The Wait for a Winter—Chapter 1 (Long Highways)
Long Highways
Mumbai Men don’t just rush to their offices on an arid day, they literally try to fly. Their quest is further boosted by dozens of newly minted roads. A consortium of stones and pebbles, if you like artsy jargon. And if you are scholarly, then these novel tracks are: rain-resistant, provides more traction, have a protective coating for unbalanced thrust from large tires (which government bodies regularly cite as the main source of road damage in India, which is clearly not the case) and a durable framework for tackling crust vibrations. Furthermore, the city has witnessed a steady rise of flyovers, architectural ensembles, and a sea link (Bandra-Worli which is immensely important for the donut-shaped Mumbai, linking two far ends in one go). In essence, men here have found a new freedom to chase dreams which looked distant in the past.
And for this tale of ours, we have chosen one such monsoon day. Also an hour, when most Indians would have finished their morning meal and, given a preference, would love side walking along the sea link. That day, if you had walked along its track glancing on the Arabian sea you might have forgotten about the heat. However, you had to focus on the exquisite waves of the water or on the alluring flights of minivets if you wanted to ignore the noise. If you had gone aerial, you would have found vehicles scrambling and wrestling, competing for open lanes to accelerate and sail as if the heaven is waiting on the other side. Despite the outcry, bikers — especially the rowdy ones — were getting ahead and slipping past through the voids. And the pedestrians, for all one knows, perhaps were the real winners. Ambling moderately, some jogging, some in pause, some in quasi-motion — enjoying the panoramic sea view.
In the midst of these, looking through the narrow spaces between the cars, somewhere deep within the forest that is a traffic jam, and parsing feverishly, you would find a fine young lady named ‘Mandy’—shorter for Mandira—named after a Himalayan goddess. A charming girl in her early twenties, sweating in scorching heat and getting desperate in her lavish car—as young and rich often do. Hazel eyed with brown skin. A touch of flamboyancy. Just enough to cause a grin on anyone’s face, but not enough for distress. Gifted with silky hair, albeit short and possessed with a set of delicate eyes which rolled with her character — a part cheerful Mandy and a part poignant Mandy. Her reasonable and astute side was inherited from her mother who came from a working-class background unlike her father, who was — suffice to say — famous and rich. Mandy was an explorer as well as a homely girl. Perhaps we can deem her a recluse when she is a little down, and zealot when she had the adrenaline flowing.
That day, in the time of dawn, she had unexpectedly woken up. It was early, very early in fact if you dare to ask her, and she was not sure who had caused it —a touch of monsoon breeze, the singing of night-owls, the trills of frogs, or maybe it was the holy verse of Āzān from the nearest mosque. Moments later after waking up, she was still stuck in her speculations, and right then a thought of finishing her overdue project came and she rushed to make a fine cappuccino and fired up her MacBook and started working. She went outside, in the balcony of her seventh-floor apartment, she sat on the tulip chair and fixated herself, for nearly three hours. For a while, this would be the longest ever she would have sat and directed her attention. Though her project was almost over, there were many fixes to be done, and given how she hated the last time, her senior — a.k.a. the boss, and also the director — had gazed at her seethingly when she missed the deadline. He had made a smirky face and behind her back, as she later got to know from her colleagues, he had commented This girl is dumb as hell, noway she’s gonna make it. For the same reason, she was then in a complete frenzy to finish her work. And thus, with the help of some caffeine in her blood and a nudge from the morning breeze, she steamed through her project, and after nailing it, she proudly called her driver and started her commute to work.
The traffic, nonetheless, had other plans. Minutes after she left, the chain of cars in her front stopped, and she found herself strangled on the sea link. Our lady was getting restless for not only she was excited to share the work, but also because she was getting late and besides all of it, the summer was still lurking, and she hated the season. (For reasons we would know soon)
She again went back to her speculations, but this time on how she had ended up being suspended above the sea in this state, despite just months before she was enjoying the marvelous sunsets at Manhattan.
Perhaps it was the job. An assistant director. A dream of working in India. Hmm. Yellow hue productions. Her father; the actor Deepak Kapoor, who had tailored all this. Whoa! she was honestly ebullient at first. In fact, mostly on the affirmative side that it was celluloid where her destiny and her core talent lie. But lately, her instincts were telling something else. Obviously, she had had some experiences unlike some of the other star kids; she had done a few documentaries in NYU where the subject was about advancement with the modern age, Asian-american teens and their lives, the segregation of black and white schools. She had wanted to build on those experiences and continue with a masters program, however, she was requested to come back. First, there was paranoia and then an ugly request by her present-day guardian (her parents were divorced when she was very young), and who held a firm belief, there was scope in Bollywood for her.
Mandy’s father, an iconic actor in Indian cinema and a master of portraying the bold and ragged man, had convinced her;
“Mandira, you need to come here. It not for me, and not for the country but for the dearth of elite and skilled directors the industry is currently facing and what a shame it would be if the upcoming generations were deprived of the visual and narrative developments of the western cinema. For it would be… you, who would start the wave of Neo-Indian Cinema. However, you must witness & learn the art of making Indian films under the tutelage of someone as good as you aspire to be”.
For this inside job, Deepak had contacted (and even pleaded) to Yash Mehta—a famous director who specializes in the Indian version of noir-style Cinema. Kapoor was confident that Mehta’s technical superiority and his knowledge of Indian culture would be perfect foliage for Mandy to groom and thrive. Thus, with the slot of an assistant director booked on Mehta’s next project, “The Wolf calling”, or as Mandy would later nickname it “The wolf rolling”, she was called back and her future was sealed. The only cliché, our girl was not feeling the thrill nor the drive to excel.
From being lost in thoughts, she suddenly snapped back in real time when Laurie behind her gave a longhorn and all her introspections came to a halt. She was pampered beyond measure. However, her driver was acting in sanity and slowly started the car as there came a freeway. But again, sadly though, after a stretch or two, the jam came, and the queue thickened. She was angry as it became imminent that she would be late. An unprofessional demeanor, As the director of ‘the wolf rolling,’ would put it.
While all this game of hiding and running of freeways was taking place, Mandy’s attention was caught by a child. A chubby boy with a happy soul. He was sitting just next to her right. She found the boy was fiercely tapping the windows of his dad’s car (or could be his mom's but she was not there, and the father was busy on the driver’s seat). Also, a stream of lull was flowing between his cheeks while his father did try to manage him, he was not stopping. His little hands were undulating on the glass and his playful voice was attracting eyeballs of all sorts of people, particularly of Mandy’s. He was grinning happily without a hint of consternation. His skin looked smooth and milky as if the avatar of light had appeared on earth.
Mandy, at first had tried to ignore him and but she thought of giving a quick peek and when she did looked at him, she felt hypnotized by the young boy. Then, she opened her window and started moving a bit towards her right touching the same glass our little man was tapping. She enjoyed that moment and then looked deep within his blue eyes, his chin, and his sun-like laughter. She listened to the song he sang and then saw the contrasting degree of the melancholy of their hearts. He also noticed her and came forward towards her, tapping the other side of the glass with his tiny hands. His father warned him, but he was not listening. Smiling and beaming. Our little man with open mouths. Mandy, being on the other side of the glass, thought about his smile.
She also noticed his laughter, the power of it and the aura that was beholding it, which was a rare one these days or rather priceless. A smile which she never had as an adult. Smile of a kind, which she was sure, she had long lost.
