False Pride

False Pride

Mumbai, cradle of dreams, had never stopped amazing Viren. The only city where people hardly know their neighbor of 10 years living in the same locality, yet have “Train Friends” a concept that only exists in Mumbai, where they do not have time to stop by the roadside and chat with their close friend but paradoxically they stop to give direction to a complete stranger. It had started raining. The heavy rains could not stop the traffic as it did during the rains of 26^th July 2005 which had put a brake to the city which is alien to the meaning of ‘stop’ at all. After walking for two hours from the Bus station, Viren had reached Marine Drive, the C-shaped Boulevard along the coast of the Arabian Sea that seemed to be formidable. A couple, on a bench by the seashore, stayed put and continued to tightly hug each other. They did not fear roaring sea waves. Viren was standing beneath a porch of a bungalow by the roadside. Rain fell straight down like his dreams, in the wind, making a million spatters on the patios and pavements-not able to decide if they were coming or going and gave his world a lip-gloss sheen. His wet eye-lids witnessed the moment when raindrops fell on the ground in a conical shape and got acclimatized with the flow of the water. He loved the sluicing sound of the water through the tire treads of the traffic.

Viren's friend stood beside him holding a cigarette in his finger clutches. He kept looking at the falling raindrops through his spectacles as he smoke. The flowing wind embraced the smoke and took it in his journey tonno-where. A moment later, a white BMW 7- series car came in front of the house. The driver hit the horn. Viren and his friend fastened towards the car. It was still raining heavily. His friend threw down his burning cigarette butt and they moved towards the car.          

Thousands of enchanting raindrops caressed their clothes. Viren’s friend walked in the rain while Viren just got wet…partially wet. The FM said it was Kishori Amonkar's Sahela re (An Indian Classical song).Viren's friend sat in the front seat. The driver was his good friend who was a short guy with his shirt tucked out and clumsily dressed. There was another guy, a fellow driver of Viren’s friend sitting in the back seat, chewing tobacco. The driver offered them some tissues to wipe off their wet faces. The fellow driver slid the window of the car amidst to spit and the rain showers came dribbling in. BAD HABIT – to spit on the roads, Viren remembered his father tapping him on his head when he was a kid. The driver turned the A/c on and Viren trembled with cold. Viren's friend sat leaning to the driver. They started their journey.

Viren could hear the flip-flop of the wind-shield wipers, like the metronome which were keeping cadence with his heart. The oncoming headlights and the passing street-lights had a surreal iridescence. All this seemed a cacophony of color and sparkles and flashes. The ghostly images in the rain running down the windscreen till the wipers passed again gave him another clear look, if only for a moment, of the world he was passing. Other folks cracked innocent jokes and giggled. They were heading towards the airport to receive a foreign guest. The driver was asked to do so by his boss. The driver kept on hurling abuses at the working of the car as it was not the one he drove often. His boss had taken away his usual car along with him for some business meeting. Out of anxiety, Viren's friend reminded the driver of the incompletely cited story of his boss. The driver with delight, unfolded how his boss banged out girls in the car while he drove. All guffawed with delight when they heard the news. The fellow driver too added some of his boss's experiences and they kept laughing. The traffic was running smoothly with no obstructions. The fellow driver was off from his work early that day and was willing to spend some quality time with his newly married wife. He got down and dissipated in the rain. The driver bitched about his fellow driver too as he did not like the way he came with them as it was running late. They headed forward.

     On the way, it was the Bandra-Worli Sea Link – a cable-stayed bridge with pre-stressed concrete steel viaducts on either side that links Bandra and western suburbs of Mumbai. The headlights were struggling to see through the wall of water washing the world; so much like fog – but not. He was mesmerized and tempted to stop, open the door and venture into the watery wetness – unprotected, just him in the rain, in the path of two headlights burning beams into the deluge and the night, spread his wings wide and look up to heaven into the path of million oncoming raindrops and wet his face, penetrate his clothes soaked to the skin and feel the rain running down his frame – filling his shoes and heart to the brim. Shoes with water and heart with redemption, and God could have seen him here, lit up in the lights and face upturned in the darkness and his sins would get washed away to seep into the earth from where he came and he would be clean again.

Viren leaned forward with his head upwards trying to see the luminous strings of the bridge. Every time he tried to set his eyes on the bridge as the car moved, he failed. The driver and Viren's friend went on talking continuously. The driver lessened the speed to show some romancing couples 'lost into each-other' with their motor-bikes and cars parked on the roadside. Viren's friend lowered the window and shouted peeping out, "Is that the best you can do?" This started gales of laughter in the car and it continued for quite sometime. 

They were now approaching the airport. Viren's friend said to the driver, ''Why don't you get a car for yourself so that you can start your own business?''

Now the conversation in the vehicle turned blue.

''Money! My brother...money!'' said the driver in disguise.

''It has lot to do with money. Dad cannot go out since he lost his leg when a local train hit him. Mom is too old to work now. It was Sheila's and my wish to admit our kid in the International school. It becomes hard even to pay his fees. I am finding it hard to give up drinking too. To own a car would not be easy.''

He took a deep breath and kept looking into nothingness while he drove. The radio jockey on the FM was busy anchoring. No one talked for a few minutes. Viren's friend pretended to find a cigarette in his pocket and offered one to the driver. He denied. It had stopped raining. People at the signal peeped into their car's window to see the rich owner. Viren was enjoying it.

Their car entered the airport. The driver slid the window and waved his hand to a policeman and parked the car. He took out a neck-tie out of his bag. Shirt, now tucked in, hair uncombed, jeans and chappals untidy and it was how the guest was supposed to be welcomed. He wrote a name on the name plate to find his guest. A few guards greeted and saluted Viren when he got down the BMW and they headed towards the arrival terminals. He felt honored. The flight information display said the flight had landed on time. Different people, with different question marks on their faces came out. A tall white man came out with a brief case. He looked fresh and healthy. He frowned as he read the name plates, as if puzzled. He came near and just nodded looking at the driver with a tiny polished smile. The driver hurried to take the brief case from his hand. They headed towards the car. The guards saluted the man. The man appreciated it. He was comfortable with the treatment that was being given to him. It was the treatment that he was supposed to have and he deserved it. He got into the car and went out of sight. Viren and his friend headed towards an auto-rickshaw.

His friend said,

 ''...two seats to Marine drive.''

®Ritesh Randhir