My Summers in Bombay

I enjoyed many a summer of my childhood at my aunt’s in Bombay. Sharma Transport Company’s buses were how I got there from Bangalore. Sharma’s buses were luxury back then. Brightly painted and well-washed before every journey so they looked fresh, like the passengers. The buses was festooned with multicolored lights in the front, back, and the sides. At night, a Sharma bus was probably visible from orbiting satellites. But for reasons that still escape me, the brightly colored light schemes made their way inside. The lights on the ceilings of the buses were red and lit the pathway poorly. The lights above each seat were blue, converting every passenger into casually clothed Hindu gods. The gods passed around roasted ground nuts and shushed their restless children as we began the northward journey.

The garish lights had a vile partner in VHS players showing poorly pirated copies of Hindi movies with shaky images and scratchy sound. Navigating the winding roads of the Sahyadri mountains, while watching the Picasso-imagined versions Aamir Khan and Juhi Chawla running through eucalyptus forests, put the sufferers of road sickness over the edge. When the bus reached Bombay, the passengers would spill out like newly released hostages.

Bombay was hot and humid during the day and warm and humid at night. My aunt and uncle lived in a large and airy flat in Chembur, a bastion of Brahmins from South India. Ceiling fans operated round the clock and open windows let in the smell of rain and sea air. Large geckos made their way in sometimes and were promptly chased out with folded newspapers.

I shared a room with my serious, but kind-to-a-fault cousin, Jyoti. I’m convinced she never said anything bad about anyone, and even if she had, it was probably couched in a compliment. As a studious sort she must have hated my rowdy ways. She made her displeasure felt by an almost imperceptible change in tone. She had (and still has) one of the most charming laughs I have heard. Genuine, but never over-the-top.

Jyoti had complete collections of books by Agatha Christie and Arthur Conan Doyle, all bound neatly in old newspapers and kept in a steel almirah that made a series of loud announcements when opened and closed. It was a Godrej of course. An indestructible thing of beauty. I devoured the books, biting my nails and lying down in all sorts of positions on the bed for hours. Jyoti seemed to know when I was biting my nails even when we were not in the same room. It was uncanny. Maybe I bit it every 5 minutes, so she’d yell out “ugar kadki vanda” every 5 minutes, transporting me from the cobblestoned lanes of London to the sounds of roadside grocery transactions in Marathi. But I’d dive right back in. I’ve never lost myself in reading like I used to during my summers in Bombay.

Less frequently, my reading would also be interrupted by Amma Indi, who’d shout out whatever food was ready. Her chapatis were never round and she joked it was the reason why her kids were good at geography.  They were delicious. Amma Indi’s chapatis and Prabha auntie’s vegetable cutlets were the respites from my parents’ South Indian cooking. Of course, sitting here in Brooklyn now, I’d sign papers to forego every other dish and cuisine if I could have my mom and dad’s cooking for the rest of my life.

Amma Indi’s husband, Attambi, was a retired scientist. If you closed your eyes and pictured a retired scientist, it would probably be a close approximation of Attambi. Like most male elders in my family, he was most often found behind a printed publication. Getting his attention was like calling a genie. Three calls of “Attambi, Attambi, Attambi” and the paper curtain of the Times of India would lower to reveal thick eyebrows, sunrising expectantly above large bifocal lenses.

Another cousin, Alaka, studied in Bombay, at Sophia’s College, for a few years. Her family fled Tehran when the revolution started. First by boat to Russia, and then by plane to India. I heard stories of gun-toting followers of the Ayatollah knocking on doors looking for Americans. Alaka, like Jyoti, was quiet. She seemed to have strong opinions but did not share them freely, choosing to stay quiet when she disagreed, or make a gentle comment. A trait she shared with her mother, Prabha aunty.  Alaka seemed to live in her own world. As a kid I was the youngest among my cousins, so I got picked on a lot. I never said sorry when I was wrong. Seemed to me that life owed me more sorrys than I owed it. My earliest memory of saying I was wrong was to Alaka in Bombay. I don’t know anything about the incident except that I surprised both of us by saying it.

Jyoti’s older sister, Akka Paddu, was one of the many strong and outspoken women in my family. She was an OG feminist in India. She burnt her bra in the 1970s and edited The Economic and Political Weekly. She moved at the pace of Bombay and I loved it. Her husband Prakash came from a family of the quietest talkers I’ve ever (barely) heard. When my extended family got together, we shouted, talked over each other, and laughed uproariously. Prakash’s communications seemed like he was under strict instructions not to reveal family secrets. I once happened to hear one. “We are running low on sugar. Do you mind getting some from the nearby store?” We admired Prakash’s family a lot and reduced our collective volume in their presence. But ultimately, we were wired differently, so the volume rose. Akka Paddu and Prakash were also responsible for my accidental introduction to alcohol. We were in a vacation cottage in Mudh Island off the coast of Bombay and I had just finished playing some football on the beach. I came back thirsty AF and saw a large jug of what looked like lemonade. It was shandy. I was happy as a clam.

I loved Bombay so much that I’d try to postpone my journey back home. But eventually I’d miss Bangalore. My loving parents, the brother who I’d miss fighting with, and the playing-cricket-till-sundown friends. So, I’d go back into the gaudy confines of a Sharma bus, with clove pods and assorted ointments, prepared to cross the mountains again.