SIREN
CHAPTER 1
December 2004 - BOMBAY CENTRAL RAILWAY STATION
Debasis was in a dither as he walked out of the railway terminus, which was also a landmark building. He lowered his handbag on the ground. With a flurry of finger strokes he brushed his long black hair; tying it into a short ponytail at the base of his neck. The woven narrow tape that secured his hair displayed the word “Om” all around it. He towered over everyone by a good six inches. Debasis was tall, athletically built with long hands and fingers. His bronze skin gave him that rugged village look. His sage-like eyes scared many people, especially imposters and liars.
He picked up his bag and walked towards the gates. At the exit, he turned around, his eyes sweeping the old edifice, the pride of Indian Railways. His painter’s gaze locked on the heritage building; memorizing its architectural highlights.
The late afternoon sun instinctively forced him to narrow his eyes as the sun cut through several modern, glass and concrete edifices close to his object of interest. What a contrast! He kept one hand over his eyes to protect them from the glare. He squinted at the building, till each and every section was etched in his mind, mesmerized by the arches, the huge porch and the gigantic clock at the top; the size of twenty footballs.
He felt an urge to draw the sketch of such a majestic monument, but discarded the idea immediately. There was no hurry. Patience was his biggest virtue. He turned around and walked out of the gates, excited at the thought of returning one day.
A ribbon of vehicles greeted him as he looked down the road from the pavement. His head spun for the second time forcing him to hold the lamp post. It took him some time to regain his balance. He removed a small piece of paper from his trouser pocket, read the content and headed towards the taxi stand. His eyes darted across the road, observing everything with childlike enthusiasm. The note in his hand bothered him. He looked around desperately, seeking directions to the address.
The ubiquitous noise; a cocktail of human vociferations and auto reverberations made it difficult for him to keep his mind focused. Every nook and corner was crammed with peddlers, laborers, sarbat-wallas and casual visitors. The constant movement of people walking in and out of the shops located in old, rickety buildings on either side of the road distracted him further.
He weaved his way through the crowd, jostling and dodging. Perplexed, he continued walking, unable to fathom the reason for such a mad rush. It seemed everyone was heading towards some unknown destination. His weak leg throbbed with pain. It always aggravated when he was tensed. He bent down and massaged it vigorously with the palm of his hand.
When it gave him no comfort, he looked around for a place to rest. His gaze immediately fell on a tea stall. The old, twisted rectangular signboard put a smile across his face. He thought the name ‘Ram Bharose’ was a tad too comic for it. The name literally meant ‘At the mercy of Lord Rama’. He was sure only Lord Rama with his holy powers had saved the ramshackle building from falling apart even as he trudged towards the small eatery.
A draft of warm and humid air hit him as he entered the tea stall. He eased himself on the small wooden bench, feeling a little out of place. The crammed space forced him to shift his position constantly.
A small boy, wearing a military green shorts and a torn t-shirt approached him.
“Bolo, Sahab. What will you have?” he asked, pushing a couple of glasses of water in Debasis’s direction.
“A cup of tea.”
“Which one will you have?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Haan, Sahab. We have Super-deluxe, Deluxe and A1. ”
“Super-deluxe,” Debasis replied, smiling at the young waiter.
When he picked up the glass of water his gaze shifted on a small menu card stuck on the edge of the table. The word Super-deluxe caught his attention. He checked the rate; it was the most expensive option, priced at a miserly five rupees. The way he said Super-deluxe … as if he would charge me a fortune.
He shifted his focus on the note in his hand. Unable to make any sense of the alien location he looked around. The place was extremely small. Chipped tables and benches stood crammed against the side of the walls. In spite of its size, there was a continuous flow of people; a sign of good business. He smiled once again.
A group of five youngsters sitting at the adjoining table grabbed his attention. Debasis was particularly drawn towards the oldest chap, who appeared to be the leader and a well known person. A typical street smart character surrounded by his lackeys. He could not help but overhear their conversation. In a way, the topic of their discussion concerned his own predicament. His lackeys called ‘chamchas’ in Mumbai, laughed magnanimously at his sick and dirty jokes. It was absolutely comic. Like a scene right out of the films. Debasis mentally compared them with the Pandas-Dulias of Puri temples; his home town.
“Munna, you are so lucky. You have a house, a good business …. . you have to help us. After all we are your friends.”
“Sure. But let me tell you, when I came to Mumbai several years back, I had nothing. I didn’t even have a place to sleep,” he said, in a loud voice. “Life was extremely difficult,” said the leader, belting out a popular song in his raucous voice.
“Then where did you sleep?” asked the lackey sitting next to him.
“In the beginning I slept on the platforms, but when I was thrown out by the Railway Police I started sleeping close to the railway tracks. The trick worked. No one bothered me.”
“Weren’t you scared of the passing trains?”
“Yes, of course. But I was not alone. There many others. The whole damn corridor is full of them. The shanties close to the tracks also helped. It made me feel at home.”
“Munna, I slept in a big fruit basket for many nights,” said another lackey, with a strange haircut. “Till one day I got pissed in the face by a dog.”
Munna smiled. He did not give his joke too much importance. It would be against his image.
“Mumbai is funny. A hotel room costs a minimum of two thousand rupees. But a night with a prostitute in Kamathipura costs less than two hundred,” Munna said, with an air of arrogance.
This time he laughed heartily at his own joke. The lackeys followed suit. Sycophants at their best.
“Hey, this is good. A cheap way to spend a night in Mumbai. You also get a girl to enjoy,” commented the lackey who was silent all the while.
The double meaning words sickened Debasis. His thoughts shifted to Krishna Das, his friend and the only contact in Mumbai. Would he find me an art teacher’s job?.
Debasis put the small piece of paper in his shirt pocket. He held his face in his hands, rubbing his eyes vigorously as if wiping out the images of disappointments. His mission had failed miserably. Instead of heading back home he chose a more adventurous alternative; Mumbai. There was no other option. He had promised to return to his village, Raghurajpur, close to Puri after fulfilling his Guru’s wish; to successfully spread the art of Patachitra. But his goal remained unfulfilled. He had to seek assistance from his only friend, Krishna Das.
The group next to him finally stopped the rhythmic patter of their fingers. They got up, each one with a match box stick in his mouth. They sauntered out of the tea stall, laughing and back slapping.
“Super-deluxe,” said the young waiter, offering Debasis a stained cup and an equally tarnished saucer. The size of the crockery shocked him.
“What happened, Sahab? Never seen a cup of tea before?” the young waiter questioned him sarcastically, although his face sported a big smile.
“I have seen many but this one takes the crown,” Debasis shot back.
“This is Mumbai, Sahab. Everything is small here. The houses, cars and of course the hearts of Mumbaikars,“ the waiter said, his deep brown eyes twinkling. He knew he had won the short debate.
Debasis sipped the tea from the chipped miniature cup. It tasted good but the young waiter’s comments troubled him. He removed his drawing book to divert his mind. The stained table forced him to keep the book on his lap. He dipped his hand into his shoulder bag, removed assorted pencils from it, lining them neatly in one corner. He decided to draw a sketch of the owner, seated near the entrance. His pencil moved freely across the paper and in no time he finished the illustration. The young waiters surrounded him. They giggled when they saw the picture.
“Sethji, he has drawn your picture,” hollered one of the boys. But the owner did not hear him. Blaring music from the adjoining shop coupled with a cocktail of other sounds made it difficult for him.
Debasis smiled. He pinched the nose of the youngest one. He was losing grip on the pencil. The stagnant, oven-like air inside the tea-stall made him sweat profusely. He wiped his hand frequently to get rid of the moisture.
“Do you want me to draw your picture?” he asked the group.
“Yes Sahab,” replied the young boys in unison, delighted at the proposal.
“Okay, then sit on that bench …”
He made the group sit in two rows. Once he was happy with the arrangement he began drawing. One of the boys from the group jumped from time to time, making it difficult for him to concentrate.
“Sit tight. I won’t be able to draw if you jump like a monkey,” Debasis reprimanded him.
“Sahab, his shorts has big holes. The chipped Sun mica is pricking his butt,” replied the eldest one in the group.
Debasis laughed. He finished drawing the second sketch. Before he could show them, the owner yelled at the boys. “Hey, you good for nothing fellows. Come here and attend the customers.”
Debasis gestured them to move. The group had a quick look at the picture before scampering to their respective tables. Debasis slid the book in his shoulder bag. He felt much better. The pain in his leg had eased. His limp would be less noticeable. He picked up his bag and sauntered towards the counter.
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