The taxi ride

It was balmy and mellow January evening. If you had grown up hearing, "Chennai has only three seasons - hot, hotter and hottest," then this evening would have put that statement to rest. There was a nip in the air with the hangover of Christmas and the dawn of a brand new year. The year was . . . never mind! Sita was looking out of the taxi's window and thinking of a time when she wore pinafores and sported a pixie. She remembered the name, 'Vinit' distinctly. How could she forget that name which was always hounding her during her classes, in her History books and by her friends and his who were constantly hooting his name when she passed by. The taxi-driver honked and Sita not the one to let go without a conversation, started talking to the driver.

"Where are you from?"

"Tambaram."

"How long have you been driving the taxi?"

"Five years."

"Children?"

"One boy. He is quite smart. he wants to become a Collector when he grows up."

"That's wonderful."

The conversation stopped mid-way when the taxi reached his house. He was waiting. Sita was seeing Vinit after twenty years! A grand rush of a giant wave of nostalgia hit her. She did not know whether it was the same for him. He greeted her and seated himself in the front, next to the driver.

"For *&^%'s sake, we are meeting after so long and you occupy the front seat and not to the place next to me," Sita fumed but smiled when he politely asked her how she was. "I am fine. It has been a long time, no?" "Yes, almost twenty years," Vinit mused. It was quite evident that the same rush of nostalgia was hitting him as well but he effectively controlled himself while directing the driver to the restaurant which was in a beautiful location.

The restaurant situated next to a water body was a lovely place especially when one was washed in a wave of colliding pasts and presents. The seating formalities done, the pace was awkward. Sometimes when one has been out of contact for long, starting and continuing a conversation becomes uneasy and stressful.

"What would you like to order?"

"Some starters and a cocktail perhaps."

"Okay."

"So, how are you? Tell me everything since the time you left school," started Sita.

"Where do I start?" answered a smiling Vinit.

While the details of the bygone was shared and the concoctions were being downed, it became apparent to Sita that Vinit had not changed much since the time she knew him. It was surprising to her that this evening was the first time they had spoken comfortably and long. In school, it was a brief exchange in corridors save the one time when Vinit directly approached Sita just as she was preparing for an exam and trembling asked her, "What did you ask my friend?" Sita finding herself in a quandary quickly hushed Vinit away mumbling something about the exam in a few minutes.

"So, do you like the food?"

"Yes. Not bad."

It was time to leave and the same taxi was waiting for Sita and Vinit, who insisted that he will see Sita home and return in the same taxi.

This time Vinit sat next to Sita. The evening with its coolness and the sugary drinks stirred Sita's insides that the moment Vinit's body slightly brushed her's, she felt strange sensations that started from the pit of her stomach. She was dizzy with pleasure for a man who was by and large a stranger during her school days and with whom she just had the first 'real' conversation. Perhaps January's balmy evening was the mischief, she bemused.

Without thinking, in a husky voice, she whispered, "Vinit, I feel like holding your hands."

"Hold it then."

Carefully and gently, Sita interlocked her fingers with his. Silence. Sita first gently began to knead Vinit's fingers, building the pressure gradually. Vinit was squirming and pressed his body next to Sita's. With the pressure of Sita's fingers on his, Vinit, kissed Sita on her neck gently. The bodies speak a different language under the thrill of building pleasure. Vinit had started to breathe heavily whispering, "I still love you, Sita. I wish you were mine." Sita silent yet speaking through her fingers.

The taxi-driver could not fathom that the girl who had been talking so earnestly with him a couple of hours ago, was a different woman now - those types which indulge in heavy petting in the taxi's back seat.

The taxi had reached the bend of Sita's home. It was time to say goodbye. Both Vinit and Sita knew that they might not meet again.

Some taxi rides are a concoction of past memories and present desires, bemused Sita as she stood waving to Vinit as the taxi whirred to life after dropping her.

When reality cracks memories . . .

A memory is best when it remains a memory. If one tries to imagine a place and the way it looked like in the memory and hence revisit, then one is in for a rude jolt. Bombay is one such memory for me. My formative years were spent there and after we left, we never visited the place again. Every time when Mumbai is mentioned in the news, my ears perk up and my mind is alerted. It's an involuntary response. To relive those memories and travel back in time, I picked up Suketu Mehta's Maximum City: Bombay Lost and Found. I have not yet completed the book but I'm half-way through it but believe me, Mehta does everything in his power to shake me from my reverie of my childhood Bombay. Though in the initial pages of the book, he dwells on memory, he later drifts into a rigmarole of how everything functions and works in Bombay.

I think that he has taken upon himself the mission to rip open the city to me and tell me, "Well, Susan, here is your beloved Bombay . . . with ugly sores and bleeding wounds which are raw and untreated by any tincture." I must confess (ah, this word reminds me of those dozen Confession pages on Facebook!) that though I enjoy reading about the hitherto unknown or relatively lesser known aspects of Bombay, I have to force myself not to alter the Bombay of my memories. I know that change is a constant is a done-to-death cliched saying but that doesn't stop the essence of the meaning and what I have to say, right? So I say it - Change happens but memories don't change.

I tend to think that in a way it's good that I haven't visited Bombay after we left. Perhaps I am spared from the shock of finding something else in the name of Bombay rather than what I knew and liked. But all this doesn't stop me from harbouring a keen desire to go and visit Bombay and spending time walking the roads that led to my school and enjoying vada pav in Juhu beach.

Mehta is a wonderful writer. He deftly paints a realistic picture of the dream city. I don't blame him for puncturing my memories. I am still to complete the book and I fervently hope that here and there in the book, I will find references to the city of my memories. Maybe Mehta will dwell in his memories at the same time providing me with my own special memories. 

Reality and memories don't match.

After coming to Goa, I feel that I'm dwelling a lot on memories. After all, this wee place is close to Bombay and the language that is spoken here was the language that I grew up hearing. 

Let me shake myself off from the reverie and get back to my reality - as of now, reading the remainder of Mehta's book!

Leaving you with an excerpt from Mehta's book:

I left Bombay in 1977 and came back twenty-one years later, when it had grown up to become Mumbai. Twenty-one years: enough time for a human being to be born, get an education, be eligible to drink, get married, drive, vote, go to war, and kill a man. In all that time, I hadn’t lost my accent. I speak like a Bombay boy; it is how I am identified in Kanpur and Kansas. “Where’re you from?” Searching for an answer—in Paris, in London, in Manhattan—I always fall back on “Bombay.” Somewhere, buried beneath the wreck of its current condition—one of urban catastrophe—is the city that has a tight claim on my heart, a beautiful city by the sea, an island-state of hope in a very old country. I went back to look for that city with a simple question: Can you go home again? In the looking, I found the cities within me.

So, are your realities and memories connected or disjoint like mine?

Postscript: All images used in this post belong to Sachindev PS, my friend and photographer. His images can be found here. You can also check out his Flickr stream here.

An ode to the paneer soda

After reading the summer post here, I was tempted to write something about my summer memories and also pay tribute to a drink that was completely washed away by the coming of Coca Cola and Pepsi. As teenagers, summer was special because it meant holidays among other things. On the last day of school, we would be eagerly awaiting the last exam's completion so that we could treat ourselves to a drink of Paneer soda and some candies. The name 'paneer' can be roughly translated as sweet. The drink comes in a bottle which has a ball in the mouth and one has to pop the ball to drink the sweet soda. For a sum of 75 paise, we could get a bottle of that soda. Along with that soda, we bought some cocoa toffees for Rs. 2 and that was our special treat.

The soda was a symbol of eternal joy for us as it meant the last day of our exam and also meeting our friends. Sometimes, if we had more money to spare, we would indulge ourselves and buy two bottles. We didn't have many choices of drinks those days. We could opt for a Paneer soda or Rose milk. We mostly preferred the soda as it was cool, sweet and also was slightly aerated. As we entered College, the drink slowly started fading away. The giant MNCs Coke and Pepsi entered the market, slowly wiping away the humble Paneer soda. There followed a complete colonisation of all local drinks like Paneer soda, Kalimark Bovonto and others.

Paneer soda (Can you see the ball in the mouth of the bottle?)

Paneer soda was something local and hence one could find it in every place -- even the smallest of the shops had Paneer soda and it was available for a very cheap price. One did not have to plan to buy a paneer soda. You felt like having some, you immediately bought it. The small treats changed big time after Coke made an entry. One had to have enough money if the treat was to include Coke and Pepsi. By the time we completed our under-graduation, there was no sign of Paneer sodas anywhere in Chennai.

Surprise of surprises!!! When I came to the place where I am presently staying, I was pleasantly surprised to see that Paneer soda still existed here. Last week, I bought a bottle and heartily consumed it while simultaneously thinking of past summers, sticky hands and cocoa toffees. Breathless,  I also took some time out to narrate my experience to the shop-keeper who was quite sure that I was some being that was delirious and slightly soft in the head.

So, what are your vivid memories of past summers that you cannot seem to enjoy in the present.

Image: Internet