SIREN
Chapter 1
Mumbai Central Railway Station - Chapter 1
Debasis was in a dither as he walked out of the Bombay Central Terminus. 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 which he used to secure his hair displayed the word “Om” all around it. He towered over everyone by a good six inches. Debasis was tall, thin 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. His painter’s gaze fixed on the Indian Railways’ heritage building; memorizing its architectural highlights.
The late afternoon sun forced him to narrow his eyes. 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 had an urge to draw the sketch of the building, 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 automobiles greeted him as he looked down the road from the pavement. His head spun for the second time. He had to hold the lamp post to support himself. 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 chit in his hand was bothering him. He was desperately seeking directions to the address.
The ubiquitous noise made it difficult for him to keep his mind focused. He was further distracted by the constant movement of people walking in and out of the shops located in old, rickety buildings on either side of the road. Every nook and corner was crammed with peddlers, laborers, sarbat-wallas and casual visitors.
He weaved his way through the crowd, confused when he saw everyone rushing on the road, heading towards some unknown destination. His weak leg throbbed with pain. It always aggravated when he was tensed. He bent down to massage his weak leg. 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 collapsing.
A draft of warm and humid air hit him as he entered the tea stall. He ordered a cup of tea, still holding the small piece of paper in his hand. The place was extremely small. Chipped tables and benches stood crammed against the side of the walls. In spite of its size, the owner was doing extremely good business. There was a continuous flow of people.
The non-stop paronomasia talk from the group next to his table grabbed his attention. He was particularly pulled towards a young chap who appeared to be the leader and a well known figure of the area. He mentally compared them with the Pandas-Dulias of the Puri temples. A typical street smart character surrounded by his lackeys. He could not help but overhear his conversation. In a way it concerned his 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.
“Munna, your life is set. 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 with me. I didn’t even have a place to sleep,” he said, in a loud voice. “Life was extremely difficult.”
“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.”
“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 three 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. Would he be able to find me a teacher’s job, he thought. His mission had failed. He did not inform anyone back home. He had promised to return after fulfilling his Guru’s wish.
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 walked out of the tea stall, laughing and slapping each other on the shoulder.
Debasis removed his drawing book to divert his mind. He put the chit back in his shirt pocket. The table was dirty, forcing him to keep the book on his lap. He dipped his hand into his shoulder bag and removed assorted pencils from it. 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 small boys who served as waiters surrounded him. They giggled when they saw the picture.
“Sethji, he has drawn your picture,” shouted one of the boys. But the owner did not hear him. The sound of radio from the adjoining shop and the noise of clashing utensils made it difficult for him.
Debasis smiled. He pinched the nose of the youngest one. He was losing his grip on the pencil. The stagnant, oven-like air, inside the stall made him sweat profusely. His skin grew clammy with moisture, forcing him to wipe the palm of his hand frequently. He made all the boys sit on one bench and started drawing another sketch. One of the boys from the group jumped from time to time, making it difficult for him to concentrate.
“If you want me to draw your picture, you will have to sit tight. Don’t move, okay,” 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. He closed the book and put it in his shoulder bag. He was feeling much better. The pain in his leg had subsided. He got up, removed the chit from his pocket and headed towards the counter.
He paid his bill and showed the address to the owner. The potbellied hotelier with thick Maharaja style moustache directed him with great care, mentioning various landmarks in case he got stuck. Debasis thanked him and stepped out to the cacophony of noises once again. The radio from the adjoining shop continued spewing out tacky Hindi songs. He shook his head, desperate to get out of the noisy place. He stopped a cab and gave him the directions.
As he slid inside, a small plastic temple stuck delicately on the dashboard with two way tape immediately caught his attention. Debasis was impressed. The driver’s devotion towards God was clearly visible. The fresh garland and the incense stick took him on a nostalgic trip to his village temple.
It took him ten minutes to reach Krishna Das’s residence.
He told the driver to stop the taxi in front of a fairly dilapidated building. He looked at the mechanical fare meter. Unable to decode the amount, he asked the driver.
"How much?"
"The minimum. Twelve rupees."
Debasis removed a ten rupee note and a coin. He pushed the money in his hand and said, “I am glad to meet you.”
The driver stared at him. He thought it was a joke. His expression changed when he saw his passenger was serious. A big smile appeared on his face. The orange tilak changed shape, as his forehead creased up in surprise.
“Sahab, you seem to be new in Mumbai.”
“Yes,” replied Debasis, puzzled by his question.
“No wonder. It’s been ages since I heard those words. Mumbai has no time for emotions,” the driver said, shaking his head.
Debasis got down and headed towards the building trying to make some sense of what the driver said. He climbed up the stairs, which were crumbling around the corners. A sign of poor maintenance, he thought. Even the apartment looked rather run down from the outside. A sticker of Lord Jagannath on the main door cheered him. He touched the picture and placed the same hand on his head. He compared the number with the chit in his hand. When he was convinced it was the same apartment he was looking for, he pressed the bell.
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