That day I met you in Bombay
If you start liking someone, just block them
“I am going to be in Bombay tomorrow.” I texted him.
“Oh, finally. How come?”
“Work only. But I’ll see you.”
“Where do you want to go?”
“We’ll see if I actually make it. I have to be in Navi Mumbai.”
“Hectic.”
I had this conversation nine hours before my flight to Mumbai. I was travelling for work mainly and my romantic endeavours could wait a bit. It was an important work trip. Not because I had to do something but because I had to prove to my father, I can manage things without him which he can’t seem to believe even after months of dedication. I have to be patient, obviously. I am being patient.
After gruelling negotiations in an office in Mahape, we left for our hotel in Andheri East (?), I think it was East — or wait was it called Sahar — basically that place near the airport. My Bombay geography is rusty now. I mean there was a time I was a student here. I knew so much. I haven’t been here in two years.
Everyone’s on their toes, still. Everyone’s tired. I am sure some people enjoy the struggle, but I can’t seem to get in touch with the part of me who liked it here. I cannot wait to go back.
It took us an hour to get to the hotel and I was getting restless because I was holding my pee, the traffic wasn’t moving, and my dad was on a work call that couldn’t seem to end.
I took the chance to flee the minute we got to the hotel and at this point, I have swayed far away from the point of the story.
So I changed and discussed the matters of the day with my father who was surprisingly extremely contented with my contribution that very day.
God bless me.
I texted the aforementioned boy for I had gained some courage after today’s successful meeting.
I texted, “Hey”
He was typing almost instantaneously. “What’s happening? Where are you?”
“Just got to the hotel.”
“Okay, do you want to come home?”
Yikes. Do I want to go home? Okay maybe that’s where we are convening and then we go to the mall. Yeah, let’s do that.
And I said, “Dad, I’m going to Lower Parel to meet some friends.”
“Yeah, okay. See you.”
I booked my cab at 3x surcharge for One Avighna Towers, Parel (I am not complaining. I would’ve taken the train but I didn’t. I changed into Birkenstocks and a very symbolic jersey. I sat in the cab and found myself beaming ear to ear.
I felt like I was four years younger all by myself in this big city. Again.
The familiarity was warming. I got off the said location. Paid the cabbie 3x the money and called whoever I was meeting. His phone was engaged. He texted me his apartment number and told me to just come up.
It wasn’t so hard to recognise the house really. If you saw the door, you’d know some whacko lived in it.
I went in. He was on a call. I kept quiet and thought the following things.
He has far too many books for someone who doesn’t read, or does he read?
He doesn’t have a shoe cabinet. Hmm. Temperature is ambient. Why is he in pyjamas. Are we not going out?
The house smells like soap. Did he just get out of the shower? I think he did. There’s stuff on the couch.
I pick up a book. Oh wow, he underlines things. Sweet.
“Heyyyyyyyyyyy. Can’t believe you’re here.”
“Me neither. haha”
“What do you want to eat? Let’s order?”
“Uhh. Let’s see what’s good?”
He said something I cannot remember because I was too occupied picking up cues. How many people have been here? What does this mean? That’s a nice lamp. Interesting mirror. Old-timey stuff.
What am I looking for?
Cues. I am in his house. All the secrets are in here. If I observed hard enough, I’d be able to decode so much. Am I being invasive?
Is my face giving all of this away? I am making connections that do not exist. What of all this means nothing? Cool things on the wall.
What am I doing? Stop. Stop. Be normal. You are not here for intel.
He stood up from the big green chair obviously sensing how creepily I was scrutinising the situation.
Don’t we all hate a forbidden fruit situation?
We do.
Are you leaning in for a hug? No. Okay.
Oh, you are. Okay.
I look at the time 8:53. I got here at 8:41. It’s been 12 minutes. I am so tired already.
“There’s wine in the fridge but I don’t have that wine open thing.”
“Ah. Do you have a lighter?” I reply.
Why did I say that? because of a stupid reel I saw on Instagram. Have I ever opened wine bottles with lighters before? I haven’t.
Why do I have to be such a know it all?
It’s okay to not have all answers. Maybe he should find the solution.
I proceeded to google and saw a YouTube video of this woman using brute force to push the cork inward.
So like the idiot that I am, I go into the kitchen and find a knife. The primary tool for this task. I am trying and I am being incredibly careful.
He thinks I am on the right track.
Decides to take the knife from me and is very skilfully pushing this cork in.
Now he’s opening the bottle.
I walked out of the kitchen to change the music and I hear a very animate “Ow!”
Classic. I thought. He’s always crying wolf. You can’t get me this time. This is not even funny and I continue with my ordeal of finding the right song — we all have that one song that conveys the right message. The right message being that we have an evolved and wonderful taste in music. The songs that are far from India Top 50. You know the Maggie Rogers, Lany, Tom Misch, Boy Pablo, Sylvan Esso pretence.
I was still shuffling because I didn’t care about the ow.
“I cut myself. I’m bleeding.”
“Yeah, sure you are.”
I walk to the kitchen to tell him I haven’t fallen for this crap.
But I should have. He’s cut three of his fingers and he’s bleeding and he thinks he needs stitches.
He doesn’t need stitches. He’s a bit dramatic.
“DO YOU THINK I NEED STITCHES?”
“No, you don’t need stitches.”
“But last time I cut myself cycling in Nepal I got four stitches.”
“This doesn’t look too bad, D. Wash it. Where’s the antiseptic?”
“It’s somewhere in the cupboard.”
Okay, am I supposed to open this guy’s cupboard? I am thinking too much. I think he needs help. How has he gotten so far in life if he can’t tell that his bare hands are piercing against the sharp edge of the knife.
Surprisingly, he had some first aid supplies. I am quite impressed. He didn’t seem to be the kind to be living an adult life.
“I think we need to go to the hospital.” He said as I dabbed that cotton doused in Savlon.
“Wow. Do we now?”
This wasn’t expected at all really. Should I just have stayed at the hotel?
There was a clinic about 600m from his house. We decided to go.
Why was I so calm? This doesn’t seem to be me at all. I react. I over-react.
We enter the casualty room.
“Do you think I’ll need stitches?”
The nurse rolled her eyes far back. “No.” she said wryly looking considerably exasperated by the nature of her job and the histrionics of big city folk.
She dressed the bleeding fingers. I stood at the door watching.
“This is the best case scenario.”, said he.
“Oh, yes. Simply the best.”
“It could be a lot worse.”
“Well, it could be a lot better.”
“What do you want to do now?
“We can go back to your house.”
Why on earth would I suggest that? I am probably giving the wrong idea to him but is the idea really wrong?
“Let’s go to Kamala Mills.”
“Okay, yeah.”
We went to this place in Kamala Mills which I’d cherished in my college days. I hadn’t been out like that in so long.
And I have to admit, I was having a really good time with the drink I have been having since 2017.
Is interesting conversation all that it takes to have a good time? Just talking about my life and listening about yours. Is that how simple I am? Is that all I need? Conversations are so unproductive? Why do I wamt to keep having them?
If I had to describe just one metric for the strength of a relationship, it would be context. The ability to decode most things you do, say and perceive. I know you’ll hate it more than other people if I got late to the party. I could look at the food menu and tell with ease that you’d want this because you like muted flavours. I could walk into a store and know exactly the first bag you would touch.
Knowing is everything and knowing is what makes separation so sad. I invested myself in learning about you. I have memorised your favourite songs, your birthday, your favourite color, your favourite cafe, how you like your coffee, your allergies, your sister’s ex’s name, the story of how your parents met and your car’s number plate. I am bored out of my wits trying to forget because remembering is what gives everything colour. This park was just a park till it became the park where we sat on a bench petting an old dog sipping watermelon juice.
Context is so important, right? I know you got paranoid about this wound because of your susceptibility to keloids. I knew this and so I wasn’t upset about your overreaction.
We spent about an hour there.
In the elevator, we met two other people.
“Are there nice places to eat around here?” he asked them.
Those two were kind enough to suggest two places and I was kind enough to tell them they both suck.
I thought I was helping them save their time with my feedback but they thought I had an attitude problem. People really hate it when their recommendations are not well received. Get over yourself.
It was 11:03pm when we got back. Drank some water. I haven’t eaten much.
“You have work, right?” I asked setting the scene to leave.
I could see that he had been occupied with something the whole time. I guess that is the price you pay when you choose to hang out with people who love what they do. Their work consumes them so much. They’re not hanging out with you because they’re escaping the vagaries of their dumb non-fulfilling weekday job. Why are they hanging out at all then? I’m not even that funny.
“Yeah, I do. Flying out tomorrow. This is hectic.” he said furthering the case for me to leave.
I picked up my phone to book the cab and he said book at 11:30. What is happening in these 14 minutes?
In those fourteen minutes, I asked about his fingers. I glanced at the bottle of wine. I saw the fan. It was dusted.
Ceiling fans can tell a lot about people. Consider it a red flag if you see debris deposited on it.
I stood up to see in the mirror how worn out I looked. Booked my cab.
He stood up too. Stood behind me. Combed his hair with his fingers and he looked over my shoulder.
We may have hugged for longer than four seconds.
And I left.
And I haven’t heard from you. You’re probably keeping a check on things. You’re de-escalating.
And that’s okay.
I expect nothing.
