Yo-Yoing

I spent half of Sunday deciding what to do but could not think of anything in particular that I wanted to. Meditating that this lack of purpose calls for an attempt at yo-yoing I got up from my lair. The hot afternoon gave way to a cool breeze from the hill as I stepped out. Tentative destination: Bandra and then where the path leads. Every time I almost believe that Sunday locals will be what on weekdays they are not- roomier, secluded and windy. As always, I am wrong. So hustling between a street smart dude and plump mother with a roaring bundle of clothes in her arms I start mentally rehearsing old and new Hindi songs those that may or may not have any connection with Mumbai locals. Dadar arrives at last, then changing tracks to western. As the train to Churchgate was leaving platform I was about to run after it being caught up in a sudden panic attack, totally unworthy of a yo-yo, only to realize that Bandra is opposite Churchgate. With a sigh of relief and tickling of shame I turned backwards and soon another local arrived, the right one this time. One thing needs to be said about western line locals: if not conforming to my fake nostalgia for roomy and secluded early 20^th century metros, they are far better than their central line counterparts. This is hardly surprising since western line runs thorough the richest suburbs of Bombay: Andheri, Bandra, Worli, Parel and Marine lines. If you are lucky as I wasn’t that day, your coach will have fluorescent green LCD display showing the next station.

Bandra, queen of suburbs, home of the nuveau rich, compulsive shoppers and diners, not to forget the showbiz glitterati; in opposition to detached demeanor and aristocratic elegance of Colaba is more of a Zeenat Aman than a Sharmila Tagore. Welcome to link road, paradise of the inanimate where even the animate effortlessly make a transition to the other side. From jazzy undergarments to bead belts, fake Rolexes to faker designer shirts, you name it they have it. Is it my delusion that the line between inanimate and animate is fuzzy, that not only the fashion wrapping beautiful bodies but also the bodies themselves or what is visible of them (and there’s quiet a lot) are part of the same shimmering in-animation. But it could be the other way also, that these objects and fashion wrappings are equally or more animate than the bodies which are not really visible in their exposure nor are hidden. And if any of the above is more than mere fancy of my compulsively disordered theorizing brain, what can be said of the eroticism they provoke? Fetish, is that the word?

I thought I’d skip the Mary Mary episode, but then again as the place came up on my yo-yoing map, let’s give a passing reference. It’s a basilica, old but how much I don’t really know, neither do I feel like going through the wikipedia article devoted to it. So it’s an old basilica, facing the sea, the sun rays falling directly on the entrance, illuminating the path to the shrine. There were only three things that caught my attention: A crimson glass chandelier with tiny gold stars, the ornate icon of Virgin holding child Jesus and a marble sculpture of Mary mounted on a structure directly opposite to the basilica. I tried hard to decipher the look on Mary’s face. But through the fumes of candles and incense burning bellow and the sea behind everything seemed fragile and gloomy.

Band stand is a perfect place for wannabe yo-yo’s, for the simple reason that one can walk endlessly in S.H.M with the sea breeze and crowd for company. The street is on higher ground, park, pavement and black rocks descend in steps to the sea. This is one of the few places in Bombay where the sea appears to be real, not a Hollywood studio simulation resembling a lake. I like it here, the roughness of the waves as they swoon and crash on the filthy black rocks. Perhaps they were once more alive, lesser skeletal than now, having even their bones peeled away by the sea to reveal black skin underneath. The sun is setting and the time is ripe to sit down following a ritual feet dipping. A girl stands by my side on the concave surface inundated periodically by foam white wave tails; she is urged by her lover behind to move forward but is content or afraid and stands her ground flashing sweet smiles. By the time I sit down on a chair like rock formation, the sun has lost her glory. The brilliance with which she was bathing the sea surface has faded, that dazzling voyeur is gone, and a halogen lamp impersonation is being played out. It is time for her to be viewed, in all her nakedness. But the waves still pay her homage, rise up to catch amber rays, a green-black-ochre sheet with hues of orange rolling into foam. I taste my lips, salty. The spray gathered on glasses creates peculiar filtering effect. Pseudo-reality increases as the sun goes down, halogen street lamps burn brighter, Andheri -Juhu high-rises on eastern horizon very slowly light up like a million unblinking eyes, lovers get a little insecure and embrace tighter, children so long frolicking return to their mother and bums get ready to prowl the streets. Sun goes down, the moment passes and I remember her.

Odysseus shipwrecked on the island Ogygia while returning home from Troy, was imprisoned there by sea nymph Calypso, daughter of none other than the Titan Atlas. Calypso held the hero captive for seven long years. She was in love with him but her love was not reciprocated, Odysseus being drunk on his nostalgia. She shared his bed perhaps longer than Penelope, promised him immortality if he stayed back. But Odysseus wouldn’t, he had to return to Ithaca, reclaim a kingdom and wife, ret-tell his own epic journey. Calypso was left behind on Ogygia, alone again, with memories of unrequited love. Did Odysseus tell her of his travels, his wars, his lovers? Was she not the ideal audience, absorbing each tale into her body, tales that revealed parts of her lover, parts that were untouchable in their lovemaking? In the end what need drove her to keep him hostage? What desire was greater, sexual or of an ecuteur? Tell daughter of the sea, the one who weeps concealed.

Odysseus won’t take you with him, perhaps you wouldn’t have left. But millennia have passed, you are immortal and this world has enough inanimate goddesses to have any need of you. Your home is now a site of successful tourist industry, with signboard “Calypso’s Cave”. Where are you? Perhaps somewhere near this evening, do these black rocks of a one time island remind you of Ogygia? For all I know you could be the marble statue with her back to the sea, or not. I await you Calypso. Rise from this sea, come, embrace me and tell me the tales of your loneliness. I won’t refrain from your body like him, will surrender my amateurish yo-yohood to your voluptuousness. Come Calypso, take me into your lair or let me take you into the labyrinthine streets. There is space enough for loneliness to be shared.

My myth making attempts were not quiet satisfied, but I was starting to get bored and a little light headed, drunk on salty spray and pulp epics. The sea had receded a bit, it being low tide. Three boys and girls were singing with a guitar: tu sagar pyar ka / tere isi pyar ne humko diwana banya / gaherai mile sagarki, uchai mile asmanka / tere pyar ke sagar main hum tairna chahte hai…..clichéd? You should have heard them singing by the sea. Having failed to find Calypso it was time to walk the streets again. The garden leading to Bandra fort walls was closing, so I missed the view of Worli. Back again through Bandstand to the other end, where to now? Link road stacked with fetishes was beckoning, but I had forgotten the path. So I entered a plebian looking Lane with bikes and autos whizzing by my side. This must lead somewhere and if not what the heck. The best thing about evening is that she makes even the routine look mysterious. As if the buildings and villas around possessed something more than brick, iron and glass. Dogs in heat, dogs pissing, merry bikers and not so merry lovers quarrelling inside a stranded car, having wiped away sea spray from glasses, I was itching to turn the voyeur. Alas, there wasn’t much to see or rather things that I wanted to. Before I realized it the bungalows and fancy apartments had given way to suburban flats. A park on the corner, turning left the cityscape changes again. Shacks selling tea, cigarette, and fish vendors line the dirtier lane. Onwards and downwards the path leads to ramshackle houses and dead ends to a slum. Well today’s yo-yoing turns out to be a walk down class hierarchy in the heart of 1^st world suburb of Bombay. But there is more than that; I have really completed a harmonic motion, if not simple then at-least periodic. The monstrous Worli sea link looms overhead as sewer water run bellow my feet. Taj Lands End is on my right, towering over the slums. I have passed by Taj many times without ever suspecting that another world lies underneath. Dead end, the lane winds down bellow but doesn’t rise, it gets lost into the shacks built of eros, thanatos and dust.

While returning I found a roadside vendor selling kebabs-sheek, boti, kalija, sina. They are delicious and unbelievably cheap. In this city of pow-bhaji, vada pow, missal pow, over stuffed sandwiches and dhabeli, finding a shack selling kebabs is more than fortunate, it’s a minor miracle. I bless Bandra with all my heart and find a way back home through jammed roads and packed trains. An evening of successful Yo-Yoing?