai took care of Neha’s home, school-going daughter, and father-in-law.
Neha gave her a good salary, respect, and the freedom she deserved. While Bai was asked to take a day off on Sunday, she preferred to take off as and when required. The arrangement worked more in favor of Neha and her micro-mini family.
The last time Bai had taken the day off was 3 months ago. On Hanuman Jayanti. She insisted on going all the way into town. The Hanuman Temple of Picket Road in South Mumbai is known to be a ‘jagrut devasthan’, where all prayers are answered. To pay her regards, she jostled her way through policemen, lawyers, corporate head honchos, and social media influencers.
Two weeks prior, she had made a day trip to her friend’s gaothan (village) in Vasai for Easter Sunday. 40 days earlier, she took the train to spend a day in Mahim’s St. Michael’s Church and Bandra’s Mount Mary Church for Ash Wednesday, marking the first day of the holy Lent for Christians.
This system of off days, as and when, worked in Neha’s favour. Though a career in a production house had a lucrative salary, it meant being married to the job.
This is why, in the past, a newly wedded Neha quit her television career in favor of a fulfilling married life. She put so much of herself into the marriage that twenty years later, the husband woke up one morning fully fed up. Of her. He then had an awakening: he did not want to be married anymore. To her. Days later he disappeared leaving behind his aging father, their pre-teen daughter, and empty bank accounts.
At 45, Neha suddenly felt 21! Broke. Clueless. Angry.
Marriage suits some people. Separation suits the others. They say na when the bad goes out of your life, you make room for the good. At the end of her rope when it came to trusting another human being, her husband’s exit created room for an exciting new entry. One morning Bai rang her doorbell wanting to take care of her home and family.
Ask any woman in Mumbai, whom she would choose :
1) An errant husband who finally realizes his wife’s true worth.
OR
2) Bai with all her demands.
And here was Bai at her doorstep! For Neha, she was God sent.
Days later, Neha got a job. It was under her prior boss, who was now heading a production house. She could start from scratch and build her way back. This was 8 months ago.
However, of late, she had witnessed several layoffs in the organization. She could not afford it. Not wanting to give any room for complaints, she worked through the week and weekend, long hours, and punched in every demand made by the profession.
Now, as she negotiated the time with Bai, Neha was envious. Lesser-educated and earning way less than she did, Bai had what no other corporate Mumbaiker could boast of. Job security. Neha could not even threaten to sack her as Bai would get another one in minutes. And neither could Neha afford to lose her.
Finally, a compromise was made. After fetching Neha’s daughter from tennis and giving her a cheese tomato sandwich, Bai would take off for a couple of hours. Only to be back in time to serve daughter and father-in-law a quick hot khichdi for dinner. Grudgingly, Bai settled.
Neha stubbed her half-consumed cigarette.
- "Where do you have to go anyway, Bai?"
- "Dongri."
A pocket of silence:
- "What do you have to do in Dongri???"
For someone who was pitching for an underworld non-fiction documentary series, Dongri was synonymous with the Bhais of Mumbai. A watering hole for gangsters like Haji Mastan and Karim Lala, it was the birthplace of the most infamous of them all - Dawood Ibrahim Parker.
Bai explained that since it was Muharram, she had to attend the holy Taziya procession there.
Neha thought for a beat. Bai took her off on religious days. Ganesh Chaturthi, Hanuman Jayanti, Mahashivratri, Christmas, Easter, Ramazan, and now Muharram. Getting curious, she asked :
- "Bai? Who are you? Hindu, Christian, or Muslim?"
- "Mere ko sab achche lagte hain." I like all religions.
Neha paused to think. Then, slowly, a wry smile curled up her face. Bai of Mumbai not only had more power, but more depth than most people Neha knew. No wonder she would always be Mumbai’s OG Bhai.
The End
“No. Sorry. Bai, not today, no…” nodding heatedly, Neha added, “Every time you have wanted leave or half a day, I have agreed … par aaj nahi. I was going to call and ask you to stay the night. I will be home way past midnight.”
Saying this, Neha took a puff from a cigarette. She nervously paced under the banyan tree in the office compound. When Bai called, which happened once in a blue moon, Neha was on her guard. It meant trouble beyond the control of the super-efficient house help.
Petty things, such as finding tomato ketchup instead of oil in the mandir diya, a chutney-smeared floor, or a 92-year-old man who removed his soiled diaper and roamed freely around the house, did not bother Bai.
She’d ask, “Kya kiya Baba?” What have you done, Baba? With kind words and gentle actions, she cleaned him up, then the house, and made sure he calmed down with a cup of hot tea or instant soup.
One morning, Bai walked in: her oiled-black hair tied tightly into a bun, saree raised just above the ankles, pallu tucked into the mismatched saree petticoat, and a firm pot of belly that entered moments before she did. A stellar example of body positivity, Bai was swirling around the house with a mop. The old man looked at her and shouted, “Bai?! Don’t you have any shame? Put on some clothes.”
His brain-chewing disease caused the old man to see forbidden things that weren't real. He saw Bai report to work naked.
“Tum ko kya dikh raha hain, Baba? " Bai let out a chuckle.
Straight from her heart, it was an unusual blend of humor and compassion—one of the primary must-haves for Alzheimer's caregivers. She smiled at the eccentricities caused by the demonic disease.
But today, Bai put her foot down.
-“Mere ko jaana hi hain.” I must go.
- “Bai, any other day I would have accommodated. Please understand. Tomorrow is crucial for me.”
-“Mera aaj crucial hain.” I must go today.
Neha was in a tough spot. The OTT channel had shown interest in some pitches the production house had made before she was hired. Now, they wanted a demonstration of 3 out of 4 shows. As a new member of the show development team, Neha was asked to present. She had to stay up all night to be pitch-perfect the next day.
One of the shows was the history of the Mumbai Underworld. Something to the tune of The Rise and Fall of the ‘Bhai’ in Mumbai.
Currently, as she argued with Bai, Neha had a sudden realization. Haji, Karim, Dawood, Shakeel, Rajan… the former dons who held the city in their grip, were all just illusions. Paani Kum Chai. The original boss of Mumbai was Bai.
In Marathi, Bai is a respectful way to address a lady. The housekeepers of Mumbai were not only the ruling ladies of the homes they worked in, but would always be the city’s real dons. If they wanted, they could hold the financial capital of India ransom.
Mumbaikers couldn’t care less about gangster Bhai… But try asking one to live without their Bai.
Now, Bai was adamant. She had to go. Neha was in a fix. The two women worked well together. Bai took care of Neha’s home, school-going daughter, and father-in-law.
Neha gave her a good salary, respect, and the freedom she deserved. While Bai was asked to take a day off on Sunday, she preferred to take off as and when required. The arrangement worked more in favor of Neha and her micro-mini family.
The last time Bai had taken the day off was 3 months ago. On Hanuman Jayanti. She insisted on going all the way into town. The Hanuman Temple of Picket Road in South Mumbai is known to be a ‘jagrut devasthan’, where all prayers are answered. To pay her regards, she jostled her way through policemen, lawyers, corporate head honchos, and social media influencers.
Two weeks prior, she had made a day trip to her friend’s gaothan (village) in Vasai for Easter Sunday. 40 days earlier, she took the train to spend a day in Mahim’s St. Michael’s Church and Bandra’s Mount Mary Church for Ash Wednesday, marking the first day of the holy Lent for Christians.
This system of off days, as and when, worked in Neha’s favour. Though a career in a production house had a lucrative salary, it meant being married to the job.
This is why, in the past, a newly wedded Neha quit her television career in favor of a fulfilling married life. She put so much of herself into the marriage that twenty years later, the husband woke up one morning fully fed up. Of her. He then had an awakening: he did not want to be married anymore. To her. Days later he disappeared leaving behind his aging father, their pre-teen daughter, and empty bank accounts.
At 45, Neha suddenly felt 21! Broke. Clueless. Angry.
Marriage suits some people. Separation suits the others. They say na when the bad goes out of your life, you make room for the good. At the end of her rope when it came to trusting another human being, her husband’s exit created room for an exciting new entry. One morning Bai rang her doorbell wanting to take care of her home and family.
Ask any woman in Mumbai, whom she would choose :
1) An errant husband who finally realizes his wife’s true worth.
OR
2) Bai with all her demands.
And here was Bai at her doorstep! For Neha, she was God sent.
Days later, Neha got a job. It was under her prior boss, who was now heading a production house. She could start from scratch and build her way back. This was 8 months ago.
However, of late, she had witnessed several layoffs in the organization. She could not afford it. Not wanting to give any room for complaints, she worked through the week and weekend, long hours, and punched in every demand made by the profession.
Now, as she negotiated the time with Bai, Neha was envious. Lesser-educated and earning way less than she did, Bai had what no other corporate Mumbaiker could boast of. Job security. Neha could not even threaten to sack her as Bai would get another one in minutes. And neither could Neha afford to lose her.
Finally, a compromise was made. After fetching Neha’s daughter from tennis and giving her a cheese tomato sandwich, Bai would take off for a couple of hours. Only to be back in time to serve daughter and father-in-law a quick hot khichdi for dinner. Grudgingly, Bai settled.
Neha stubbed her half-consumed cigarette.
- "Where do you have to go anyway, Bai?"
- "Dongri."
A pocket of silence:
- "What do you have to do in Dongri???"
For someone who was pitching for an underworld non-fiction documentary series, Dongri was synonymous with the Bhais of Mumbai. A watering hole for gangsters like Haji Mastan and Karim Lala, it was the birthplace of the most infamous of them all - Dawood Ibrahim Parker.
Bai explained that since it was Muharram, she had to attend the holy Taziya procession there.
Neha thought for a beat. Bai took her off on religious days. Ganesh Chaturthi, Hanuman Jayanti, Mahashivratri, Christmas, Easter, Ramazan, and now Muharram. Getting curious, she asked :
- "Bai? Who are you? Hindu, Christian, or Muslim?"
- "Mere ko sab achche lagte hain." I like all religions.
Neha paused to think. Then, slowly, a wry smile curled up her face. Bai of Mumbai not only had more power, but more depth than most people Neha knew. No wonder she would always be Mumbai’s OG Bhai.
The End
July 3, 2025
Madness In Mumbai - Short Stories
The Visit
From red, the light skipped to orange for a few beats. Then it turned green… Yet, the five rows of cars on Senapati Bapat Marg remained at a standstill.
Dr. Wadia was growing restless in the back seat of his chauffeur-driven Mercedes. He had left his suburban home at 7:30 a.m. for an emergency. The patient, whose brain tumour he had successfully removed almost a week ago, was now refusing to wake up. Realizing it was a medical crisis, he hurried out of his house with the breakfast tiffin his wife had prepared.
As he nibbled on large pieces of mixed fruit in the car, Dr. Wadia made calls to coordinate his team of assistants and support staff for the operation theatre at Prince Aly Khan Hospital in the far south of the city.
A punctual 41-year-old, Dr. Wadia had earned a stellar reputation as Mumbai’s top neurosurgeon. He carried many labels: angel…magician…messiah.
The chief organ of the human body surrendered itself to his delicate fingers. They weaved the magic of gods. Unlike successful surgeons who were intolerant because they suffered from the almighty syndrome, Dr. Wadia saw through the futility of it all. The plight of patients and their families humbled the expert. He focused on his work during the day, took a run in the park every evening, and nursed a faint whiskey as he indulged his family at night.
But the traffic jams of Mumbai can destroy the saintliest of human beings. Rooted to the spot for 20 minutes, Dr. Wadia, the beacon of goodness was fuming. He liked to be in the operation theatre 15 minutes before surgery, calm himself with deep breathing, and pray to his mother in heaven to bless the surgery.
Then meet his team of 4 assistants and run through the entire surgical procedure from open to close. Twice over. Lastly, he greeted the patient along with the family with a kind smile.
But today he was going to be offensively late. And the surgery could not wait. The other scheduled cases for surgery were put on stand-by as the patient had to be taken back to the operating room for a re-exploration.
But now Doctor Wadia knew he would not make it in time. He called his assistant. “Shruti, I need you to take charge today. Call me as soon as the patient is wheeled in and report her condition.”
Dr. Shruti Mayekar was chuffed. Finally, she was going to take the lead. She had been waiting in the wings for months. And today she was going to take center stage of the theatre. Well not exactly, but until the good doctor arrived, and that was good enough.
Though Dr. Wadia trusted his protégé to do a perfectly fine job, he was ill at ease. This was the first time he had handed a surgery over. Trusting subordinates was not the issue at all; it was he who was enamored by the human brain and its limitless possibilities. Every surgery taught him something new. Cerebral procedures gave him a sense of purpose. Moreover, surgeries consoled his inner child hidden in a wounded nook of the heart. In the operation theatre he was in charge. Not the helpless boy who watched his mother waste away to brain tumour…
But, in the moment, time was wasting away. The motionless cars stuck so close to one another that even if he wanted to, he could not get out and walk to the hospital, which was an hour and half away on foot.
Gurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr… Dr Wadia was shocked and embarrassed at the same time. Never the one to suffer flatulence, now his growling fart refused to stop. Moreover, it was so noisy that his driver sat up and looked behind. The doctor and the driver exchanged fleeting glances as the fart continued to rumble noisily. Refusing to stop, a stench so foul encased the air-conditioned car that both the doctor and driver slid down the windows. And as is usual with the chaotic traffic situation in the city, only when the signal turned red, cars finally inched their way ahead…
Gritting his teeth, Dr.Wadia called his wife, “Zenia? How many times have I told you not to give me an only fruit breakfast?!”
“Sweetheart, you have been eating too much mutton these days. The fruit will clean your system.”
“On the day of such an important surgery you decide to clean my system!”
“Ävey, you perform surgeries every day of the week Hormuzd! Your body needs cleansing sometimes na, sweetheart?”
“I need to fix someone’s tumour, Zenia. And I can’t hold on any longer.”
“Then take a dump.”
“In the car?”
“You haven’t reached yet!”
“Bad jam Zenia. Bad jam. I am stuck at the mouth of the second flyover at Lower Parel! But I can’t hold till I reach the hospital.”
“Sweetheart, go to St. Regis.”
“Ah! Hey, good idea – Mohan?” he called out to his driver, “Take me to that hotel next to Palladium .”
The driver nodded.
However disciplined or determined one may be, the city traffic has a way of making all plans go asunder. With cars jostling for space, the driver found it difficult to ply his way on the second flyover. He got pushed out and had to use the slim neck of the street under.
Moreover, the senseless road digging created a diversion. Mohan was helpless. Instead of going straight, he had to take a left on Ganpat Rao Kadam Marg-a road, which his wonderful boss had asked him to never drive on.
Doctor Hormuzd Wadia was on a video call with Dr. Shruti Mayekar.
- “Sir the patient is gasping for breath.”
- “Grab a breathing tube and push it down her throat to secure the airway.”
- “Yes, Sir.”
Keeping his call on hold, Dr Shruti Mayekar did as she was told. Dr Hormuzd Wadia waited as he looked into the screen of his mobile camera.
He then called out loud,
-“Shruti, connect the patient to the ventilator and ask your assistants to fix an intravenous access to collect blood samples and run some fluid.”
-“Yes Sir!”
-“Call me once you are ready,”
When he looked up from his phone he asked “Where the hell are we?!”
- “Sir, the main road junction was blocked. This is because of the diversion. .”
- “Bhenchod!” Doctor Wadia said to no one in particular.
Mohan was stunned. In 16 years of service, he had never seen the good doctor lose his cool. He called his wife again.
- “I am on that road, Zenia!”
- “Which one?”
- “The one that goes to Narielwala Mansion.”
- “Oh!”
- “I don’t know what to do. Going to St. Regis or Palladium seems impossible.”
- “Hormuzd, sweetheart… listen to me now…”
Zenia paused and then said gently, “Just go to Narielwala Mansion no baba.”
- “Are you mad?”
- “Hormuzd. I am not saying go to your parents
– “Father’s. Not parents. My mother died. Remember?”
Zenia softened even further.
-“Sweetheart, there are so many houses you can go to. Go to Dinshaw Kaka’s or Mehroo Kaki’s…?”
- “I have not kept in touch with anyone from Narielwala for nearly two decades now. How can I just go and take a shit in someone’s house? What do I say?”
-“You are a famous doctor. Everybody in the community is proud of you. Just go,” said Zenia and then as an after-thought added, “tell them you will give 20 percent friends and family discount on a brain surgery.”
-“Keep your business bull shit to yourself, Zenia.”
-“You are the one who is full of shit right now,” said his wife with a smile.
Dr. Hormuzd Wadia let out a laugh.
Next, he told his driver, “Mohan! Narielwala Mansion main left lena.”
Like a seasoned Mumbaikar, Mohan knew Narielwala Mansion. It was a major housing landmark in an area dotted by decrepit chawls and pint-size shops.
The car slowed down as its stately gates came into view. Dr. Wadia saw the 77-year-old Dinshaw Kaka talk to the guards. It seemed as if he was scolding them. Seeing a Mercedes glide into their premises, and more importantly escape the wrath of the building secretary, the portly guards got up from their station and took a step forward to stop the car.
Dinshaw Kaka turned around.
-“Look who is here! The jewel of Narielwala Mansion! Hormuzd how are you?” Dinshaw Kaka exclaimed forgetting what he was angry about.
As a mark of respect, Dr.Wadia got out of his car and putting his hand on Dinshaw Kaka’s shoulder started towards his building.
- “Good morning, Kaka. I am in a bit of a rush.”
- “Of course. I know. You are an important doctor. Come I will walk you to your block.”
- “No Kaka, no formality. I don’t want to keep you from the society affairs.”
-“Array what nonsense,” said Dinshaw Kaka and started to walk with Dr. Wadia. “I was just telling aapro Burzeen, so what if you are busy? You must look after your parents. If you don’t have time, call us, or check, come visit once in a while.”
A wry smile curled up Dr. Wadia’s uncomfortable face. He doubled his speed . Dinshaw Kaka kept pace as he continued to speak.
-“I told him, look at Hormuzd. Such a big doctor. But takes such good care of his ageing parents!”
Dr.Wadia stopped in his tracks. Suddenly he forgot all about the pressure on the walls of his rectum. He stared at Dinshaw Kaka who smiled back.
- “Your father told me; you don’t make a big deal about it. But two nurses by the day and constantly sending hospital staff to check on them… that’s so sweet of you. God bless you son. No wonder you are so successful.”
By now Dr.Wadia had reached the entrance of his block. Dinshaw Kaka stopped.
-“I have troubled knees else I would have walked you up to your home, son.”
-“No problem, Kaka. Thanks for the company. Always a pleasure to meet you.”
Dinshaw Kaka walked off. Alone now, Dr. Hormuzd Wadia stared at the entrance of C Block. He was looking at the rickety wooden staircase after 22 years. He left his father’s home , the day he could sustain himself in the city. On his part, the father had not bothered to find his son’s whereabouts.
Dr. Wadia’s father had been a man of the good times. He liked to party, drink and flirt whenever there was the opportunity. Growing up, Hormuzd Wadia never saw his father go to office like other fathers from Narielwala Mansion. They worked in banks, travel agencies, a handful went to factories and few had their dispensaries. His father loitered at home all day. He was called ‘the fixer.’ Though he earned extremely well, his was a profession one could not talk about. He was a bookie, is what he told his wife and son. But Hormuzd Wadia knew that that was half the truth. His parents fought over his work. He earned well but that was not respectable. When people asked Hormuzd what his father did, he said he was a party coordinator. That was the closest he came to telling the truth about a father who organized high flying escorts for people in power.
Growing up, Hormuzd noticed, that his father was away most nights and his mother was too busy dying to find his whereabouts.
Now, as Dr. Wadia walked up the stairs, the long-forgotten gossamer of sadness shrouded his soul. The mobile rang. It was Shruti.
- “Sir, when the nurse put the urinary catheter, a litre filled the bag in a whiff.”
- “Check her neck, Dr. Shruti.”
- “Stiff as a log of wood.”
- “Shit. It is meningitis. Get a CT scan done immediately. I am coming right away.”
When Dr. Wadia turned around to go back to the hospital, his anal sphincters began to relax their control. Dr.Wadia doubled up the stairs and started ringing the bell. Furiously. He decided that if his erstwhile debauched father would not open the door, he (Dr.Wadia) would hunker down and shit on the spot. Ah! That would be some foul revenge. After a long haul, the door opened...
Dr. Wadia was taken aback. He could hardly recognize his father. Time aged the man terribly. Toothless, unshaven, and gaunt, his father looked nothing like the handsome dapper man women would give a second glance to. His father took a moment and then beamed-
-“Hormuzd?! What a wonderful-”
-“I need to use the toilet, Mr. Wadia.”
Saying this he walked in and rushed towards his bedroom. His father called out,
- “That toilet is not working. Use the one here,” said his father pointing to a wall in the hall.
-“Use Mummy’s room, dikra.”
Dr.Wadia walked back from the passage. In the rush to relieve himself, he had not noticed that the wide living room was cut to half its size by a makeshift wall with a sliding door attached to it.
-“Oh, you made this new space for that whore, is it? She isn’t dead yet, I believe.”
Dr.Wadia had morphed into a vicious animal in the presence of his father. The old man said nothing and simply pointed to the door. Oh yes that is where the guest bathroom was. Post dinner the family washed their hands in the sink inside.
As he walked towards the door, he was curious to know how the ‘whore’ and two nurses fit themselves in such a small space. When Dr.Wadia entered the make-shift room, the stench that struck his nostrils was so rotten, he wanted to throw up.
And there she was. A sickly thin, bundle of skin and bones. Her long hands frozen tight. She stared at Dr. Wadia. Thick sliver of saliva was flowing down her open mouth. Her jaws were stiff. Dr.Wadia gaped at the woman who was the cause of his misery. Looking at the wretched body nobody could believe this living thing was once an attractive escort. The one who was having an affair with his father while his mother was dying from brain tumour. The 14-year-old in him had had mixed feelings: he was attracted towards her as she was a drop-dead gorgeous woman in her mid-forties. And he hated her because of the pain she and the father had caused his mother.
Dr. Wadia took a step towards the washroom. But when her gaze did not shift to follow his gait, he knew… She was a mass of mess with the worst possible disease in the world – progressive supra nuclear palsy. A slow poison, this neuro degenerative disease freezes the entire body bit by bit. But the sadist that it is, it leaves the mind relatively active. Dr. Wadia knew there was no greater tragedy than a razor-sharp mind caged inside a frozen body.
‘Karma,’ thought Dr. Wadia, as he finally let go. Zenia’s fruit breakfast had spruced his gut chakachak. He felt like a whole new person.
Now Dr. Wadia stepped out the door, clean, clear and at peace. The mature healer in him took charge of the suffering inner child. His heart reached out to her. The disease, was a rare one affecting only 2% of the entire human population. People are known to reverse cancer with an altered lifestyle. But no one afflicted with PSP can alter their cruel destiny. A silent killer, it dehumanizes the patient to a helpless victim who needs support to even swallow or blink. Now that Karma had played its course, Dr. Wadia had a better disposition towards his stepmother. He was surprised he had called her that in his head.
When he went out of the room, he saw two men handing his father wads of currency notes and leave. Ah, still betting on cricket… oh yes, the IPL was on after all! No wonder his father could afford 2 nurses. PSP patients needed intensive care. It was an expensive disease with constant monitoring of infection, 24/7 nurses, adult diapers and feeding liquids through tube. But money had never been an issue with his father. Responsibility, respectability: those were his father’s problems.
-“Why did you not call me regarding her ailment?”
-“You mean the whore?”
-“I mean step-mom, Dad.” Dr.Wadia and his father stared at each other. Both men were soaking in ‘dad.’ The phone rang. It was Dr Shruti.
- “Sir, CT Scan shows that the ventricles of the brain have blown up.”
- “Take the patient right back to the operation room. Place a drain in the ventricle to release pressure. And test the cerebrospinal fluid for infection.”
Dr.Wadia hung up. He had to leave. Saving lives, healing them was his thing. This house had always brought the worst out in him. However, the suffering of the step-mother had humbled Dr. Wadia. It cleansed his wounds.
But why would his father credit him for the caregiving? When all along, Dr. Wadia secretly wanted the news of his father’s death so he could move in here with Zenia and the children. Staying here, he would be close to all the hospitals he was associated with. Bombay Hospital, Breach Candy, Saifee, and Prince Aly Khan -would be within a smaller radius and he would no longer have to face the wrath of Mumbai’s infamous traffic jams.
-"Why Dad?"
-"What do you mean?"
-"Why would you give me credit for bearing the expenses when you are doing it all by yourself?"
-"Son, you are a respectable doctor in society. I am not. Anything you do would never be questioned."
- "I have done nothing… And… and why is she alone? Where are the two nurses?"
Just then the door-bell rang. Two men, in their mid-forties walked in. They smiled at his father who returned the courtesy. Both, as if accustomed to the house walked down the hallway. Each one entered a respective bedroom.
-"Who are they Dad?"
-"Son, they are supposed to be your ‘hospital staff."
- "I don’t get it ?"
- "Son, they are here to meet ‘the nurses.’"
THE END.
Neurosurgeon and spine surgeon Dr. Mazda Turel was kind enough to contribute the Medical Details of this short story.
From red, the light skipped to orange for a few beats. Then it turned green… Yet, the five rows of cars on Senapati Bapat Marg remained at a standstill.
Dr. Wadia was growing restless in the back seat of his chauffeur-driven Mercedes. He had left his suburban home at 7:30 a.m. for an emergency. The patient, whose brain tumour he had successfully removed almost a week ago, was now refusing to wake up. Realizing it was a medical crisis, he hurried out of his house with the breakfast tiffin his wife had prepared.
As he nibbled on large pieces of mixed fruit in the car, Dr. Wadia made calls to coordinate his team of assistants and support staff for the operation theatre at Prince Aly Khan Hospital in the far south of the city.
A punctual 41-year-old, Dr. Wadia had earned a stellar reputation as Mumbai’s top neurosurgeon. He carried many labels: angel…magician…messiah.
The chief organ of the human body surrendered itself to his delicate fingers. They weaved the magic of gods. Unlike successful surgeons who were intolerant because they suffered from the almighty syndrome, Dr. Wadia saw through the futility of it all. The plight of patients and their families humbled the expert. He focused on his work during the day, took a run in the park every evening, and nursed a faint whiskey as he indulged his family at night.
But the traffic jams of Mumbai can destroy the saintliest of human beings. Rooted to the spot for 20 minutes, Dr. Wadia, the beacon of goodness was fuming. He liked to be in the operation theatre 15 minutes before surgery, calm himself with deep breathing, and pray to his mother in heaven to bless the surgery.
Then meet his team of 4 assistants and run through the entire surgical procedure from open to close. Twice over. Lastly, he greeted the patient along with the family with a kind smile.
But today he was going to be offensively late. And the surgery could not wait. The other scheduled cases for surgery were put on stand-by as the patient had to be taken back to the operating room for a re-exploration.
But now Doctor Wadia knew he would not make it in time. He called his assistant. “Shruti, I need you to take charge today. Call me as soon as the patient is wheeled in and report her condition.”
Dr. Shruti Mayekar was chuffed. Finally, she was going to take the lead. She had been waiting in the wings for months. And today she was going to take center stage of the theatre. Well not exactly, but until the good doctor arrived, and that was good enough.
Though Dr. Wadia trusted his protégé to do a perfectly fine job, he was ill at ease. This was the first time he had handed a surgery over. Trusting subordinates was not the issue at all; it was he who was enamored by the human brain and its limitless possibilities. Every surgery taught him something new. Cerebral procedures gave him a sense of purpose. Moreover, surgeries consoled his inner child hidden in a wounded nook of the heart. In the operation theatre he was in charge. Not the helpless boy who watched his mother waste away to brain tumour…
But, in the moment, time was wasting away. The motionless cars stuck so close to one another that even if he wanted to, he could not get out and walk to the hospital, which was an hour and half away on foot.
Gurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr… Dr Wadia was shocked and embarrassed at the same time. Never the one to suffer flatulence, now his growling fart refused to stop. Moreover, it was so noisy that his driver sat up and looked behind. The doctor and the driver exchanged fleeting glances as the fart continued to rumble noisily. Refusing to stop, a stench so foul encased the air-conditioned car that both the doctor and driver slid down the windows. And as is usual with the chaotic traffic situation in the city, only when the signal turned red, cars finally inched their way ahead…
Gritting his teeth, Dr.Wadia called his wife, “Zenia? How many times have I told you not to give me an only fruit breakfast?!”
“Sweetheart, you have been eating too much mutton these days. The fruit will clean your system.”
“On the day of such an important surgery you decide to clean my system!”
“Ävey, you perform surgeries every day of the week Hormuzd! Your body needs cleansing sometimes na, sweetheart?”
“I need to fix someone’s tumour, Zenia. And I can’t hold on any longer.”
“Then take a dump.”
“In the car?”
“You haven’t reached yet!”
“Bad jam Zenia. Bad jam. I am stuck at the mouth of the second flyover at Lower Parel! But I can’t hold till I reach the hospital.”
“Sweetheart, go to St. Regis.”
“Ah! Hey, good idea – Mohan?” he called out to his driver, “Take me to that hotel next to Palladium .”
The driver nodded.
However disciplined or determined one may be, the city traffic has a way of making all plans go asunder. With cars jostling for space, the driver found it difficult to ply his way on the second flyover. He got pushed out and had to use the slim neck of the street under.
Moreover, the senseless road digging created a diversion. Mohan was helpless. Instead of going straight, he had to take a left on Ganpat Rao Kadam Marg-a road, which his wonderful boss had asked him to never drive on.
Doctor Hormuzd Wadia was on a video call with Dr. Shruti Mayekar.
- “Sir the patient is gasping for breath.”
- “Grab a breathing tube and push it down her throat to secure the airway.”
- “Yes, Sir.”
Keeping his call on hold, Dr Shruti Mayekar did as she was told. Dr Hormuzd Wadia waited as he looked into the screen of his mobile camera.
He then called out loud,
-“Shruti, connect the patient to the ventilator and ask your assistants to fix an intravenous access to collect blood samples and run some fluid.”
-“Yes Sir!”
-“Call me once you are ready,”
When he looked up from his phone he asked “Where the hell are we?!”
- “Sir, the main road junction was blocked. This is because of the diversion. .”
- “Bhenchod!” Doctor Wadia said to no one in particular.
Mohan was stunned. In 16 years of service, he had never seen the good doctor lose his cool. He called his wife again.
- “I am on that road, Zenia!”
- “Which one?”
- “The one that goes to Narielwala Mansion.”
- “Oh!”
- “I don’t know what to do. Going to St. Regis or Palladium seems impossible.”
- “Hormuzd, sweetheart… listen to me now…”
Zenia paused and then said gently, “Just go to Narielwala Mansion no baba.”
- “Are you mad?”
- “Hormuzd. I am not saying go to your parents
– “Father’s. Not parents. My mother died. Remember?”
Zenia softened even further.
-“Sweetheart, there are so many houses you can go to. Go to Dinshaw Kaka’s or Mehroo Kaki’s…?”
- “I have not kept in touch with anyone from Narielwala for nearly two decades now. How can I just go and take a shit in someone’s house? What do I say?”
-“You are a famous doctor. Everybody in the community is proud of you. Just go,” said Zenia and then as an after-thought added, “tell them you will give 20 percent friends and family discount on a brain surgery.”
-“Keep your business bull shit to yourself, Zenia.”
-“You are the one who is full of shit right now,” said his wife with a smile.
Dr. Hormuzd Wadia let out a laugh.
Next, he told his driver, “Mohan! Narielwala Mansion main left lena.”
Like a seasoned Mumbaikar, Mohan knew Narielwala Mansion. It was a major housing landmark in an area dotted by decrepit chawls and pint-size shops.
The car slowed down as its stately gates came into view. Dr. Wadia saw the 77-year-old Dinshaw Kaka talk to the guards. It seemed as if he was scolding them. Seeing a Mercedes glide into their premises, and more importantly escape the wrath of the building secretary, the portly guards got up from their station and took a step forward to stop the car.
Dinshaw Kaka turned around.
-“Look who is here! The jewel of Narielwala Mansion! Hormuzd how are you?” Dinshaw Kaka exclaimed forgetting what he was angry about.
As a mark of respect, Dr.Wadia got out of his car and putting his hand on Dinshaw Kaka’s shoulder started towards his building.
- “Good morning, Kaka. I am in a bit of a rush.”
- “Of course. I know. You are an important doctor. Come I will walk you to your block.”
- “No Kaka, no formality. I don’t want to keep you from the society affairs.”
-“Array what nonsense,” said Dinshaw Kaka and started to walk with Dr. Wadia. “I was just telling aapro Burzeen, so what if you are busy? You must look after your parents. If you don’t have time, call us, or check, come visit once in a while.”
A wry smile curled up Dr. Wadia’s uncomfortable face. He doubled his speed . Dinshaw Kaka kept pace as he continued to speak.
-“I told him, look at Hormuzd. Such a big doctor. But takes such good care of his ageing parents!”
Dr.Wadia stopped in his tracks. Suddenly he forgot all about the pressure on the walls of his rectum. He stared at Dinshaw Kaka who smiled back.
- “Your father told me; you don’t make a big deal about it. But two nurses by the day and constantly sending hospital staff to check on them… that’s so sweet of you. God bless you son. No wonder you are so successful.”
By now Dr.Wadia had reached the entrance of his block. Dinshaw Kaka stopped.
-“I have troubled knees else I would have walked you up to your home, son.”
-“No problem, Kaka. Thanks for the company. Always a pleasure to meet you.”
Dinshaw Kaka walked off. Alone now, Dr. Hormuzd Wadia stared at the entrance of C Block. He was looking at the rickety wooden staircase after 22 years. He left his father’s home , the day he could sustain himself in the city. On his part, the father had not bothered to find his son’s whereabouts.
Dr. Wadia’s father had been a man of the good times. He liked to party, drink and flirt whenever there was the opportunity. Growing up, Hormuzd Wadia never saw his father go to office like other fathers from Narielwala Mansion. They worked in banks, travel agencies, a handful went to factories and few had their dispensaries. His father loitered at home all day. He was called ‘the fixer.’ Though he earned extremely well, his was a profession one could not talk about. He was a bookie, is what he told his wife and son. But Hormuzd Wadia knew that that was half the truth. His parents fought over his work. He earned well but that was not respectable. When people asked Hormuzd what his father did, he said he was a party coordinator. That was the closest he came to telling the truth about a father who organized high flying escorts for people in power.
Growing up, Hormuzd noticed, that his father was away most nights and his mother was too busy dying to find his whereabouts.
Now, as Dr. Wadia walked up the stairs, the long-forgotten gossamer of sadness shrouded his soul. The mobile rang. It was Shruti.
- “Sir, when the nurse put the urinary catheter, a litre filled the bag in a whiff.”
- “Check her neck, Dr. Shruti.”
- “Stiff as a log of wood.”
- “Shit. It is meningitis. Get a CT scan done immediately. I am coming right away.”
When Dr. Wadia turned around to go back to the hospital, his anal sphincters began to relax their control. Dr.Wadia doubled up the stairs and started ringing the bell. Furiously. He decided that if his erstwhile debauched father would not open the door, he (Dr.Wadia) would hunker down and shit on the spot. Ah! That would be some foul revenge. After a long haul, the door opened...
Dr. Wadia was taken aback. He could hardly recognize his father. Time aged the man terribly. Toothless, unshaven, and gaunt, his father looked nothing like the handsome dapper man women would give a second glance to. His father took a moment and then beamed-
-“Hormuzd?! What a wonderful-”
-“I need to use the toilet, Mr. Wadia.”
Saying this he walked in and rushed towards his bedroom. His father called out,
- “That toilet is not working. Use the one here,” said his father pointing to a wall in the hall.
-“Use Mummy’s room, dikra.”
Dr.Wadia walked back from the passage. In the rush to relieve himself, he had not noticed that the wide living room was cut to half its size by a makeshift wall with a sliding door attached to it.
-“Oh, you made this new space for that whore, is it? She isn’t dead yet, I believe.”
Dr.Wadia had morphed into a vicious animal in the presence of his father. The old man said nothing and simply pointed to the door. Oh yes that is where the guest bathroom was. Post dinner the family washed their hands in the sink inside.
As he walked towards the door, he was curious to know how the ‘whore’ and two nurses fit themselves in such a small space. When Dr.Wadia entered the make-shift room, the stench that struck his nostrils was so rotten, he wanted to throw up.
And there she was. A sickly thin, bundle of skin and bones. Her long hands frozen tight. She stared at Dr. Wadia. Thick sliver of saliva was flowing down her open mouth. Her jaws were stiff. Dr.Wadia gaped at the woman who was the cause of his misery. Looking at the wretched body nobody could believe this living thing was once an attractive escort. The one who was having an affair with his father while his mother was dying from brain tumour. The 14-year-old in him had had mixed feelings: he was attracted towards her as she was a drop-dead gorgeous woman in her mid-forties. And he hated her because of the pain she and the father had caused his mother.
Dr. Wadia took a step towards the washroom. But when her gaze did not shift to follow his gait, he knew… She was a mass of mess with the worst possible disease in the world – progressive supra nuclear palsy. A slow poison, this neuro degenerative disease freezes the entire body bit by bit. But the sadist that it is, it leaves the mind relatively active. Dr. Wadia knew there was no greater tragedy than a razor-sharp mind caged inside a frozen body.
‘Karma,’ thought Dr. Wadia, as he finally let go. Zenia’s fruit breakfast had spruced his gut chakachak. He felt like a whole new person.
Now Dr. Wadia stepped out the door, clean, clear and at peace. The mature healer in him took charge of the suffering inner child. His heart reached out to her. The disease, was a rare one affecting only 2% of the entire human population. People are known to reverse cancer with an altered lifestyle. But no one afflicted with PSP can alter their cruel destiny. A silent killer, it dehumanizes the patient to a helpless victim who needs support to even swallow or blink. Now that Karma had played its course, Dr. Wadia had a better disposition towards his stepmother. He was surprised he had called her that in his head.
When he went out of the room, he saw two men handing his father wads of currency notes and leave. Ah, still betting on cricket… oh yes, the IPL was on after all! No wonder his father could afford 2 nurses. PSP patients needed intensive care. It was an expensive disease with constant monitoring of infection, 24/7 nurses, adult diapers and feeding liquids through tube. But money had never been an issue with his father. Responsibility, respectability: those were his father’s problems.
-“Why did you not call me regarding her ailment?”
-“You mean the whore?”
-“I mean step-mom, Dad.” Dr.Wadia and his father stared at each other. Both men were soaking in ‘dad.’ The phone rang. It was Dr Shruti.
- “Sir, CT Scan shows that the ventricles of the brain have blown up.”
- “Take the patient right back to the operation room. Place a drain in the ventricle to release pressure. And test the cerebrospinal fluid for infection.”
Dr.Wadia hung up. He had to leave. Saving lives, healing them was his thing. This house had always brought the worst out in him. However, the suffering of the step-mother had humbled Dr. Wadia. It cleansed his wounds.
But why would his father credit him for the caregiving? When all along, Dr. Wadia secretly wanted the news of his father’s death so he could move in here with Zenia and the children. Staying here, he would be close to all the hospitals he was associated with. Bombay Hospital, Breach Candy, Saifee, and Prince Aly Khan -would be within a smaller radius and he would no longer have to face the wrath of Mumbai’s infamous traffic jams.
-"Why Dad?"
-"What do you mean?"
-"Why would you give me credit for bearing the expenses when you are doing it all by yourself?"
-"Son, you are a respectable doctor in society. I am not. Anything you do would never be questioned."
- "I have done nothing… And… and why is she alone? Where are the two nurses?"
Just then the door-bell rang. Two men, in their mid-forties walked in. They smiled at his father who returned the courtesy. Both, as if accustomed to the house walked down the hallway. Each one entered a respective bedroom.
-"Who are they Dad?"
-"Son, they are supposed to be your ‘hospital staff."
- "I don’t get it ?"
- "Son, they are here to meet ‘the nurses.’"
THE END.
Neurosurgeon and spine surgeon Dr. Mazda Turel was kind enough to contribute the Medical Details of this short story.
June 26, 2025
Madness In Mumbai - Short Stories
Neha’s Secret.
Rain pelted hard on the tarmac of the society compound. The matrix of rows and columns with rectangular multitudes of windows was randomly lit in yellow, blue, and black if the lights were out in any of the flats. It seemed as if Mumbai was mourning. Its notorious monsoon had unleashed fury that early afternoon.
“We are home!” hollered Sahil as he stepped into the flat and wheeled a slim suitcase into the spare room across the living room.
Heady whiffs of fried fish wafted through. His pot of belly and thinning fleece were in sharp contrast with Neha, Sahil’s 29-year-old twin sister who stood outside the door. Petite, dark, with thick curls and a striking face, she stared at the floor. Her cheeks drained of colour, and her once lively eyes were now vapid.
Their thickset Aai lumbered up the stairs clutching a drenched saree high enough to expose hairy calves. Once at the threshold of their flat she dropped the pleats that now grazed the chunk of her ankles.
Tall and lean, Baba doubled up the stairs. He stepped into the flat and got out of his loafers. Next, put the car keys into the drawer and disappeared into the passage. He was in a rush to relieve himself.
Aai finally caught her breath and heaved. Putting her hand on Neha’s drooping shoulder, she headed inside the house. Hearing the bustle of activity Sonali, Sahil’s wife, lowered the flame of the gas and stepped out of the kitchen. Neha was still outside the door, in a trance. Sonali walked to her sister-in-law and enveloped Neha in a warm hug. “I am so sorry,” whispered Sonali and added, “such lame words.”
“What else is anyone supposed to say?” Neha asked softly. Sonali put her arm around her sister-in-law and gently brought her inside. Sahil rested Neha’s suitcase by the door of the spare room.
“I am ready to eat,” he said as he walked to the two women and shut the main door of the flat. Sonali tugged at a mop of Neha’s curls. “Let’s eat and then we can chat. If you wish to.” Then leaning in closer she whispered, “Aai wanted to see Joe’s pictures. Asked me ten times if I knew about your marriage. I said I was as clueless.”
Just then Baba came into view wiping his hands with his white handkerchief. One by one everyone washed their hands in the sink of the long winding hallway and walked into the sprawling kitchen. The two-bedroom, hall-kitchen middle-class flats of old housing colonies in Mumbai were expansive. And the kitchen was the largest room of all.
As a young girl Neha preferred to sit in the kitchen which overlooked other flats. Propping up tiny feet on the semi-circular wooden chair by the dining table, she’d gaze out. In soft focus, humdrum life playing inside rectangular boxes enchanted the little girl.
“Neha, bala we would like to know more. Why did you not tell us about Joe?” Baba asked.
“Because he is Christian,” Aai spoke out of turn.
“Was,” Neha stated softly.
An awkward pause. Everyone avoided eye contact. To divert attention Aai lifted the lids of the casseroles. Sharp tang of fish curry curled through the room. The feisty orange surmai curry was brought to life by a sprinkle of fresh green coriander. The gravy of coarse ground spices and prawn would taste just right with a freshly squeezed lemon zest. Gingerly roasted chapattis glistened thanks to a slivering wipe of homemade ghee. Fluffy white rice was steaming hot. And of course, there was bright pink sol kadhi, the popular digestive made of kokum and coconut milk to wash down the heavy meal at the end.
This was the traditional homecoming meal for Neha when she flew down every year from the US. Sonali got the frying pan to the dining table. Golden pomfrets crackled softly. She pinched the largest slice of pomfret with a stainless steel nipper. Sliding it on Neha’s plate she moved to the side and began to put the rest of the fries in a serving dish. The family helped themselves to a piece each.
“You want to tell us something? Anything? Because we were in the dark until you broke down on the video call,” said Baba.
Neha tore a bit of chapatti and broke a tiny pinch of fish with it. After she brought the slim fold to the orifice, the rest of the family also broke the folds of their chapattis. Neha forced a limp bite.
“I can’t eat,” she mumbled after a beat. Words hung heavy in the thick monsoon air. Neha washed down her food with a drink of water. She got up walked through the dark winding hallway, across the hall and into the spare room.
Though she loved her family for rallying around her, Neha was in no mood for conversation or curry. She wanted solitude but needed deep sleep. She walked to the window of the spare room. It used to be a balcony that overlooked a congested junction. But now the streets were empty. Neha took in the blackish-grey skies hanging low over the city. Next, she drew in the curtains making the room pitch dark.
Neha hadn’t been sleeping well for weeks now. Despite doing all the right things: no coffee after 4:00 p.m., minimizing the use of the smart phone, making the room pitch dark- nothing seemed to help her insomnia.
Sometimes she slept for a measly hour or two. Then there were moments when she would dip into slumber, only to wake up right away. A few days ago, after glugging three stiff pegs of whiskey on the rocks she passed out. And woke up hours later with a pounding headache. Hangover combined with grief and insomnia was torture.
And that was because Neha and Joe had never taken to alcohol. An ideal Saturday night was an early dinner of fried chicken steak, peppery mash potatoes and black eyed peas- all dished out by Joe as Neha could not cook to save her life. Had it been up to her, she would live on sandwiches and tea for every meal. But Joe enjoyed cooking. And since Neha did not eat beef or pork, the home-chef would stick to staples like chicken fish and turkey. Post dinner the couple would take in two films, back-to-back, while snuggling into each other’s skinny arms.
Now, a loud guffaw was followed by abrupt silence. Sahil must have cracked up over something silly. Her twin found humour in the mundane ever so often. And Baba being sensitive to the situation must have shut her brother up, she presumed. Neha felt like reaching out to the family, asking them to be normal. But in that very moment, she did not feel like talking. Silence, was the only thing needed on that cold grey afternoon. She sighed and reached out for the phone.
Much to Joe’s discomfort, Neha had the habit of creating pictures every time they were together. Joe protested hating the idea of being someone’s subject all the time. Neha argued that she wanted to record every moment spent together. Her thick mop of curls shook furiously as she’d click-a-pic and shrug,
“I don’t know why I do it.”
Well…now she did. Neha saw pictures of Joe. Lanky, with a slender aquiline nose, sharp jawline and a head of shiny hair sleeked straight to the nape of a chiseled neck– Joe was the best-looking human being Neha had met. But what had softened her heart were those mellow eyes, brown and kind.
Differences between the couple were vast, but it never came in the way of their conjugal bliss.
There was a picture of Joe sleeping on a bed strewn with unfolded clothes. Then there was one in which Joe, mouth agape, balanced a plump leg of lamb on a wooden ladle greased with bits of fiery Malvani masala Aai had sent with Neha.
The last stills she had taken were of Joe behind the camera, shooting professionals entering offices of the Silicon Valley.
Joe, a documentary filmmaker, wanted to make a film about successful women who had been through sexual assault in their careers. The idea was to highlight the magnitude of the problem, as well as offer hope to those victims who had lost courage in the face of abuse.
Neha and Joe met when she assisted the filmmaker on a commercial soon after graduating from film school. Their mutual love for documentary cinema and feminist ideals brought them close.
Neha was Joe’s assistant in every department of filmmaking. The director often encouraged the assistant to direct a film. However, she never found a driving urge to come up with something of her own. “I think you need to go to India and get a story,” Joe had said to Neha, the sensitive eyes hidden behind the viewfinder of the video camera. Neha reciprocated with a quick peck.
Ten minutes later Joe died. It was a massive heart failure. In San Jose. On location. While shooting their 3rd full length documentary feature.
Hidden inside a thick razai, now, Neha could not wait to go back to her messy apartment. Their home was the closest she felt to Joe. “Coming to Mumbai was a mistake. I should be home,” she thought while slipping into slumber.
*
When her eyes opened, she was not sure of her whereabouts for a few moments. Yet a strange sense of peace prevailed. It was the kind of well-being that can only come from restful sleep. Neha reached out for the phone. It was now a redundant black piece of rectangle as the battery had emptied.
Neha tiptoed towards the window. Rain hurtled furiously. Drawing the curtains open, she saw sparkling raindrops bounce off dark empty roads under the bright streetlights. The lamppost adjacent to her illuminated a patch of the wall in the room. The circular clock pointed to 1:30. She had slept uninterrupted for close to 12 hours now!
Neha paced to the bathroom in the corridor. Without switching on the light, opened the tap and splashed cold water on her face.
Accustomed to the darkness of late, she reached out for the toothpaste and pressed it on the index finger. A thick blob streamed out on the pad of her digit. As she brushed it on her teeth and gums, Neha made a mental note to look for her charger and buy a toothbrush the following day.
And soon enough, the familiar gnaw started to snake around her gut. Joe was dead. Her darling was dead. The limp froth of the toothpaste choked her now and Neha spat. Rinsing the orifice in one hasty gulp, she stepped out of the bathroom. Fresh air and something warm to hold on to was the need of the moment.
The house was dark and still. Neha went to the kitchen for a sip of water. The blue streak of light from the refrigerator lit a nook of the kitchen platform. It was squeaky clean. The sink was dry and empty.
Unlike Neha and Joe’s messy kitchen. It was Joe’s responsibility to cook and Neha’s to clean. While Joe was prompt about duties, Neha could not be bothered to take anything in life too seriously. Luckily, Joe was fuss-free and often tidied up for her.
Enveloped in the warmth of memories, now Neha thought of fixing herself a strong cup of hot chai. She plucked a thumb-sized piece of ginger and started to scrape the skin off. The heady aroma of well-boiled ginger tea pulled Neha out of her numbness. Deep brown water was bubbling inside the vessel. She put a lid on the vessel and turned off the gas, allowing the potion to brew. In the meantime, she pulled out a mug and sat in her favourite place.
It was at the end of the table that had the window to its side, overlooking the matrix of windows of the opposite buildings. That had always been Neha’s seat, whether she was eating, studying, or simply gazing at multiple destinies play out in rectangular boxes.
Once, when she was an awkward-looking 15-year-old, somberness before exams cast a shadow over the housing society. Huddled over their textbooks, no child played in the building compounds after school. Neha was supposed to be studying for her upcoming board exams when Aai caught her staring. Aai looked outside the window.
She saw the wayward 18-year-old neighbour Chintu, pottering on his balcony wearing shorts and no shirt. Chintu was a notorious school-dropout and, much to the surprise of all parents of the housing colony, had started smoking even! Aai bellowed, “Stop staring at Chintu! If you must stare, stare at Girish Parkar. At least he is in first year of engineering college and from our community!”
Aai stormed off. Neha could not be bothered about Chintu or Girish. She was staring into nothingness.
A wry smile flitted across Neha’s face now. She blew into the piping hot ginger tea to cool it down. She would soon have to tell her parents all about Joe and their secret marriage. How she had met Joe 5 years ago. It had been 3 years since they were legally married in the US.
Maybe she’d start by telling them she kept the marriage a secret because Joe’s parents were Catholic. Her parents would be angry, she knew. Neha explaining to them that Joe did not go to church would not help the situation.
And then, maybe, slowly, very slowly bring out more details. She did not know what to mention first. That Joe’s full name was Josephine Williams? Or that she, Joe, was a 34-year-old stunning black woman?
The End
Rain pelted hard on the tarmac of the society compound. The matrix of rows and columns with rectangular multitudes of windows was randomly lit in yellow, blue, and black if the lights were out in any of the flats. It seemed as if Mumbai was mourning. Its notorious monsoon had unleashed fury that early afternoon.
“We are home!” hollered Sahil as he stepped into the flat and wheeled a slim suitcase into the spare room across the living room.
Heady whiffs of fried fish wafted through. His pot of belly and thinning fleece were in sharp contrast with Neha, Sahil’s 29-year-old twin sister who stood outside the door. Petite, dark, with thick curls and a striking face, she stared at the floor. Her cheeks drained of colour, and her once lively eyes were now vapid.
Their thickset Aai lumbered up the stairs clutching a drenched saree high enough to expose hairy calves. Once at the threshold of their flat she dropped the pleats that now grazed the chunk of her ankles.
Tall and lean, Baba doubled up the stairs. He stepped into the flat and got out of his loafers. Next, put the car keys into the drawer and disappeared into the passage. He was in a rush to relieve himself.
Aai finally caught her breath and heaved. Putting her hand on Neha’s drooping shoulder, she headed inside the house. Hearing the bustle of activity Sonali, Sahil’s wife, lowered the flame of the gas and stepped out of the kitchen. Neha was still outside the door, in a trance. Sonali walked to her sister-in-law and enveloped Neha in a warm hug. “I am so sorry,” whispered Sonali and added, “such lame words.”
“What else is anyone supposed to say?” Neha asked softly. Sonali put her arm around her sister-in-law and gently brought her inside. Sahil rested Neha’s suitcase by the door of the spare room.
“I am ready to eat,” he said as he walked to the two women and shut the main door of the flat. Sonali tugged at a mop of Neha’s curls. “Let’s eat and then we can chat. If you wish to.” Then leaning in closer she whispered, “Aai wanted to see Joe’s pictures. Asked me ten times if I knew about your marriage. I said I was as clueless.”
Just then Baba came into view wiping his hands with his white handkerchief. One by one everyone washed their hands in the sink of the long winding hallway and walked into the sprawling kitchen. The two-bedroom, hall-kitchen middle-class flats of old housing colonies in Mumbai were expansive. And the kitchen was the largest room of all.
As a young girl Neha preferred to sit in the kitchen which overlooked other flats. Propping up tiny feet on the semi-circular wooden chair by the dining table, she’d gaze out. In soft focus, humdrum life playing inside rectangular boxes enchanted the little girl.
“Neha, bala we would like to know more. Why did you not tell us about Joe?” Baba asked.
“Because he is Christian,” Aai spoke out of turn.
“Was,” Neha stated softly.
An awkward pause. Everyone avoided eye contact. To divert attention Aai lifted the lids of the casseroles. Sharp tang of fish curry curled through the room. The feisty orange surmai curry was brought to life by a sprinkle of fresh green coriander. The gravy of coarse ground spices and prawn would taste just right with a freshly squeezed lemon zest. Gingerly roasted chapattis glistened thanks to a slivering wipe of homemade ghee. Fluffy white rice was steaming hot. And of course, there was bright pink sol kadhi, the popular digestive made of kokum and coconut milk to wash down the heavy meal at the end.
This was the traditional homecoming meal for Neha when she flew down every year from the US. Sonali got the frying pan to the dining table. Golden pomfrets crackled softly. She pinched the largest slice of pomfret with a stainless steel nipper. Sliding it on Neha’s plate she moved to the side and began to put the rest of the fries in a serving dish. The family helped themselves to a piece each.
“You want to tell us something? Anything? Because we were in the dark until you broke down on the video call,” said Baba.
Neha tore a bit of chapatti and broke a tiny pinch of fish with it. After she brought the slim fold to the orifice, the rest of the family also broke the folds of their chapattis. Neha forced a limp bite.
“I can’t eat,” she mumbled after a beat. Words hung heavy in the thick monsoon air. Neha washed down her food with a drink of water. She got up walked through the dark winding hallway, across the hall and into the spare room.
Though she loved her family for rallying around her, Neha was in no mood for conversation or curry. She wanted solitude but needed deep sleep. She walked to the window of the spare room. It used to be a balcony that overlooked a congested junction. But now the streets were empty. Neha took in the blackish-grey skies hanging low over the city. Next, she drew in the curtains making the room pitch dark.
Neha hadn’t been sleeping well for weeks now. Despite doing all the right things: no coffee after 4:00 p.m., minimizing the use of the smart phone, making the room pitch dark- nothing seemed to help her insomnia.
Sometimes she slept for a measly hour or two. Then there were moments when she would dip into slumber, only to wake up right away. A few days ago, after glugging three stiff pegs of whiskey on the rocks she passed out. And woke up hours later with a pounding headache. Hangover combined with grief and insomnia was torture.
And that was because Neha and Joe had never taken to alcohol. An ideal Saturday night was an early dinner of fried chicken steak, peppery mash potatoes and black eyed peas- all dished out by Joe as Neha could not cook to save her life. Had it been up to her, she would live on sandwiches and tea for every meal. But Joe enjoyed cooking. And since Neha did not eat beef or pork, the home-chef would stick to staples like chicken fish and turkey. Post dinner the couple would take in two films, back-to-back, while snuggling into each other’s skinny arms.
Now, a loud guffaw was followed by abrupt silence. Sahil must have cracked up over something silly. Her twin found humour in the mundane ever so often. And Baba being sensitive to the situation must have shut her brother up, she presumed. Neha felt like reaching out to the family, asking them to be normal. But in that very moment, she did not feel like talking. Silence, was the only thing needed on that cold grey afternoon. She sighed and reached out for the phone.
Much to Joe’s discomfort, Neha had the habit of creating pictures every time they were together. Joe protested hating the idea of being someone’s subject all the time. Neha argued that she wanted to record every moment spent together. Her thick mop of curls shook furiously as she’d click-a-pic and shrug,
“I don’t know why I do it.”
Well…now she did. Neha saw pictures of Joe. Lanky, with a slender aquiline nose, sharp jawline and a head of shiny hair sleeked straight to the nape of a chiseled neck– Joe was the best-looking human being Neha had met. But what had softened her heart were those mellow eyes, brown and kind.
Differences between the couple were vast, but it never came in the way of their conjugal bliss.
There was a picture of Joe sleeping on a bed strewn with unfolded clothes. Then there was one in which Joe, mouth agape, balanced a plump leg of lamb on a wooden ladle greased with bits of fiery Malvani masala Aai had sent with Neha.
The last stills she had taken were of Joe behind the camera, shooting professionals entering offices of the Silicon Valley.
Joe, a documentary filmmaker, wanted to make a film about successful women who had been through sexual assault in their careers. The idea was to highlight the magnitude of the problem, as well as offer hope to those victims who had lost courage in the face of abuse.
Neha and Joe met when she assisted the filmmaker on a commercial soon after graduating from film school. Their mutual love for documentary cinema and feminist ideals brought them close.
Neha was Joe’s assistant in every department of filmmaking. The director often encouraged the assistant to direct a film. However, she never found a driving urge to come up with something of her own. “I think you need to go to India and get a story,” Joe had said to Neha, the sensitive eyes hidden behind the viewfinder of the video camera. Neha reciprocated with a quick peck.
Ten minutes later Joe died. It was a massive heart failure. In San Jose. On location. While shooting their 3rd full length documentary feature.
Hidden inside a thick razai, now, Neha could not wait to go back to her messy apartment. Their home was the closest she felt to Joe. “Coming to Mumbai was a mistake. I should be home,” she thought while slipping into slumber.
*
When her eyes opened, she was not sure of her whereabouts for a few moments. Yet a strange sense of peace prevailed. It was the kind of well-being that can only come from restful sleep. Neha reached out for the phone. It was now a redundant black piece of rectangle as the battery had emptied.
Neha tiptoed towards the window. Rain hurtled furiously. Drawing the curtains open, she saw sparkling raindrops bounce off dark empty roads under the bright streetlights. The lamppost adjacent to her illuminated a patch of the wall in the room. The circular clock pointed to 1:30. She had slept uninterrupted for close to 12 hours now!
Neha paced to the bathroom in the corridor. Without switching on the light, opened the tap and splashed cold water on her face.
Accustomed to the darkness of late, she reached out for the toothpaste and pressed it on the index finger. A thick blob streamed out on the pad of her digit. As she brushed it on her teeth and gums, Neha made a mental note to look for her charger and buy a toothbrush the following day.
And soon enough, the familiar gnaw started to snake around her gut. Joe was dead. Her darling was dead. The limp froth of the toothpaste choked her now and Neha spat. Rinsing the orifice in one hasty gulp, she stepped out of the bathroom. Fresh air and something warm to hold on to was the need of the moment.
The house was dark and still. Neha went to the kitchen for a sip of water. The blue streak of light from the refrigerator lit a nook of the kitchen platform. It was squeaky clean. The sink was dry and empty.
Unlike Neha and Joe’s messy kitchen. It was Joe’s responsibility to cook and Neha’s to clean. While Joe was prompt about duties, Neha could not be bothered to take anything in life too seriously. Luckily, Joe was fuss-free and often tidied up for her.
Enveloped in the warmth of memories, now Neha thought of fixing herself a strong cup of hot chai. She plucked a thumb-sized piece of ginger and started to scrape the skin off. The heady aroma of well-boiled ginger tea pulled Neha out of her numbness. Deep brown water was bubbling inside the vessel. She put a lid on the vessel and turned off the gas, allowing the potion to brew. In the meantime, she pulled out a mug and sat in her favourite place.
It was at the end of the table that had the window to its side, overlooking the matrix of windows of the opposite buildings. That had always been Neha’s seat, whether she was eating, studying, or simply gazing at multiple destinies play out in rectangular boxes.
Once, when she was an awkward-looking 15-year-old, somberness before exams cast a shadow over the housing society. Huddled over their textbooks, no child played in the building compounds after school. Neha was supposed to be studying for her upcoming board exams when Aai caught her staring. Aai looked outside the window.
She saw the wayward 18-year-old neighbour Chintu, pottering on his balcony wearing shorts and no shirt. Chintu was a notorious school-dropout and, much to the surprise of all parents of the housing colony, had started smoking even! Aai bellowed, “Stop staring at Chintu! If you must stare, stare at Girish Parkar. At least he is in first year of engineering college and from our community!”
Aai stormed off. Neha could not be bothered about Chintu or Girish. She was staring into nothingness.
A wry smile flitted across Neha’s face now. She blew into the piping hot ginger tea to cool it down. She would soon have to tell her parents all about Joe and their secret marriage. How she had met Joe 5 years ago. It had been 3 years since they were legally married in the US.
Maybe she’d start by telling them she kept the marriage a secret because Joe’s parents were Catholic. Her parents would be angry, she knew. Neha explaining to them that Joe did not go to church would not help the situation.
And then, maybe, slowly, very slowly bring out more details. She did not know what to mention first. That Joe’s full name was Josephine Williams? Or that she, Joe, was a 34-year-old stunning black woman?
The End
June 21, 2025
Madness In Mumbai - Short Stories
Adulting
To Be or Not To Be
Pregnancy in its last days and motherhood in the first few years are isolating. This makes it a brilliant time for mothers to choose solitary pursuits such as reading, writing, or painting. But Sonali chose to worry. Anything was good enough to worry about: the health and well-being of her husband, who was too busy making money (or so he said) and swore by the seventy-hour-a-week culture. One could not be sure what exactly he was working on, or more worryingly, whom… Then, her two-year-old girl decided she was a boy—specifically Spiderman. Now, that was enough to worry any mother. Or the good health enjoyed by Sonali, along with her fetus nearing its 9th month in her tummy. The universe was setting her up for disaster if everything was fine now. After all, that was the cyclical nature of life: great going, and boom—disaster. Sonali worried for a living.
Just then, her mobile rang. Sonali smiled as she looked at the screen, the name Nikky flashing back at her. It had been ages since she had heard from the long-lost friend whose antics had Sonali bursting into peals of laughter in their early twenties.
For instance, they both interned at Grandmother Advertising. Their job was to cold call potential clients to set up meetings for the CEO, Sohini Murthy. They had to pretend to be receptionists. ‘Good morning. I am calling from Grandmother Advertising. Our CEO, Sohini Murthy, would like to speak with you regarding the one-stop, turn-key solutions for all your marketing, branding, and advertising requirements.” If the client said yes, they had to recite, “One moment please,” press a button beep, and hand over the telephone receiver to Sohini, who sat across the table in the matchbox-sized office. The idea was to pretend they had a full-fledged functional setup, whereas, in reality, Sohini was the OEO – only executive officer of Grandmother Advertising. The rest were these two flunkies.
It was work as usual one morning. Sonali was culling a database of potential clients, and it was Nikky’s turn to make calls. Well-rehearsed by now, a confident Nikky picked up the receiver from the cradle. Dialing a number, she said, “Good Morning, Sir. I am calling from Grandmother Advertising and our Grandmother Sohi-
Sohini cut the call. It was only when she screamed “What the fuck is wrong with you? Why are you calling me your grandmother?” that Nikky realized her faux pas. Untrained to mask their emotions in the newly entered corporate world, Sonali and Nikky laughed out loud while the outraged Sohini looked on.
As the years passed, Sonali plied the well-trodden path of arranged marriage and motherhood. On the other hand, Nikky jumped not just jobs but careers and even relationships the moment she was bored.
At that moment, Sonali answered the call, and even before her usual ‘hello’-
- Listen, do you have ice?
- What?
- Ice. Barruf.
- Of course, Nikky.
- And home-cooked food?
- There is always food in my home, Nikky.
- I am coming.
- Now?
Without replying, Nikky hung up. It was 9:00 p.m. Sonali had tucked her daughter into bed and planned to call it a night herself. In a day or two, labour would kick in. After childbirth, her sleep schedule would go off the rails.
Catching up on as much sleep as possible was a sensible thing to do. But then, Sonali had always been level-headed. Or so she thought.
Clang. Clang. Clang…
Her doorbell started to ring at an alarming pace. It took Sonali longer than usual to work her way out of the easy chair and lumber towards the door. “Stop. Stop. I am coming,” she yelled, waking her daughter up—the one who thought herself to be Spider-Man. With both hands planted firmly on her tiny hip, the little one glared at the door. Apart from her, who had the guts to kick up a fuss? That too in this house, her house.
Finally, when Sonali managed to open the door, the doorbell stopped clanging. Standing at the threshold was a 30-something woman with a sharp buzz cut, clad in a crumpled Men’s T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers with untied laces. Oscillating gently from one side to another, her eyes were bloodshot. The eyelids stooped to shut longer than usual for a sober human being.
- Nikky! Are you still drinking?
- You are still pregnant, aren’t you?
Sonali paused to stare.
- Nikky, you cannot be drinking like this for long.
- Sonali, you cannot have been pregnant for so many years. All it takes is 9 months.
Gritting her teeth, Sonali moved to the side. Her daughter came into view. Pointing to her child, she said
- That was two years ago. This is my second.
- Oh shit! Sorry. I must be very drunk.
Sonali was glad that Nikky admitted to the extent of her inebriation. Nikky stumbled into the house and effortlessly slipped out of her shoes. Smiling at the toddler, she said
- Hello, princess.
Miffed at being called a princess, the little girl snapped at Nikky.
- I am a boy!
Embarrassed, Sonali wanted to recoil into her ballooned stomach. But there was no space left inside. Nikky hollered back
- I am also a boy!
Now, Sonali did not want Nikky to spill the beans any further.
- What brings you here, Nikki?
- I need ice. Please.
- We do not drink Nikky. There is no alcohol in the house.
- I need it for my cheeks, idiot.
- Face? Or the butt-cheek?
No, no, neither was Sonali joking, nor was she being sarcastic. With Nikky, anything was possible. On her part, Nikky was drunk but not so drunk that she was unaware of the presence of a child. She struck a glance at Spiderman. Catching up, Sonali switched on the TV and shuffled to a Spiderman franchise film. She knew it was wrong to keep a child glued to the TV screen way past bedtime, but with this whimsical force of nature swaying gently before her, what else could she do?
Once the toddler was tucked in with a blanket, watching her favorite superhero, Sonali turned her attention to Nikky. Heavyset, she dawdled to the fridge and pulled out a tray of ice cubes. Then, she opened her tidy cabinet and reached for the zip-lock plastic case. Emptying the tray into the case, she handed it to Nikky.
- Thanks, Sonali. You are a darling.
- You sit at the table. I will heat the chicken pulao.
- God bless you, my love.
Saying this, Nikky walked to the dining table and took a seat. She upturned a glass from the tray. Then, pulling out a hip flask, she emptied the last of the whiskey that was left. Zipped open the plastic lock, dunked her hand in, fumbled for a handful of cubes, and plonk! One cube managed to reach the glass. Nikky had a quick, strong swig as she patted her cheek with the ice compress Sonali had made for her.
Meanwhile, inside her kitchen, Sonali’s movements were slow. Her motherly nature had taken over as she heaped a plate with a copious quantity of pulao laden with chicken, fried wedges of potatoes, and boiled eggs. The meal would bring the alcohol down, she knew.
Sonali and Nikky shared a strange history. A heartbroken Sonali was crying over her classmate Rahul’s shoulder on the college campus. The childhood boyfriend had dumped her for another woman. Rahul consoled Sonali, saying, “Look, there is a lot you can do. You can exercise, lose weight, look like a ravishing fashion model, and lure him back. There is hope for you.”
Tears stopped mid-way, aghast at this ridiculously shallow consolation. Rahul added, “My ex left me no room for hope. She dumped me for another woman.” That ex happened to be Nikky.
Rahul admitted he had messed up once. He had gone on a date with another girl while still with Nikky. And when Nikky found out, she slapped him. Not once. Several times. Like the boomerang effect. Her possessive nature was so alluring that Rahul, while being slapped, had fallen head over heels in love with her.
A month later, Nikky figured she had never been into men, that it was just social conditioning, and she dumped Rahul for another woman.
Half a year later, Sonali met Nikky. By now, Nikky was introduced as “my best friend.” Sonali? “My new girlfriend.” And that’s how Sonali and Nikky became friends. They both shared the same man. At different times, of course. And both had the good sense to dump him as well. Nikky left him for another woman, and Sonali, because …well…good sense prevailed.
At that moment, Sonali lumbered in with a plate piled with pulao and handed it to Nikky. Taking a tiny bit in her spoon, Nikky opened her mouth slightly.
- Are you on a diet?
- No.
- Then why are you taking such tiny bites?
- I cannot open this side of my jaw.
Nikky said, pointing to the jaw where she had applied ice compress a few moments ago.
- What happened?
- I got slapped. Many times.
- What nonsense? Who slapped you, Nikky?
- Farida.
- Who is Farida?
- My girlfriend.
Nikky paused to think and blurted, “Now I guess she is the ex, ex-girlfriend?”
- How dare she?
- It was not her fault, Sonali.
- Then?
- She found out about Gargi.
- Who is Gargi?
- My other girlfriend.
There was a pocket of silence.
- Nikky, you cannot be doing this in your thirties.
- Why not?
- Nikky, why are you always two-timing women?
- Oh, so when men do it, it is all right?
- It is not about men or women, and you know it. Two timing is wrong. It is cheating.
- What nonsense?
Sonali could not believe her ears. Was the alcohol talking, or had Nikky lost her mind?
Nikky continued,
- What you call cheating, I call generosity. Love is the greatest gift. I like to spread love in the world.
- By giving it to multiple women?
- Yes. And you know what? I think you are selfish.
Here was Nikky, in Sonali’s house, using her ice, eating her food, and calling her selfish. But Sonali knew better than to argue. The institution of marriage and the drama of the in-laws impart valuable life skills like public relations and diplomacy. She let Nikky speak her mind.
- You love only one man. You are selfish. Love is selfless; it is meant to be showered like confetti.
Sonali burst out laughing. But Nikky did not find it funny. She seriously believed she was doing God’s work by sharing her love and loyalty.
- Why did you come here, Nikky? Of all the people in the world, why did you think of me, darling?
- Because you are the first person who comes to mind when I think of the word- BORING.
- Care to explain your point?
- I knew I would get some ice and homemade food and a place to chill till I sober up. You are into serious adulting.
- Isn't that the natural course of things? Adulting?
- Says who?
- Aren't we supposed to mature with age, Nikky?
- Age is just a number, and maturity is overrated.
Sonali was quick to realise that this banter would lead nowhere. She had children to attend to; put one off to sleep now and give birth to the second in a day or two.
- Nikky, you have your food and use the guest bedroom. See you in the morning.
- I am not staying the night. I will chill for a bit and leave in an hour.
- Why?
- It is Gargi’s Birthday. I want to bring it in at midnight.
Sonali slapped her hand to her forehead. Nikky continued,
- I thought I would come here and freshen up. Farida made a mess of me. Very violent.
Sonali cupped her face in her palms. She was annoyed, yes, but she was also concerned about Nikky’s well-being. Nikky had no such concerns about herself as she took a small bite of her rice.
- Do not worry. I will shut the door behind me. Thanks Sonali.
- Good night.
Sonali walked to her toddler. The little one had gone off to sleep while watching the film. Sonali gently nudged her and goaded the little one to the bedroom. Meanwhile, Nikky finished her dinner.
Sonali was uncertain how long she had slept when a strange aroma woke her. The air lingered with a woody, almost spicy fragrance, foreign to her nostrils. And yet she knew something was burning. She turned to the side and lifted herself. Then, placing her hands on the mattress, she raised the bulk of her body.
She ambled to the bedroom door and turned the knob. The drawing room was redolent with a stronger version of the woody, spicy fragrance. It was a distinct smell, that of damp earth, but it was not petrichor. What was burning?
As she walked towards the sofa, Nikky came into view, peacefully smoking away.
- Are you insane? How dare you smoke in this house?
- You are making it sound like you live in a hospital.
- Nikky, there is a child in this house. I am about to give birth. We stay away from secondhand smoke as well.
- But baby, this is not tobacco.
Sonali stopped short and leaned in curiously. Nikky explained
- This is pure. It is organic. Herbal.
- What nonsense, Nikky!
- It is Malana Cream.
The premium delight that was appreciated by cannabis enthusiasts worldwide was lost on Sonali. And just then, felt as if she had started her period.
*
Half an hour later, Sonali was folding her daughter’s clothes into an overnight bag. The musky aroma of Malana Cream lingered on.
Nikky wheeled Sonali’s small suitcase out of the room and placed it at the door. She was on the phone with Gargi, explaining why she could not bring in her birthday. Sonali had gone into labour. Her husband was out of town. And the Nikky had to escort mother and daughter to the hospital.
Sonali was grateful for Nikky’s presence. Nikki was there for her, however sozzled, immature, and irresponsible she had been. Now, in that moment. And she had not argued when Sonali insisted on a taxi instead of Nikky driving.
Nikky picked up the sleeping child and left with Sonali’s case. Sonali turned off the lights and bolted the door.
*
Within an hour, an exhausted Sonali had a hint of a smile as she looked at her newborn daughter. It had been a quick, painless delivery, unlike the horror of the firstborn. Nikky took credit for it.
- Sonali? Do you realize why the delivery was so smooth?
- Every childbirth is different, Nikky.
- No idiot. It was because of my Malana Cream. Since you inhaled its secondhand smoke, your body calmed down and ushered a child into this world peacefully. I think every woman in labour should smoke up.
The exhaustion on Sonali’s face curled into a toothy smile. Perhaps there was truth to it, or maybe it was one of Nikky’s absurd reasonings, the ones that ever failed to lighten Sonali’s heart.
The End
To Be or Not To Be
Pregnancy in its last days and motherhood in the first few years are isolating. This makes it a brilliant time for mothers to choose solitary pursuits such as reading, writing, or painting. But Sonali chose to worry. Anything was good enough to worry about: the health and well-being of her husband, who was too busy making money (or so he said) and swore by the seventy-hour-a-week culture. One could not be sure what exactly he was working on, or more worryingly, whom… Then, her two-year-old girl decided she was a boy—specifically Spiderman. Now, that was enough to worry any mother. Or the good health enjoyed by Sonali, along with her fetus nearing its 9th month in her tummy. The universe was setting her up for disaster if everything was fine now. After all, that was the cyclical nature of life: great going, and boom—disaster. Sonali worried for a living.
Just then, her mobile rang. Sonali smiled as she looked at the screen, the name Nikky flashing back at her. It had been ages since she had heard from the long-lost friend whose antics had Sonali bursting into peals of laughter in their early twenties.
For instance, they both interned at Grandmother Advertising. Their job was to cold call potential clients to set up meetings for the CEO, Sohini Murthy. They had to pretend to be receptionists. ‘Good morning. I am calling from Grandmother Advertising. Our CEO, Sohini Murthy, would like to speak with you regarding the one-stop, turn-key solutions for all your marketing, branding, and advertising requirements.” If the client said yes, they had to recite, “One moment please,” press a button beep, and hand over the telephone receiver to Sohini, who sat across the table in the matchbox-sized office. The idea was to pretend they had a full-fledged functional setup, whereas, in reality, Sohini was the OEO – only executive officer of Grandmother Advertising. The rest were these two flunkies.
It was work as usual one morning. Sonali was culling a database of potential clients, and it was Nikky’s turn to make calls. Well-rehearsed by now, a confident Nikky picked up the receiver from the cradle. Dialing a number, she said, “Good Morning, Sir. I am calling from Grandmother Advertising and our Grandmother Sohi-
Sohini cut the call. It was only when she screamed “What the fuck is wrong with you? Why are you calling me your grandmother?” that Nikky realized her faux pas. Untrained to mask their emotions in the newly entered corporate world, Sonali and Nikky laughed out loud while the outraged Sohini looked on.
As the years passed, Sonali plied the well-trodden path of arranged marriage and motherhood. On the other hand, Nikky jumped not just jobs but careers and even relationships the moment she was bored.
At that moment, Sonali answered the call, and even before her usual ‘hello’-
- Listen, do you have ice?
- What?
- Ice. Barruf.
- Of course, Nikky.
- And home-cooked food?
- There is always food in my home, Nikky.
- I am coming.
- Now?
Without replying, Nikky hung up. It was 9:00 p.m. Sonali had tucked her daughter into bed and planned to call it a night herself. In a day or two, labour would kick in. After childbirth, her sleep schedule would go off the rails.
Catching up on as much sleep as possible was a sensible thing to do. But then, Sonali had always been level-headed. Or so she thought.
Clang. Clang. Clang…
Her doorbell started to ring at an alarming pace. It took Sonali longer than usual to work her way out of the easy chair and lumber towards the door. “Stop. Stop. I am coming,” she yelled, waking her daughter up—the one who thought herself to be Spider-Man. With both hands planted firmly on her tiny hip, the little one glared at the door. Apart from her, who had the guts to kick up a fuss? That too in this house, her house.
Finally, when Sonali managed to open the door, the doorbell stopped clanging. Standing at the threshold was a 30-something woman with a sharp buzz cut, clad in a crumpled Men’s T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers with untied laces. Oscillating gently from one side to another, her eyes were bloodshot. The eyelids stooped to shut longer than usual for a sober human being.
- Nikky! Are you still drinking?
- You are still pregnant, aren’t you?
Sonali paused to stare.
- Nikky, you cannot be drinking like this for long.
- Sonali, you cannot have been pregnant for so many years. All it takes is 9 months.
Gritting her teeth, Sonali moved to the side. Her daughter came into view. Pointing to her child, she said
- That was two years ago. This is my second.
- Oh shit! Sorry. I must be very drunk.
Sonali was glad that Nikky admitted to the extent of her inebriation. Nikky stumbled into the house and effortlessly slipped out of her shoes. Smiling at the toddler, she said
- Hello, princess.
Miffed at being called a princess, the little girl snapped at Nikky.
- I am a boy!
Embarrassed, Sonali wanted to recoil into her ballooned stomach. But there was no space left inside. Nikky hollered back
- I am also a boy!
Now, Sonali did not want Nikky to spill the beans any further.
- What brings you here, Nikki?
- I need ice. Please.
- We do not drink Nikky. There is no alcohol in the house.
- I need it for my cheeks, idiot.
- Face? Or the butt-cheek?
No, no, neither was Sonali joking, nor was she being sarcastic. With Nikky, anything was possible. On her part, Nikky was drunk but not so drunk that she was unaware of the presence of a child. She struck a glance at Spiderman. Catching up, Sonali switched on the TV and shuffled to a Spiderman franchise film. She knew it was wrong to keep a child glued to the TV screen way past bedtime, but with this whimsical force of nature swaying gently before her, what else could she do?
Once the toddler was tucked in with a blanket, watching her favorite superhero, Sonali turned her attention to Nikky. Heavyset, she dawdled to the fridge and pulled out a tray of ice cubes. Then, she opened her tidy cabinet and reached for the zip-lock plastic case. Emptying the tray into the case, she handed it to Nikky.
- Thanks, Sonali. You are a darling.
- You sit at the table. I will heat the chicken pulao.
- God bless you, my love.
Saying this, Nikky walked to the dining table and took a seat. She upturned a glass from the tray. Then, pulling out a hip flask, she emptied the last of the whiskey that was left. Zipped open the plastic lock, dunked her hand in, fumbled for a handful of cubes, and plonk! One cube managed to reach the glass. Nikky had a quick, strong swig as she patted her cheek with the ice compress Sonali had made for her.
Meanwhile, inside her kitchen, Sonali’s movements were slow. Her motherly nature had taken over as she heaped a plate with a copious quantity of pulao laden with chicken, fried wedges of potatoes, and boiled eggs. The meal would bring the alcohol down, she knew.
Sonali and Nikky shared a strange history. A heartbroken Sonali was crying over her classmate Rahul’s shoulder on the college campus. The childhood boyfriend had dumped her for another woman. Rahul consoled Sonali, saying, “Look, there is a lot you can do. You can exercise, lose weight, look like a ravishing fashion model, and lure him back. There is hope for you.”
Tears stopped mid-way, aghast at this ridiculously shallow consolation. Rahul added, “My ex left me no room for hope. She dumped me for another woman.” That ex happened to be Nikky.
Rahul admitted he had messed up once. He had gone on a date with another girl while still with Nikky. And when Nikky found out, she slapped him. Not once. Several times. Like the boomerang effect. Her possessive nature was so alluring that Rahul, while being slapped, had fallen head over heels in love with her.
A month later, Nikky figured she had never been into men, that it was just social conditioning, and she dumped Rahul for another woman.
Half a year later, Sonali met Nikky. By now, Nikky was introduced as “my best friend.” Sonali? “My new girlfriend.” And that’s how Sonali and Nikky became friends. They both shared the same man. At different times, of course. And both had the good sense to dump him as well. Nikky left him for another woman, and Sonali, because …well…good sense prevailed.
At that moment, Sonali lumbered in with a plate piled with pulao and handed it to Nikky. Taking a tiny bit in her spoon, Nikky opened her mouth slightly.
- Are you on a diet?
- No.
- Then why are you taking such tiny bites?
- I cannot open this side of my jaw.
Nikky said, pointing to the jaw where she had applied ice compress a few moments ago.
- What happened?
- I got slapped. Many times.
- What nonsense? Who slapped you, Nikky?
- Farida.
- Who is Farida?
- My girlfriend.
Nikky paused to think and blurted, “Now I guess she is the ex, ex-girlfriend?”
- How dare she?
- It was not her fault, Sonali.
- Then?
- She found out about Gargi.
- Who is Gargi?
- My other girlfriend.
There was a pocket of silence.
- Nikky, you cannot be doing this in your thirties.
- Why not?
- Nikky, why are you always two-timing women?
- Oh, so when men do it, it is all right?
- It is not about men or women, and you know it. Two timing is wrong. It is cheating.
- What nonsense?
Sonali could not believe her ears. Was the alcohol talking, or had Nikky lost her mind?
Nikky continued,
- What you call cheating, I call generosity. Love is the greatest gift. I like to spread love in the world.
- By giving it to multiple women?
- Yes. And you know what? I think you are selfish.
Here was Nikky, in Sonali’s house, using her ice, eating her food, and calling her selfish. But Sonali knew better than to argue. The institution of marriage and the drama of the in-laws impart valuable life skills like public relations and diplomacy. She let Nikky speak her mind.
- You love only one man. You are selfish. Love is selfless; it is meant to be showered like confetti.
Sonali burst out laughing. But Nikky did not find it funny. She seriously believed she was doing God’s work by sharing her love and loyalty.
- Why did you come here, Nikky? Of all the people in the world, why did you think of me, darling?
- Because you are the first person who comes to mind when I think of the word- BORING.
- Care to explain your point?
- I knew I would get some ice and homemade food and a place to chill till I sober up. You are into serious adulting.
- Isn't that the natural course of things? Adulting?
- Says who?
- Aren't we supposed to mature with age, Nikky?
- Age is just a number, and maturity is overrated.
Sonali was quick to realise that this banter would lead nowhere. She had children to attend to; put one off to sleep now and give birth to the second in a day or two.
- Nikky, you have your food and use the guest bedroom. See you in the morning.
- I am not staying the night. I will chill for a bit and leave in an hour.
- Why?
- It is Gargi’s Birthday. I want to bring it in at midnight.
Sonali slapped her hand to her forehead. Nikky continued,
- I thought I would come here and freshen up. Farida made a mess of me. Very violent.
Sonali cupped her face in her palms. She was annoyed, yes, but she was also concerned about Nikky’s well-being. Nikky had no such concerns about herself as she took a small bite of her rice.
- Do not worry. I will shut the door behind me. Thanks Sonali.
- Good night.
Sonali walked to her toddler. The little one had gone off to sleep while watching the film. Sonali gently nudged her and goaded the little one to the bedroom. Meanwhile, Nikky finished her dinner.
Sonali was uncertain how long she had slept when a strange aroma woke her. The air lingered with a woody, almost spicy fragrance, foreign to her nostrils. And yet she knew something was burning. She turned to the side and lifted herself. Then, placing her hands on the mattress, she raised the bulk of her body.
She ambled to the bedroom door and turned the knob. The drawing room was redolent with a stronger version of the woody, spicy fragrance. It was a distinct smell, that of damp earth, but it was not petrichor. What was burning?
As she walked towards the sofa, Nikky came into view, peacefully smoking away.
- Are you insane? How dare you smoke in this house?
- You are making it sound like you live in a hospital.
- Nikky, there is a child in this house. I am about to give birth. We stay away from secondhand smoke as well.
- But baby, this is not tobacco.
Sonali stopped short and leaned in curiously. Nikky explained
- This is pure. It is organic. Herbal.
- What nonsense, Nikky!
- It is Malana Cream.
The premium delight that was appreciated by cannabis enthusiasts worldwide was lost on Sonali. And just then, felt as if she had started her period.
*
Half an hour later, Sonali was folding her daughter’s clothes into an overnight bag. The musky aroma of Malana Cream lingered on.
Nikky wheeled Sonali’s small suitcase out of the room and placed it at the door. She was on the phone with Gargi, explaining why she could not bring in her birthday. Sonali had gone into labour. Her husband was out of town. And the Nikky had to escort mother and daughter to the hospital.
Sonali was grateful for Nikky’s presence. Nikki was there for her, however sozzled, immature, and irresponsible she had been. Now, in that moment. And she had not argued when Sonali insisted on a taxi instead of Nikky driving.
Nikky picked up the sleeping child and left with Sonali’s case. Sonali turned off the lights and bolted the door.
*
Within an hour, an exhausted Sonali had a hint of a smile as she looked at her newborn daughter. It had been a quick, painless delivery, unlike the horror of the firstborn. Nikky took credit for it.
- Sonali? Do you realize why the delivery was so smooth?
- Every childbirth is different, Nikky.
- No idiot. It was because of my Malana Cream. Since you inhaled its secondhand smoke, your body calmed down and ushered a child into this world peacefully. I think every woman in labour should smoke up.
The exhaustion on Sonali’s face curled into a toothy smile. Perhaps there was truth to it, or maybe it was one of Nikky’s absurd reasonings, the ones that ever failed to lighten Sonali’s heart.
The End
June 13, 2025
Madness In Mumbai - Short Stories
Mahim meets Malabar Hill.
Tragedies of Sobo.
Vrushali from Mahim was invited to the elite Willingdon Club by her well-meaning friend from South Mumbai. There, she encountered problems she had never known existed, much less had to face or even understand.
Problem Number 1 – My husband had to rush to the Gamdevi Police station and register a complaint this morning. But I know who the culprit is. No, no one from the staff. I am sure the brother-in-law did it before leaving for the U.S. For god’s sake, how can anyone steal? And that too, Hussain?
While the lunching ladies of SoBo heaved and sighed over their avocado sev puri, Vrushali took a moment to realize that the complainant was referring to a painting by the legendary late M.F. Hussain.
Problem Number 2 – At least your chor brother-in-law is out of sight. My husband’s second cousin, that bloody gunda, has taken over the water supply to the family bungalow. So like a chawl dweller, I have to leave my bungalow on Nepean Sea Road and come here, to the club, to have a bath. Every. Single. Day. It is beyond embarrassing.
SoBo ladies empathized with the plight of the ‘poor’ rich lady as she took a delicate bite of her ham and cheese egg Kejriwal.
Problem Number 3 - We are cancelling our vacation to Italy this year. Maharaj did not get his Schengen visa.
No, this lady was not from the royal family, and Maharaj was not her husband, Vrushali realized after a moment. The questions the others were asking made it clear: Maharaj was the chef. Wealthy Gujaratis and Jains referred to their chefs as Maharaj.
Problem Number 4- Ladies, please, I need a good house help. I chucked mine this morning. Guess what she did? I could not find my Choos, and I knew she had unpacked for me, so I asked her, “Where are my Choos?” Guess where she had kept them? In the shoe rack! Outside the door! In plain sight! And can you imagine her audacity when I screamed at her? She had the nerve to answer back and say, “Madam chappal ko aur kaha Rakha jaata hain? Shoe rack main na? She called my Choos -chappals.”
A collective gasp. The table was aghast at the violation committed by the house-help. Did she not know that the iconic heels were worthy of worship? And to call them shoes? It was like calling Dom Perignon- ‘daaru’.
Problem Number 5 – At the outset, it seems like we have ticked all the boxes while selecting Neville’s bride-to-be. I mean, she is Parsi, so that’s a plus- within the community, as they say. But… then… she is a little too Parsi, like a Baug Bawi on steroids. Then… yes… technically she is SoBo, thank god the postal code is South Mumbai. But still, it is not the same. I don’t mean to complain- we are happy, really …but I think she is happier than we. After all, she will move from Shapur Baug in Girgaon to Petit Towers in Kemps Corner. And lastly…I will have to groom her. It is so sad, you see- her family does not own any- I mean ANY- club membership.
Tch tch tch, the women clucked in unison. After all, not having a club membership reeked of poverty.
Then the coterie turned to Vrushali. It was her turn now to air her grievance. But she had no complaints about life. Until one of the ladies asked her
- Which part of South Mumbai are you from?
- Oh no. I am not from here. I live in Mahim.
- Gosh! You poor thing. Mahim is the Virar of South Mumbai!
The End
If you enjoyed this short piece, you may want to read my novel, Madness in Mumbai: Forty gets Naughty (Rupa Publications) laugh-out-loud, zany comic caper about how forty isn’t too late to find yourself. Available on: https://amzn.in/d/77ohwdH
Tragedies of Sobo.
Vrushali from Mahim was invited to the elite Willingdon Club by her well-meaning friend from South Mumbai. There, she encountered problems she had never known existed, much less had to face or even understand.
Problem Number 1 – My husband had to rush to the Gamdevi Police station and register a complaint this morning. But I know who the culprit is. No, no one from the staff. I am sure the brother-in-law did it before leaving for the U.S. For god’s sake, how can anyone steal? And that too, Hussain?
While the lunching ladies of SoBo heaved and sighed over their avocado sev puri, Vrushali took a moment to realize that the complainant was referring to a painting by the legendary late M.F. Hussain.
Problem Number 2 – At least your chor brother-in-law is out of sight. My husband’s second cousin, that bloody gunda, has taken over the water supply to the family bungalow. So like a chawl dweller, I have to leave my bungalow on Nepean Sea Road and come here, to the club, to have a bath. Every. Single. Day. It is beyond embarrassing.
SoBo ladies empathized with the plight of the ‘poor’ rich lady as she took a delicate bite of her ham and cheese egg Kejriwal.
Problem Number 3 - We are cancelling our vacation to Italy this year. Maharaj did not get his Schengen visa.
No, this lady was not from the royal family, and Maharaj was not her husband, Vrushali realized after a moment. The questions the others were asking made it clear: Maharaj was the chef. Wealthy Gujaratis and Jains referred to their chefs as Maharaj.
Problem Number 4- Ladies, please, I need a good house help. I chucked mine this morning. Guess what she did? I could not find my Choos, and I knew she had unpacked for me, so I asked her, “Where are my Choos?” Guess where she had kept them? In the shoe rack! Outside the door! In plain sight! And can you imagine her audacity when I screamed at her? She had the nerve to answer back and say, “Madam chappal ko aur kaha Rakha jaata hain? Shoe rack main na? She called my Choos -chappals.”
A collective gasp. The table was aghast at the violation committed by the house-help. Did she not know that the iconic heels were worthy of worship? And to call them shoes? It was like calling Dom Perignon- ‘daaru’.
Problem Number 5 – At the outset, it seems like we have ticked all the boxes while selecting Neville’s bride-to-be. I mean, she is Parsi, so that’s a plus- within the community, as they say. But… then… she is a little too Parsi, like a Baug Bawi on steroids. Then… yes… technically she is SoBo, thank god the postal code is South Mumbai. But still, it is not the same. I don’t mean to complain- we are happy, really …but I think she is happier than we. After all, she will move from Shapur Baug in Girgaon to Petit Towers in Kemps Corner. And lastly…I will have to groom her. It is so sad, you see- her family does not own any- I mean ANY- club membership.
Tch tch tch, the women clucked in unison. After all, not having a club membership reeked of poverty.
Then the coterie turned to Vrushali. It was her turn now to air her grievance. But she had no complaints about life. Until one of the ladies asked her
- Which part of South Mumbai are you from?
- Oh no. I am not from here. I live in Mahim.
- Gosh! You poor thing. Mahim is the Virar of South Mumbai!
The End
If you enjoyed this short piece, you may want to read my novel, Madness in Mumbai: Forty gets Naughty (Rupa Publications) laugh-out-loud, zany comic caper about how forty isn’t too late to find yourself. Available on: https://amzn.in/d/77ohwdH
June 7, 2025
Madness In Mumbai - Short Stories
The Friendly Spirits.
Haunted Bar. Lesbian Owner. Debts and Daddy Issues.
Over and done with visits to temples, churches, dargahs, the Excise Department, Mantralaya, BMC, and police stations, a disillusioned Vin poured the first peg of whiskey in her 26 years of life. She felt guilty. Her father had taught all his children never to touch alcohol, and he practiced what he preached. Not because he was morally upright or a fitness fanatic but because he was a businessman. “Alcohol is a money guzzler and so one must make money from it.”
Now, Vin dipped her index finger into the glass of alcohol. After pulling it out, she flicked it onto her thumb. Droplets of alcohol sprinkled around. Though she didn’t remember exactly what the action was for, this was a vision she saw every night when she helped her father run his numerous quarter joints scattered across the city. “Always remember there is no problem that cannot be solved. Keep a cool head, a smiling face, and tackle the problem head-on. The answers are within you, my child,” he said to her often.
Despite poor grades and a lack of interest in academics, her father believed she would thrive in the restaurant business. Any hospitality venture, whether large or small, upscale or modest like the quarter joints of Mumbai, was fraught with endless challenges. To tackle those, one required a vital quality: a friendly disposition. And that was something his favorite child possessed in abundance.
Vin, (a shorter and more masculine version of the former ‘Vincy’) wanted to start an upscale ‘Rainbow Bar’ for the queer community in Mumbai. Whether queer or not, starting a bar in Mumbai was an impossible task, she realized.
The list of permissions was endless: a Liquor Permit from the State Excise Department, Health Certification from the BMC, an Electricity Permit, Permission from the Labor Department, a shop license, and police permission... Now, she wondered how her father had managed it over the years.
Vin swallowed hard. It had been three years since her father disowned her. He was so furious when she came out that he stopped talking to her completely. That was expected.
But what worried Vin and the entire family was that he reportedly stopped doing all the ‘other’ activities he was notorious for. For all the alcohol he had abstained from, her father was a great patron of performances at Topaz, South Mumbai’s wealthiest dance bar.
But something inside him had shifted when he found out that his Vincy was attracted to women. Every time he looked at a bar dancer thrusting her chest to "Dhak Dhak Karne Laga," he thought of Vincy looking at her with the same lust in her eyes. He couldn’t come to terms with that sight. So, he stopped doing things that fulfilled his soul, like visiting dance bars.
Darkness surrounded Vin when she moved from her family’s sprawling terrace apartment in Wadala to a one-room kitchen in Amboli, Andheri. On her first night in the suburbs, she recalled how upset her father had been with her when she maxed out her credit card. “In the long run, you can never live in peace if you have debts hanging on your head,” he said, as he paid off her credit card bills.
That day, Vin vowed she would never be in debt again. She stopped using credit cards, knowing it would make her father happy. But this time, there was nothing she could do to salvage the situation. One cannot live a lie, after all.
Her father had stopped talking, period. The family had been so worried about the father’s mental well-being that Vin’s mother made mannats for him to return to his tharki ways.
After three months, when it was reported that the father was seen again at Topaz, everyone began to breathe easier.
It was clear that Vin would not inherit the quarter bar business like her siblings. She would need to build her fortune. And for that she needed a loan. So she sought out a lender known to her father.
Now, Vin glanced at the flashing screen of her phone. It was the money lender’s 18th call that evening. The weight of unpaid debt hung heavily on that muggy Mumbai night.
Soon the ringing stopped, and what followed was a text message – “If you don’t return the principle amount, I will have to speak to your father to get my money back.” Vin clenched her jaws. That was the last straw. There was nothing more demeaning than looking like a failure in front of a father who disapproved of loans and lesbians.
A desperate Vin walked to the tiny window of her one-room kitchen. She gazed out at the abandoned cemetery. Surprisingly, the city’s builders had forgotten this patch of land. Or maybe they knew better than to mess with the affairs of the dead. But the booze had fogged in. It made her fearless. Vin drawled out loud, “The big people up there do not want to help, the ones on earth are useless, at least you folks down under do something for me!”
And, long after she had flopped on the bed dead asleep, her desperate plea vibrated in the darkness …
The next morning, Vin reluctantly stirred out of bed. Messages were entering the inbox of her mobile at an alarming pace. Thinking it was the moneylender, she reached out to put her mobile on mute. Her groggy daze fell upon the notifications. One was from the Excise Department. It stated that she had received the license to serve alcohol in her bar! Then there was a statement from the BMC issuing the Health Certificate … All the licenses, permits, and permissions she had been pursuing over the years had miraculously fallen into place that bright weekday morning!
Weeks later, Vin had set up the swanky 1000 square feet Rainbow Bar overlooking the pav bhaji stalls of Juhu Beach. She barely had time to use social media and depended solely on word-of-mouth within the community.
Much to her surprise, there was a surge of the crème de la crème of Mumbai’s queer community on the inauguration of the Rainbow Bar. Couture designers, filmmakers, and closeted actors who pretended they were allies… thronged to Mumbai’s newest watering hole. They clicked selfies. grooved to the music and drank moderately. The Lokhandwala crowd was well behaved as if they had just graduated from a Swiss Finishing School.
Bang in the middle of the party, the lights in the bar started to flicker. At first, Vin thought it was the DJ monitoring lights from her console. Then the lights went off! The bar was plunged into darkness. The noise in the bar hushed into silence. Only for a beat. Moments later lights came back on and the party continued.
From the next day, business started to swell. Although The Rainbow Bar was for the community, something about its vibe attracted even the heterosexuals of Mumbai. Vin had nothing to complain about as she made soaring profits within weeks. Except for the random flicker of lights, The Rainbow Bar ran smoothly. She was hands-on with repairs, stocking supplies, boosting staff morale, and being friendly with customers. With a welcoming disposition, Vin ran the business smoothly.
Over the months that followed Vin not only recovered the steep costs incurred for license fees but she was able to pay the money lender's principle amount. Along with the high rate of 21% interest. And suddenly she felt free! After all, there is no greater freedom than being free of debt. Her father was right! How she longed to show him The Rainbow Bar. Vin dialed his number. Not surprised when her call was unanswered, she did exactly what her father would do: buckled down to solid hard work.
That night when Vin went back to her one-room kitchen and looked around. Soon she would have to vacate this place and move to a larger flat… She’d move to Bandra perhaps, or maybe Juhu, as that would be closer to her workplace. And as Vin was thinking of where to shift next, she heard her cupboard door creak open slowly. Vin looked in its direction. The cupboard was shut tight. Perhaps it was from the neighboring room. Vin changed into her pajamas and vest and bundled up on the cot without much thought. She had had a long day and a good one at that. Pulling the slim blanket over, Vin shut her eyes. Soon she fell into deep slumber.
A herd of goats was grazing peacefully. Vin said to herself, ‘Mutton biryani.’ The herd stopped grazing and stared Vin in the eye. They had heard her thoughts out loud. Slowly they started to walk towards her. Vin was on her guard. She turned around and ran. The goats caught up with her and one of them bit her wrist. Wincing in pain Vin woke up with a fright!
Her heart was pounding…
The next morning Vin dismissed her nightmare with a smile. Who gets frightened by goats? And bitten? She had never heard of it.
Despite being a Tuesday, Rainbow Bar was bursting from the seams. Vin doubled up as a bartender to give him much-needed assistance. And just as she added a dash of lime cordial to a glass of vodka she felt the wrap of a friendly hug from the back. Thinking it to be one of her friends, Vin smiled and craned her neck to see the face. She paused to stare. There was no one. And yet she continued to feel enveloped in a hug.
Shaking herself up Vin handed the vodka to the young girl waiting at the bar. Looking into Vin’s eyes, the girl smiled. Vin smiled back and buckled down to business. The girl however kept staring at her. In one gulp she downed her vodka. Then continuing to stare at Vin she slid the glass towards her indicating she wanted another drink.
Sensing that something was off with this woman, Vin asked the bartender to fix the drinks while she attended to the kitchen. As she was monitoring the finger foods that had to be delivered – there was a loud commotion.
Seconds later the music stopped. Vin went out to address the issue.
Her customers hovered around the bar. Vin walked into the crowd. The young girl had fainted and the waiter was attending to her. Vin hunkered down and held the girl. She splashed water on her face. Then made her sip some water. That’s when the girl came into consciousness.
Vin asked the waiter to call for an auto-rickshaw. She escorted the girl in the three-wheeler and asked the driver to take her home.
“I don’t feel safe. Please come with me, Vin.”
Vin thought for a moment. This girl was weird, but she was unfit to travel alone. What if the auto-rickshaw rider took advantage of her? Against her wishes, Vin got in. The girl stated, “Amboli.”
“I stay there as well,” said Vin
“I know,” said the girl looking into Vin’s eyes.
Vin looked away and watched the city as it passed by. Rickety wheels of the autorickshaw punctured the silence of the night.
The girl was still staring at her when Vin leaned back in her seat.
“What do you want?” asked a frustrated Vin
“ A simple thank you,” said the girl.
“For?”
“Everything we did for you.”
Thinking her to be someone with a loose screw, Vin looked away. They were almost in Amboli. Vin asked the rickshaw walla to stop. Paying him off, she got out of the vehicle and walked away. Then something compelled her to turn around. The girl was nowhere to be seen. She was neither inside the rickshaw nor on the wide roads.
Had Vin shared a rickshaw ride with a ghost?
Breaking into a sweat Vin doubled her speed as she walked towards her chawl. She thought hard. Everything we did for you. The words rang through persistently. Who was we? And why would anyone do anything for her? She had not even asked …
Vin stopped walking when the cemetery came into view. And remembered her drunk plea! Shit! In her right mind, Vin would have never sought assistance from the dead and gone. Thanks to her stupidity, they were back!
Vin ran home and the first thing she did was Google signs of being haunted :
• Strange Animal Dreams
• Feeling an Invisible touch
• Creaking doors and cabinets
• Meeting strange people
And most importantly
• Flickering lights
What was it with the ghosts and flickering lights? Suddenly Vin was on her guard. She had ticked all the boxes of being haunted by ghosts. She looked around. There was no one.
But she could sense that she was being watched over. She surfed the internet for more.
• They are trying to connect with you. They want to send you a message. For what?
On a whim, Vin checked the Instagram posts of the celebrities who had visited the inauguration. There was not a single mention of The Rainbow Bar! Who had come then?
Immediately she called her father. What would he have done if one of his quarter joints was haunted?! As always her call went unanswered.
Vin had a glass of chilled water and thought through. Whoever was helping her meant well.
The ghosts were responsible for the profits at Rainbow Bar. Those were for real. Now if she told the ghosts to back off, it would mean dwindling returns.
But then again Vin could not run a haunted bar, for god’s sake? Or come back to a haunted home with a ghost or two trying to catch her attention. Having ghosts around was like carrying credit cards. An unnecessary obligation, for which one has to pay a high cost, eventually.
Vin walked to the tiny window that overlooked the cemetery. She gazed down and said,
“You have been very good to me. But you must go now.”
Suddenly Vin was ill at ease. Driving people away was just not in her DNA. But things were different now. She was talking to the dead after all. She could not say “see you soon” or “come again”, could she now?
The next evening Vin scanned across the bar. There were regulars and first-time customers. She could not be sure who was a ghost and who wasn’t. She hoped not to have any ghostly encounters again. Vin had vaguely heard of exorcists, but no… aggressive exorcism was against the principles of hospitality. It was not right to drive anyone away so aggressively. So what if they were ghosts? They had only helped her out.
And then the lights in Rainbow Bar started to flicker. They are back, she thought.
Just then she saw a familiar figure enter the lounge. It was her father! Usually, she would have run into his arms, but now she could not be sure if it was him or a ghost ! That’s when it struck her, that he could be dead! Vin dialed her mother. As expected, her call went unanswered. In a way, she was relieved. It meant they were all well and still angry at her.
Despite the flickering lights, seeing Father smile into her eyes, was sheer bliss. He was proud of all that his daughter had accomplished. But Vin knew it was a matter of time before the bar would come to a grinding halt. Little did he know that she had been helped by the dead. He would be ashamed of her.
The father nodded a gentle no. He had read her thoughts! And before she could react, her phone rang. It was her mother.
Vin’s face creased into a frown. During his last two days in the hospital, the mother had asked him if he’d like to see his Vincy. He had said no. And had passed away just minutes ago.
And his spirit had come right away to The Rainbow Bar. To visit his favorite child. Sharp tears stung her eyes. Vin knew that her father would not be around when she looked up. She was right. He had disappeared. But it did not matter. Queer or not, she knew that his soul loved hers.
Losing a parent is never easy. However, fractured the relationship may be. Overwhelmed with love, gratitude, and grief, Vin gathered herself.
She harked back to the happy Vines when she manned the cash counter of the quarter bars while he mingled with the customers. Most of them were hard-working, honest office-goers who had a quarter of whiskey before boarding the Virar Fast local.
And that’s when she paused. She remembered the action many of them took before starting to drink. She had done the same when she had had the first and hopefully the last alcoholic drink of her life. In her mind’s eye, Vin zoomed into the memory. Ah! it had something to do with those who were not around.
“Always remember there is no problem that cannot be solved… The answers are within you my child.”
And right then, Vin knew how to deal with the visiting ghosts.
*
Vin poured a cap of whiskey into the glass. She then added water to the jet gold liquid. At first, she dipped her index finger in the glass of alcohol. Then pulling it out she flicked it on her thumb. Droplets of alcohol sprinkled around. Offering a quiet “Only for you. Thank you,” to the alcohol-loving dead who could no longer have the joy of drinking, she put the glass away.
And right away the flickering stopped! Ah! The bewda ghosts had been trying to seek validation. And the age-old Mumbai quarter-bar tradition had placated their souls.
Vin felt free, as never before. Just like a person does when he has zero interest on their credit card. She just knew they were gone.
The farewell was gentle and filled with gratitude. It suited Vin. After all, a friendly disposition was the bedrock of hospitality.
The End.
If you enjoyed this short story, you may want to read my novel, Madness in Mumbai: Forty gets Naughty (Rupa Publications) laugh-out-loud, zany comic caper about how forty isn’t too late to find yourself. Pre-Order Available on: https://amzn.in/d/77ohwdH
Haunted Bar. Lesbian Owner. Debts and Daddy Issues.
Over and done with visits to temples, churches, dargahs, the Excise Department, Mantralaya, BMC, and police stations, a disillusioned Vin poured the first peg of whiskey in her 26 years of life. She felt guilty. Her father had taught all his children never to touch alcohol, and he practiced what he preached. Not because he was morally upright or a fitness fanatic but because he was a businessman. “Alcohol is a money guzzler and so one must make money from it.”
Now, Vin dipped her index finger into the glass of alcohol. After pulling it out, she flicked it onto her thumb. Droplets of alcohol sprinkled around. Though she didn’t remember exactly what the action was for, this was a vision she saw every night when she helped her father run his numerous quarter joints scattered across the city. “Always remember there is no problem that cannot be solved. Keep a cool head, a smiling face, and tackle the problem head-on. The answers are within you, my child,” he said to her often.
Despite poor grades and a lack of interest in academics, her father believed she would thrive in the restaurant business. Any hospitality venture, whether large or small, upscale or modest like the quarter joints of Mumbai, was fraught with endless challenges. To tackle those, one required a vital quality: a friendly disposition. And that was something his favorite child possessed in abundance.
Vin, (a shorter and more masculine version of the former ‘Vincy’) wanted to start an upscale ‘Rainbow Bar’ for the queer community in Mumbai. Whether queer or not, starting a bar in Mumbai was an impossible task, she realized.
The list of permissions was endless: a Liquor Permit from the State Excise Department, Health Certification from the BMC, an Electricity Permit, Permission from the Labor Department, a shop license, and police permission... Now, she wondered how her father had managed it over the years.
Vin swallowed hard. It had been three years since her father disowned her. He was so furious when she came out that he stopped talking to her completely. That was expected.
But what worried Vin and the entire family was that he reportedly stopped doing all the ‘other’ activities he was notorious for. For all the alcohol he had abstained from, her father was a great patron of performances at Topaz, South Mumbai’s wealthiest dance bar.
But something inside him had shifted when he found out that his Vincy was attracted to women. Every time he looked at a bar dancer thrusting her chest to "Dhak Dhak Karne Laga," he thought of Vincy looking at her with the same lust in her eyes. He couldn’t come to terms with that sight. So, he stopped doing things that fulfilled his soul, like visiting dance bars.
Darkness surrounded Vin when she moved from her family’s sprawling terrace apartment in Wadala to a one-room kitchen in Amboli, Andheri. On her first night in the suburbs, she recalled how upset her father had been with her when she maxed out her credit card. “In the long run, you can never live in peace if you have debts hanging on your head,” he said, as he paid off her credit card bills.
That day, Vin vowed she would never be in debt again. She stopped using credit cards, knowing it would make her father happy. But this time, there was nothing she could do to salvage the situation. One cannot live a lie, after all.
Her father had stopped talking, period. The family had been so worried about the father’s mental well-being that Vin’s mother made mannats for him to return to his tharki ways.
After three months, when it was reported that the father was seen again at Topaz, everyone began to breathe easier.
It was clear that Vin would not inherit the quarter bar business like her siblings. She would need to build her fortune. And for that she needed a loan. So she sought out a lender known to her father.
Now, Vin glanced at the flashing screen of her phone. It was the money lender’s 18th call that evening. The weight of unpaid debt hung heavily on that muggy Mumbai night.
Soon the ringing stopped, and what followed was a text message – “If you don’t return the principle amount, I will have to speak to your father to get my money back.” Vin clenched her jaws. That was the last straw. There was nothing more demeaning than looking like a failure in front of a father who disapproved of loans and lesbians.
A desperate Vin walked to the tiny window of her one-room kitchen. She gazed out at the abandoned cemetery. Surprisingly, the city’s builders had forgotten this patch of land. Or maybe they knew better than to mess with the affairs of the dead. But the booze had fogged in. It made her fearless. Vin drawled out loud, “The big people up there do not want to help, the ones on earth are useless, at least you folks down under do something for me!”
And, long after she had flopped on the bed dead asleep, her desperate plea vibrated in the darkness …
The next morning, Vin reluctantly stirred out of bed. Messages were entering the inbox of her mobile at an alarming pace. Thinking it was the moneylender, she reached out to put her mobile on mute. Her groggy daze fell upon the notifications. One was from the Excise Department. It stated that she had received the license to serve alcohol in her bar! Then there was a statement from the BMC issuing the Health Certificate … All the licenses, permits, and permissions she had been pursuing over the years had miraculously fallen into place that bright weekday morning!
Weeks later, Vin had set up the swanky 1000 square feet Rainbow Bar overlooking the pav bhaji stalls of Juhu Beach. She barely had time to use social media and depended solely on word-of-mouth within the community.
Much to her surprise, there was a surge of the crème de la crème of Mumbai’s queer community on the inauguration of the Rainbow Bar. Couture designers, filmmakers, and closeted actors who pretended they were allies… thronged to Mumbai’s newest watering hole. They clicked selfies. grooved to the music and drank moderately. The Lokhandwala crowd was well behaved as if they had just graduated from a Swiss Finishing School.
Bang in the middle of the party, the lights in the bar started to flicker. At first, Vin thought it was the DJ monitoring lights from her console. Then the lights went off! The bar was plunged into darkness. The noise in the bar hushed into silence. Only for a beat. Moments later lights came back on and the party continued.
From the next day, business started to swell. Although The Rainbow Bar was for the community, something about its vibe attracted even the heterosexuals of Mumbai. Vin had nothing to complain about as she made soaring profits within weeks. Except for the random flicker of lights, The Rainbow Bar ran smoothly. She was hands-on with repairs, stocking supplies, boosting staff morale, and being friendly with customers. With a welcoming disposition, Vin ran the business smoothly.
Over the months that followed Vin not only recovered the steep costs incurred for license fees but she was able to pay the money lender's principle amount. Along with the high rate of 21% interest. And suddenly she felt free! After all, there is no greater freedom than being free of debt. Her father was right! How she longed to show him The Rainbow Bar. Vin dialed his number. Not surprised when her call was unanswered, she did exactly what her father would do: buckled down to solid hard work.
That night when Vin went back to her one-room kitchen and looked around. Soon she would have to vacate this place and move to a larger flat… She’d move to Bandra perhaps, or maybe Juhu, as that would be closer to her workplace. And as Vin was thinking of where to shift next, she heard her cupboard door creak open slowly. Vin looked in its direction. The cupboard was shut tight. Perhaps it was from the neighboring room. Vin changed into her pajamas and vest and bundled up on the cot without much thought. She had had a long day and a good one at that. Pulling the slim blanket over, Vin shut her eyes. Soon she fell into deep slumber.
A herd of goats was grazing peacefully. Vin said to herself, ‘Mutton biryani.’ The herd stopped grazing and stared Vin in the eye. They had heard her thoughts out loud. Slowly they started to walk towards her. Vin was on her guard. She turned around and ran. The goats caught up with her and one of them bit her wrist. Wincing in pain Vin woke up with a fright!
Her heart was pounding…
The next morning Vin dismissed her nightmare with a smile. Who gets frightened by goats? And bitten? She had never heard of it.
Despite being a Tuesday, Rainbow Bar was bursting from the seams. Vin doubled up as a bartender to give him much-needed assistance. And just as she added a dash of lime cordial to a glass of vodka she felt the wrap of a friendly hug from the back. Thinking it to be one of her friends, Vin smiled and craned her neck to see the face. She paused to stare. There was no one. And yet she continued to feel enveloped in a hug.
Shaking herself up Vin handed the vodka to the young girl waiting at the bar. Looking into Vin’s eyes, the girl smiled. Vin smiled back and buckled down to business. The girl however kept staring at her. In one gulp she downed her vodka. Then continuing to stare at Vin she slid the glass towards her indicating she wanted another drink.
Sensing that something was off with this woman, Vin asked the bartender to fix the drinks while she attended to the kitchen. As she was monitoring the finger foods that had to be delivered – there was a loud commotion.
Seconds later the music stopped. Vin went out to address the issue.
Her customers hovered around the bar. Vin walked into the crowd. The young girl had fainted and the waiter was attending to her. Vin hunkered down and held the girl. She splashed water on her face. Then made her sip some water. That’s when the girl came into consciousness.
Vin asked the waiter to call for an auto-rickshaw. She escorted the girl in the three-wheeler and asked the driver to take her home.
“I don’t feel safe. Please come with me, Vin.”
Vin thought for a moment. This girl was weird, but she was unfit to travel alone. What if the auto-rickshaw rider took advantage of her? Against her wishes, Vin got in. The girl stated, “Amboli.”
“I stay there as well,” said Vin
“I know,” said the girl looking into Vin’s eyes.
Vin looked away and watched the city as it passed by. Rickety wheels of the autorickshaw punctured the silence of the night.
The girl was still staring at her when Vin leaned back in her seat.
“What do you want?” asked a frustrated Vin
“ A simple thank you,” said the girl.
“For?”
“Everything we did for you.”
Thinking her to be someone with a loose screw, Vin looked away. They were almost in Amboli. Vin asked the rickshaw walla to stop. Paying him off, she got out of the vehicle and walked away. Then something compelled her to turn around. The girl was nowhere to be seen. She was neither inside the rickshaw nor on the wide roads.
Had Vin shared a rickshaw ride with a ghost?
Breaking into a sweat Vin doubled her speed as she walked towards her chawl. She thought hard. Everything we did for you. The words rang through persistently. Who was we? And why would anyone do anything for her? She had not even asked …
Vin stopped walking when the cemetery came into view. And remembered her drunk plea! Shit! In her right mind, Vin would have never sought assistance from the dead and gone. Thanks to her stupidity, they were back!
Vin ran home and the first thing she did was Google signs of being haunted :
• Strange Animal Dreams
• Feeling an Invisible touch
• Creaking doors and cabinets
• Meeting strange people
And most importantly
• Flickering lights
What was it with the ghosts and flickering lights? Suddenly Vin was on her guard. She had ticked all the boxes of being haunted by ghosts. She looked around. There was no one.
But she could sense that she was being watched over. She surfed the internet for more.
• They are trying to connect with you. They want to send you a message. For what?
On a whim, Vin checked the Instagram posts of the celebrities who had visited the inauguration. There was not a single mention of The Rainbow Bar! Who had come then?
Immediately she called her father. What would he have done if one of his quarter joints was haunted?! As always her call went unanswered.
Vin had a glass of chilled water and thought through. Whoever was helping her meant well.
The ghosts were responsible for the profits at Rainbow Bar. Those were for real. Now if she told the ghosts to back off, it would mean dwindling returns.
But then again Vin could not run a haunted bar, for god’s sake? Or come back to a haunted home with a ghost or two trying to catch her attention. Having ghosts around was like carrying credit cards. An unnecessary obligation, for which one has to pay a high cost, eventually.
Vin walked to the tiny window that overlooked the cemetery. She gazed down and said,
“You have been very good to me. But you must go now.”
Suddenly Vin was ill at ease. Driving people away was just not in her DNA. But things were different now. She was talking to the dead after all. She could not say “see you soon” or “come again”, could she now?
The next evening Vin scanned across the bar. There were regulars and first-time customers. She could not be sure who was a ghost and who wasn’t. She hoped not to have any ghostly encounters again. Vin had vaguely heard of exorcists, but no… aggressive exorcism was against the principles of hospitality. It was not right to drive anyone away so aggressively. So what if they were ghosts? They had only helped her out.
And then the lights in Rainbow Bar started to flicker. They are back, she thought.
Just then she saw a familiar figure enter the lounge. It was her father! Usually, she would have run into his arms, but now she could not be sure if it was him or a ghost ! That’s when it struck her, that he could be dead! Vin dialed her mother. As expected, her call went unanswered. In a way, she was relieved. It meant they were all well and still angry at her.
Despite the flickering lights, seeing Father smile into her eyes, was sheer bliss. He was proud of all that his daughter had accomplished. But Vin knew it was a matter of time before the bar would come to a grinding halt. Little did he know that she had been helped by the dead. He would be ashamed of her.
The father nodded a gentle no. He had read her thoughts! And before she could react, her phone rang. It was her mother.
Vin’s face creased into a frown. During his last two days in the hospital, the mother had asked him if he’d like to see his Vincy. He had said no. And had passed away just minutes ago.
And his spirit had come right away to The Rainbow Bar. To visit his favorite child. Sharp tears stung her eyes. Vin knew that her father would not be around when she looked up. She was right. He had disappeared. But it did not matter. Queer or not, she knew that his soul loved hers.
Losing a parent is never easy. However, fractured the relationship may be. Overwhelmed with love, gratitude, and grief, Vin gathered herself.
She harked back to the happy Vines when she manned the cash counter of the quarter bars while he mingled with the customers. Most of them were hard-working, honest office-goers who had a quarter of whiskey before boarding the Virar Fast local.
And that’s when she paused. She remembered the action many of them took before starting to drink. She had done the same when she had had the first and hopefully the last alcoholic drink of her life. In her mind’s eye, Vin zoomed into the memory. Ah! it had something to do with those who were not around.
“Always remember there is no problem that cannot be solved… The answers are within you my child.”
And right then, Vin knew how to deal with the visiting ghosts.
*
Vin poured a cap of whiskey into the glass. She then added water to the jet gold liquid. At first, she dipped her index finger in the glass of alcohol. Then pulling it out she flicked it on her thumb. Droplets of alcohol sprinkled around. Offering a quiet “Only for you. Thank you,” to the alcohol-loving dead who could no longer have the joy of drinking, she put the glass away.
And right away the flickering stopped! Ah! The bewda ghosts had been trying to seek validation. And the age-old Mumbai quarter-bar tradition had placated their souls.
Vin felt free, as never before. Just like a person does when he has zero interest on their credit card. She just knew they were gone.
The farewell was gentle and filled with gratitude. It suited Vin. After all, a friendly disposition was the bedrock of hospitality.
The End.
If you enjoyed this short story, you may want to read my novel, Madness in Mumbai: Forty gets Naughty (Rupa Publications) laugh-out-loud, zany comic caper about how forty isn’t too late to find yourself. Pre-Order Available on: https://amzn.in/d/77ohwdH
May 30, 2025
Madness In Mumbai - Short Stories
Three Mumbaikars
A parked car. A bomb threat. And bad timing.
The stationary car beneath the no-parking sign on Forjett Hill, Tardeo, rocked back and forth. Initially, it was a gentle wobble, but as minutes passed, it swayed violently, as if haunted by a spirit trapped inside, desperate to escape. 'Avey, after all, it is that time of the night when spirits are known to come alive,' thought Havovi Cooper as she took a huge swig of her night whiskey.
Now, Havovi Cooper had another thought. Perhaps a certain level of paranoia crept in under the influence of alcohol; who knows? However, this thought was even more absurd than the earlier one. Havovi Cooper's thin eyebrows furrowed as she said, 'What if there is a ticking time bomb just waiting to explode? Oh No! A bomb? No way? But then again… if someone could think of flying an airplane into a building, what is stopping them from planting a car bomb on my beautiful Forjett Hill?'
You see, this is what happens with alcohol: the suspension of logic and reality. The Twin Towers were the epicenter of global commerce for the world's greatest economic and military superpower. Conversely, Havovi's two-story building, Cooper Towers, was in such disarray that even beggars and stray dogs avoided sleeping under its awning for fear of chunks of brick and mortar collapsing on them.
Now, it had been over 10 years since the island city had experienced terrorist attacks. But the more drinks one had, the further away logic seemed. Havovi Cooper dialed ek shunya shunya 100 - Mumbai Police and informed them of a suspicious impending terror threat under the rundown Cooper Towers. Once she had handed the matter over to the capable hands of the Mumbai Police, supposedly second only to Scotland Yard, Havovi Cooper flopped onto the bed and snored peacefully after copious swigs of her whiskey soda. Like a true Mumbaiker, she knew that once Mumbai's Police took charge, her fellow citizens could snore as loudly as they wished, deep in sleep and great peace.
A police jeep whizzed up Forjett Hill and stopped a few meters from the No Parking board. The car was rocking furiously now. A super-fit, dapper Inspector Vishal Dixit stepped out with a posse of constables. He stormed to the car and looked inside. A young man was on top of a young woman. Vishal Dixit rapped the door hard. The young man stopped and opened the door. Assuming he was assaulting the woman, the inspector held the man by his neck and yanked him out of the car.
"Ladki ko chedta hain?!" Before he could whack the man, the young woman got out of the car. She begged, "Saheb, please don't do anything to him. It was mutual consent."
The shocked inspector paused to stare at the young woman. She introduced herself. Dilshad Hiramaneck. Gathering his bearings, Vishal Dixit said,"I can book you under obscenity. This is a public place. It is an offense to do these things in public ." Then, looking at the boy, he said, "Don't you have any shame?"
"It is not his fault, Saheb," said Dilshad, adding,
"Actually, I was on my way to the airport. I have a flight to catch."
"So, what stopped you? "
"My hormones. They got the better of me."
Vishal Dixit paused to stare. In his line of work, he had met all kinds- drunks, dreamers, dealers, lovers- but rarely someone like Dilshad. Clueless and bold. The truth was that, unlike her well-experienced friends who flaunted their prowess, 24-year-old Dilshad was a virgin until an hour ago. And thus, in the heat of the night, civic sense and public propriety got the better of her.
"Why don't you go somewhere to do your business?"
"It was all unplanned, Sir. We are from decent families."
That was evident to the seasoned police officer, so he let them go and reported to the control room that the issue had been resolved.
*
It was midnight, and Inspector Vishal Dixit was busy on his night patrol. This involved ensuring that eateries, restaurants, and bars closed on time. Not only did he have a hawk's eye for lurking suspects like thieves, chain snatchers, molesters, and drunk troublemakers, but he also kept a keen watch on whether his junior officers on night duty were vigilant. He went through the alleged dark spots to ensure they were free of any untoward criminal activities, especially violence. After that, he monitored a nakabandi when the control room informed him of an externed gangster entering the city during his probation period. In Mumbai lingo, it is called Tadipaar. Once he was sure that his Tardeo jurisdiction was safe, Inspector Vishal Dixit decided to patrol the entire area in the darkest hour of the night. Starting from the racecourse, his jeep ambled toward Willingdon Club and took a left at Tulsiwadi. The city was asleep, and its roads were wide. 'There is something magical about this island city,' thought Vishal Dixit as he inhaled a breath of fresh 4:00 A.M air. Then, just opposite the closed shop Sardar Pau Bhaji, Vishal Dixit saw a stationary car wobbling away. The jeep moved in closer to the vehicle. Vishal Dixit noted the number. It seemed somewhat familiar.
Then, Inspector Vishal Dixit saw the same couple! Moreover, the two idiots were clueless that they were parked just a few meters from his office - the Tardeo Police Station! Inspector Vishal Dixit would face serious trouble if his superiors found out.
He stormed to the car and knocked on the door. This time, Dilshad got out first.
The police officer and the accused locked eyes for a moment. The super-fit police officer wanted to say 'Superb stamina,' but then professional ethics prevented him from getting personal.
"Police station. Now."
"Saheb, very sorry, very. It will not happen again."
"I had already let you go once. You had your chance."
"Saheb, please. One more last chance ."
"You come to the police station right now."
"No, Saheb, please, Saheb. I am getting late, Saheb."
"Oh, now you are getting late, aren't you?"
"I promise, sir, I have a flight to Dubai. I am a performer, Sir. Here is my ticket." She then flashed her phone.
"If you have a flight to catch, what were you doing in the car, Madam?"
"I was doing it one more last time, Saheb. It was my first time, so I got excited. Sorry. "
Was this woman for real? She came from a good home. But to fornicate openly in the middle of the road - now that was a public offense. Inspector Vishal Dixit roared.
"Don't you have a home?"
"But Saheb, how to do in front of parents?"
"And yet you are okay with doing it in public?"
"It is the middle of the night, Saheb. Who will see?"
"Come to the police station." Inspector Vishal Dixit was firm. "And if you resist, I will call the lady constables."
Then Dilshad Hiramaneck, a true-blue South Mumbaiker born on Slater Road, educated at Villa Theresa and Sophia College, and working in English musicals as a lead performer, did what any hardcore non-Marathi-speaking Mumbaikar does when faced with the police: she started to speak in Marathi.
"Saheb me karte." (Sir I do.)
"Kay Karte?"- (What do you do?)
Dilshad was terrified of the police, and as a result, she forgot words such as 'performing' and 'acting' in Marathi.
"Saheb me sagli kadhe karte." - (Sir, I do it everywhere.) Dilshad said and added
"Me Sophia la karte, Andrews madhye karte, NCPA la zaun karte…udya Dubai la pann karnar me." - (I do it in Sophia, Andrew, and NCPA, and tomorrow I will do it in Dubai.)
"Aaho bai tumhi kay karnar?" - (Madam, what are you going to do?) asked the inspector. Dilshad continued, oblivious to her glaring mistake.
"Me Mumbai madhye agla time karnar Saheb tumhala baghayla pucca bolavnar." (And next time I do it in Mumbai - I will invite you to come to watch me do it.")
"Noko bai. Aadhich noko tevdha baghitala hon mee." (No Madam I have already seen enough.)
Inspector Vishal Dixit's nuanced Marathi was lost in translation on Dilshad Hiramaneck. She rambled on…
"Saheb me tumhala dete." (Sir I will give it to you.)
"Kay!" Inspector Vishal Dixit, the upright, no-nonsense officer, was horrified. Dilshad, being clueless, mentioned:
"Ticket. Tumhala ani tumcha family la natak cha ticket denar." (I will give you and your family free tickets.)
A hint of a smile flickered across Vishal Dixit's stern face. Dilshad posed no threat to society.
"Madam, I will let you go on one condition."
Dilshad leaned in eagerly. The inspector spoke
"It's none of my business, but leave that man."
Dilshad glanced to the side. Inside the car, her sheepish boyfriend was staring at them. He hadn't said a word while she navigated her way out of the mess.
From pleading with a cop, she transformed into an angry young woman as she yelled at the useless boyfriend , "Mareli Margi! Koyla Eedu! Sadeli Kaleji!"
Loosely translated, it means dead chicken, burnt egg, and rotten liver.
As she heaped phrases of decayed food, Dilshad heard the engine of the police jeep rev.
Senior Inspector Vishal Dixit shut the door, and the driver zipped away. It wasn't his job to get personal, but someone had to tell an honest young woman that she could do much better than dating and mating with a weak man. After all, she was in his jurisdiction.
As for Havovi Cooper, who was fast asleep, she might not have recognized the difference between a car bomb and a car romp. However, she was right about one thing: trouble was indeed brewing under her window.
The End.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
If you enjoyed this chaos, humour and local flavour, you may want to read my novel Madness in Mumbai : Forty gets Naughty. Published by Rupa Publications. Available for Pre-Order on https://amzn.in/d/77ohwdH
A parked car. A bomb threat. And bad timing.
The stationary car beneath the no-parking sign on Forjett Hill, Tardeo, rocked back and forth. Initially, it was a gentle wobble, but as minutes passed, it swayed violently, as if haunted by a spirit trapped inside, desperate to escape. 'Avey, after all, it is that time of the night when spirits are known to come alive,' thought Havovi Cooper as she took a huge swig of her night whiskey.
Now, Havovi Cooper had another thought. Perhaps a certain level of paranoia crept in under the influence of alcohol; who knows? However, this thought was even more absurd than the earlier one. Havovi Cooper's thin eyebrows furrowed as she said, 'What if there is a ticking time bomb just waiting to explode? Oh No! A bomb? No way? But then again… if someone could think of flying an airplane into a building, what is stopping them from planting a car bomb on my beautiful Forjett Hill?'
You see, this is what happens with alcohol: the suspension of logic and reality. The Twin Towers were the epicenter of global commerce for the world's greatest economic and military superpower. Conversely, Havovi's two-story building, Cooper Towers, was in such disarray that even beggars and stray dogs avoided sleeping under its awning for fear of chunks of brick and mortar collapsing on them.
Now, it had been over 10 years since the island city had experienced terrorist attacks. But the more drinks one had, the further away logic seemed. Havovi Cooper dialed ek shunya shunya 100 - Mumbai Police and informed them of a suspicious impending terror threat under the rundown Cooper Towers. Once she had handed the matter over to the capable hands of the Mumbai Police, supposedly second only to Scotland Yard, Havovi Cooper flopped onto the bed and snored peacefully after copious swigs of her whiskey soda. Like a true Mumbaiker, she knew that once Mumbai's Police took charge, her fellow citizens could snore as loudly as they wished, deep in sleep and great peace.
A police jeep whizzed up Forjett Hill and stopped a few meters from the No Parking board. The car was rocking furiously now. A super-fit, dapper Inspector Vishal Dixit stepped out with a posse of constables. He stormed to the car and looked inside. A young man was on top of a young woman. Vishal Dixit rapped the door hard. The young man stopped and opened the door. Assuming he was assaulting the woman, the inspector held the man by his neck and yanked him out of the car.
"Ladki ko chedta hain?!" Before he could whack the man, the young woman got out of the car. She begged, "Saheb, please don't do anything to him. It was mutual consent."
The shocked inspector paused to stare at the young woman. She introduced herself. Dilshad Hiramaneck. Gathering his bearings, Vishal Dixit said,"I can book you under obscenity. This is a public place. It is an offense to do these things in public ." Then, looking at the boy, he said, "Don't you have any shame?"
"It is not his fault, Saheb," said Dilshad, adding,
"Actually, I was on my way to the airport. I have a flight to catch."
"So, what stopped you? "
"My hormones. They got the better of me."
Vishal Dixit paused to stare. In his line of work, he had met all kinds- drunks, dreamers, dealers, lovers- but rarely someone like Dilshad. Clueless and bold. The truth was that, unlike her well-experienced friends who flaunted their prowess, 24-year-old Dilshad was a virgin until an hour ago. And thus, in the heat of the night, civic sense and public propriety got the better of her.
"Why don't you go somewhere to do your business?"
"It was all unplanned, Sir. We are from decent families."
That was evident to the seasoned police officer, so he let them go and reported to the control room that the issue had been resolved.
*
It was midnight, and Inspector Vishal Dixit was busy on his night patrol. This involved ensuring that eateries, restaurants, and bars closed on time. Not only did he have a hawk's eye for lurking suspects like thieves, chain snatchers, molesters, and drunk troublemakers, but he also kept a keen watch on whether his junior officers on night duty were vigilant. He went through the alleged dark spots to ensure they were free of any untoward criminal activities, especially violence. After that, he monitored a nakabandi when the control room informed him of an externed gangster entering the city during his probation period. In Mumbai lingo, it is called Tadipaar. Once he was sure that his Tardeo jurisdiction was safe, Inspector Vishal Dixit decided to patrol the entire area in the darkest hour of the night. Starting from the racecourse, his jeep ambled toward Willingdon Club and took a left at Tulsiwadi. The city was asleep, and its roads were wide. 'There is something magical about this island city,' thought Vishal Dixit as he inhaled a breath of fresh 4:00 A.M air. Then, just opposite the closed shop Sardar Pau Bhaji, Vishal Dixit saw a stationary car wobbling away. The jeep moved in closer to the vehicle. Vishal Dixit noted the number. It seemed somewhat familiar.
Then, Inspector Vishal Dixit saw the same couple! Moreover, the two idiots were clueless that they were parked just a few meters from his office - the Tardeo Police Station! Inspector Vishal Dixit would face serious trouble if his superiors found out.
He stormed to the car and knocked on the door. This time, Dilshad got out first.
The police officer and the accused locked eyes for a moment. The super-fit police officer wanted to say 'Superb stamina,' but then professional ethics prevented him from getting personal.
"Police station. Now."
"Saheb, very sorry, very. It will not happen again."
"I had already let you go once. You had your chance."
"Saheb, please. One more last chance ."
"You come to the police station right now."
"No, Saheb, please, Saheb. I am getting late, Saheb."
"Oh, now you are getting late, aren't you?"
"I promise, sir, I have a flight to Dubai. I am a performer, Sir. Here is my ticket." She then flashed her phone.
"If you have a flight to catch, what were you doing in the car, Madam?"
"I was doing it one more last time, Saheb. It was my first time, so I got excited. Sorry. "
Was this woman for real? She came from a good home. But to fornicate openly in the middle of the road - now that was a public offense. Inspector Vishal Dixit roared.
"Don't you have a home?"
"But Saheb, how to do in front of parents?"
"And yet you are okay with doing it in public?"
"It is the middle of the night, Saheb. Who will see?"
"Come to the police station." Inspector Vishal Dixit was firm. "And if you resist, I will call the lady constables."
Then Dilshad Hiramaneck, a true-blue South Mumbaiker born on Slater Road, educated at Villa Theresa and Sophia College, and working in English musicals as a lead performer, did what any hardcore non-Marathi-speaking Mumbaikar does when faced with the police: she started to speak in Marathi.
"Saheb me karte." (Sir I do.)
"Kay Karte?"- (What do you do?)
Dilshad was terrified of the police, and as a result, she forgot words such as 'performing' and 'acting' in Marathi.
"Saheb me sagli kadhe karte." - (Sir, I do it everywhere.) Dilshad said and added
"Me Sophia la karte, Andrews madhye karte, NCPA la zaun karte…udya Dubai la pann karnar me." - (I do it in Sophia, Andrew, and NCPA, and tomorrow I will do it in Dubai.)
"Aaho bai tumhi kay karnar?" - (Madam, what are you going to do?) asked the inspector. Dilshad continued, oblivious to her glaring mistake.
"Me Mumbai madhye agla time karnar Saheb tumhala baghayla pucca bolavnar." (And next time I do it in Mumbai - I will invite you to come to watch me do it.")
"Noko bai. Aadhich noko tevdha baghitala hon mee." (No Madam I have already seen enough.)
Inspector Vishal Dixit's nuanced Marathi was lost in translation on Dilshad Hiramaneck. She rambled on…
"Saheb me tumhala dete." (Sir I will give it to you.)
"Kay!" Inspector Vishal Dixit, the upright, no-nonsense officer, was horrified. Dilshad, being clueless, mentioned:
"Ticket. Tumhala ani tumcha family la natak cha ticket denar." (I will give you and your family free tickets.)
A hint of a smile flickered across Vishal Dixit's stern face. Dilshad posed no threat to society.
"Madam, I will let you go on one condition."
Dilshad leaned in eagerly. The inspector spoke
"It's none of my business, but leave that man."
Dilshad glanced to the side. Inside the car, her sheepish boyfriend was staring at them. He hadn't said a word while she navigated her way out of the mess.
From pleading with a cop, she transformed into an angry young woman as she yelled at the useless boyfriend , "Mareli Margi! Koyla Eedu! Sadeli Kaleji!"
Loosely translated, it means dead chicken, burnt egg, and rotten liver.
As she heaped phrases of decayed food, Dilshad heard the engine of the police jeep rev.
Senior Inspector Vishal Dixit shut the door, and the driver zipped away. It wasn't his job to get personal, but someone had to tell an honest young woman that she could do much better than dating and mating with a weak man. After all, she was in his jurisdiction.
As for Havovi Cooper, who was fast asleep, she might not have recognized the difference between a car bomb and a car romp. However, she was right about one thing: trouble was indeed brewing under her window.
The End.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
If you enjoyed this chaos, humour and local flavour, you may want to read my novel Madness in Mumbai : Forty gets Naughty. Published by Rupa Publications. Available for Pre-Order on https://amzn.in/d/77ohwdH
