The Last Love Letter

Chapter 31

Subah arrived in Mumbai two days before the scheduled opening of her exhibition. A local agent had received her paintings the day before her arrival and arranged for them to be transported to a warehouse near the Jehangir Art Gallery in Colaba, the venue for her week-long exhibition.

From the airport, she departed for the warehouse and, on her way, asked the agent to meet her at the entrance to the gallery. The agent, a Parsi gentleman named Mr Taraporewala, was a wiry man of around sixty who’d probably never smiled in his life. But within a few minutes, he put Subah at ease and promised her that all her requirements would be met on time. Then the two of them entered the office of the gallery to complete a few formalities and, when that was done, stepped into the area where her exhibition was to be held.

Subah was already aware of the dimensions of the exhibition hall, but she took a few moments to soak in the place. Then she pulled out the paper on which she had marked the placement of her series of paintings, along with a few other details, and handed it to Mr Taraporewala.
He peered at the paper through his soda-bottle glasses for a minute, then looked up. ‘Madam, it will be ready as per your specifications.’

She smiled in relief and asked, ‘Tea?’

Travelling and the anticipation of meeting her agent and seeing the place had worn Subah down. She missed having Bala by her side. The initial plan was to bring her too, but later, Subah had decided against it due to the additional expenditure it would entail. Besides, she would be worried constantly about Bala’s safety in an unfamiliar city. Mumbai was generally safer than Delhi, no doubt, but a few recent incidents had hurt that image, and Subah was not prepared to take any chances.
‘You like Irani chai?’

‘Yes, I love it.’

‘I know the best place for it. It is run by my brother.’ For the first time in nearly two hours, she saw a faint smile cross Mr Taraporewala’s face.

They crossed the road, walked alongside the Army-Navy building and rounded it to arrive at a café adjacent to a traffic signal. Without consulting Subah, Mr Taraporewala swung into action as soon as they were seated and placed an order in Hindi: ‘Boss, make chai and bun-maska.’ Subah looked at him, and he explained, ‘Without bun-maska, the chai is no good.’

It was her turn to smile now.

After saying goodbye to Mr Taraporewala half an hour later, Subah walked from the café to her hotel. The hotel was a quaint little place called Colaba Nest, located on the road that ran parallel to the Colaba Causeway. She had found this small, twenty-room hotel online and booked it the day before her arrival. Easily accessible from the gallery on foot, its location in the heart of Colaba meant that she would be close to all the daily necessities.
Subah had gone to the hotel first to drop off her suitcase before heading over to meet Mr Taraporewala. Now she picked up her luggage from the reception and took the lift to her third-floor room. The room was basic, and though she didn’t have a view of the sea from her window, she could smell it, and if she concentrated hard enough, even hear the waves crashing on the boulders near the Gateway of India.

After a quick shower, she sat on the bed in her bathrobe, wondering what to do next. She had finished all the work she’d planned for the day. It was 5 in the evening, and after some thought, she decided to go for a stroll. Before she did, she ordered tea from room service, ignoring the tea maker in the room.

When she hit the Colaba Causeway an hour later wearing jeans and a T-shirt, the first thing that made her smile was the Mumbai weather. The air felt cooler on her skin, and she smiled in relief, as Delhi was already too hot, even though it was early summer.

In all, she had fifty paintings for the exhibition, and she hoped to sell at least thirty of them in the first six days. For the final day, she planned to hold a discount sale, as selling cheaper would be wiser than paying to transport them back to Delhi. She felt uncomfortable thinking of art as trade, but it was the truth, and in any case, she needed the money. When she had visited the gallery earlier that day, she had noticed that there were three exhibitions underway, but sadly, there were not many people. Perhaps because it was mid-afternoon on a workday, she mused.

Though she had visited Mumbai for work a few times in the past, this was her first exhibition there, and her real worry was how the art collectors of Mumbai would react to her work.

One good thing was the footfall she was sure would come about organically, as Jehangir Art Gallery was listed as one of the must-see places for tourists. But if she hoped to sell her paintings, she needed serious buyers, not just tourists.

She thought about Akash. They had communicated over email a few times after she had met him at her house two weeks ago. She had called once as well, but he hadn’t picked up and later mentioned in one of the emails that he was busy. All his emails were short and to the point. But what else did she expect? As far as work was concerned, she was really happy with the creative advertisements he had prepared using his photographs and the way he had embedded the theme in the overall design. The digital campaign had already started, and he had said he would send her the analytics of its performance on a daily basis today onwards. Probably by the time she got back to her room, there would be details waiting for her. She was sure of it. Akash was a thorough professional, and that was one of the many things she liked about him. But he was also a good father and, as far as she could tell from when she had visited his house, a good son too.
She passed the Leopold Café and continued to walk past the shops. The passage was narrow, and she thought every time she visited Mumbai that it was getting more and more cramped. There were people buying phone cases, artificial jewellery, scarves, etc. When she reached the Hanuman temple, she turned around and walked back towards her hotel.
She passed her hotel, walked through the security checkpoint a short distance to the right, and reached the Gateway of India. The sun had set by now, and as she reached the boundary wall, she looked at the boats, all lit up, their lights shimmering as they bobbed lightly on the waves that crashed on the boulders below her. There were people everywhere, most with extended selfie sticks, trying to capture the most they could with their phone cameras.

The awed expressions of the tourists, the sound of the waves, the cool wind and the smell of peanuts being roasted at nearby food stalls made the surroundings seem magical, and she relaxed.

Subah had nothing to do for the rest of the evening. She did have a couple of friends in Mumbai, but they lived in Borivali, and there was no way they could cut across the city to come and meet her now. When she had informed them about her exhibition, they had all promised to be there for the opening, though.

A little later, she found an eatery close to her hotel that served seafood, and ordered prawn koliwada with rice, which the waiter recommended. As she waited for the food to arrive, her thoughts once again turned to her business in Mumbai. So far, no one from the media had contacted her. Not that she had expected them to, but Akash had prepared a press release and posted it on all her social media pages.

She imagined Akash sitting at her table, smiling. She blinked, and he was gone. It was now her turn to smile. She was perhaps living a fantasy. At a conscious level, she did like him for his looks, but that was it. But somewhere at a deeper level, she felt a connection, even though it was inappropriate and one-sided. She tilted her head and smiled. Imagining him seated in front of her and smiling as they toasted her success made her blush. The feeling surprised her. She was suddenly conscious of her looks.

The waiter brought her food, and she welcomed the interruption. She changed her mind and ordered a pint of the beer that the waiter had recommended as an accompaniment, and began to eat.