Mumbai is known by many sobriquets - the city that never sleeps, the city of dreams, the Maximum city. All these names, stolen from other cities and that's what makes Mumbai unique. We steal our identity from other places and make it our own, more so than the originals. She is very deceptive in her nature, this city, but I see her for who she is.
Beyond the veils of poverty, pollution and corruption, I can see the raw, real, and naked Mumbai. And mark my words, she is beautiful. I see her smiling through floods, storms and acts of terrorisms. I see her bringing people together when crisis strikes. And I see the city where no call of 'Ganpati Bappa' will go unanswered without a 'Morya'.
Sometimes, I am afraid that I am the only one who sees it, after all, it is in my nature to observe. I am this city's greatest detective, and as is the nature of this city, no one knows of me. I often say 'In the world that honours mediocrity, my place forever lies in the dust'. But things are about to change soon. For better or for worse, that I do not know.
On that day I was passing by the century old temple at Matunga observing the tall gopuram. The loud colours, exaggerated facial features of the Asuras and the Gods sculpted on it, and the beauty of the lithic apsaras caught my eye. Fragrances of sandalwood, bhasma and tulsi adorned the gentle wind. The sounds of the temple musicians sharply thumping on the chenda synchronised with the cadence of my heart. The shehnai called out to my soul with its rhinal tone. Peace.
I stood there as usual to inebriate my senses in this complex brew of offerings. It is a better 'pick-me-up' than the coffee that I forgot to have. With my eyes closed I asked God to impart upon me the usual portion of courage, confidence and the fixings.
As I continued to pray, I felt the world stop. The sound of music reduced, the fragrances disappeared, the gentle current of the wind stopped. Time seemed to decelerate. Then I felt the gentlest touch on the back of my neck, like a piece of chiffon drifting in the wind. I felt the slightest breeze behind me and then came the nudge that changed my life.
My whole body was pushed ahead and my prayers were interrupted.
Startled, I turned around. That's when I saw her for the first time.
She stood there with a blank facial expression, dressed in a flowing salwar kameez that hugged her body at her petite waist. The dupatta raised under a cushion of air settled downwards patiently.
Sandalwood toned skin glowed ever so slightly and a tiny bead of sweat glistened on her brow. Her long hair was held together by a pin exposing her long slender neck. I looked at her, enamoured. My eyes wandered as if I had no restraint.
And then I made the greatest mistake of my life. I looked square into her brown eyes that were big enough to eclipse the moon, deeper than the deepest ocean. Like the eyes of a child, innocent. Love struck me like a bolt from the blue.
In that moment I fell in love
I saw my past, days I longed, unknowingly for her.
I saw the times, we spent apart, tears.
In that moment I fell in love
I saw my future, eons passing & you by my side.
I saw the times we spent, your hands in mine.
I felt the times, warmth of our bodies, closely intertwined.
I heard the laughter, of our unborn child.
I saw the wrinkles, gently tease, the corners of your eyes.
I felt the soft skin, trembling meekly, on your time worn hands.
It was at that moment, that time stopped, and I was in love.
Our life written in my mind,
In the ever changing, sands of time.
Washed away by the waves, the winds,
Or by my next glance.
Visions of our future together rushed into my mind uncontrollably. This was the first time I had experienced something like this. My mind was momentarily engulfed by this rush of sounds, images and feelings. And before I realized it, it was over. By the time I came back, she was already looking at me. I would have never imagined that she'd be capable of such a spiteful expression, still, there was a hint of confusion in her face. In the few seconds that I was day dreaming, her eyes changed from a cherub to the enraged glare of the devil. (Albeit, a beautiful devil.) I wondered what made her so scornful. Realisation.
My lovelorn gaze had been misunderstood to be of a lecherous nature. I looked away, to obviate my character from being doubted any further. She turned away, her dress swaying with her movements. So graceful, it was to a greater extent like she glided above the undulating surface.
I stood there admiring her gait when I saw a glint of gold sparkling on her hair. It slowly made its way down the curves of her body and fell on the road.
"Hey! You there! You dropped that thing," I exclaimed as I walked towards that object hurriedly.
She paid no regard to my calls. I picked that object and stood up to hand it back to her, hoping that my little gesture would be plenty to break the ice.
To my surprise, she was nowhere to be seen. A split-second and she was gone. There was no place she could hide while my eyes were averted. Nor would she be able to run out of sight, almost as though she was spirited off.
Without her around, the world seemed to come back to life. The sounds of the temple musicians filled my ears once again, the aromas did their thing. The world began to proceed as usual, and with that the romanticism of my love at first sight had ended.
All this while, I clenched within my palms the object that she dropped. It was a hair pin of some form, I reasoned with my 'fashion unconscious' eyes. The hairpin that I held in my hand was a hard and cold validation of her existence.
There was nothing left for me to do except walk away with the memories. So I resumed my day. I went to the restaurant where I temporarily worked as the in-house musician until I solved a case. The entire day, she dominated my thoughts. My love songs sounded more loving and my guitar became to a greater extent melodic, something four years of music lessons could not do. The gold hairpin remained safely in my pocket.
At the end of the tiring day, I went home with sore finger tips and a hoarse voice. I lived with my mother in the house where I was born. The formerly sky blue paint has now been reduced to a grey matte coloration, chipping from the walls exposing the gravel and cement that went into making it. Damp humid air filled the room with a musty odour. Civilisations of mildew that thrived in the house contributed to the smell. The house was a two-bedroom apartment with a privy and a kitchen attached. In the crowded city of Mumbai, such a home was a luxury.
My room was as simple as it gets. Being a man of simple needs I didn't need many luxuries. A rickety metal cot with a sorry excuse for a mattress, an old television set that predated the invention of the remote control, a wooden wardrobe where I kept everything that I owned, a dust covered guitar amplifier with wires strewn about like snakes in heat and two guitars mounted on the wall.
The other wall was covered end to end with old books that belonged to my deceased father. A collection of books on forensics and techniques of observation and deduction. He was the reason why I wanted to become a detective. His death was also the reason I decided not to follow his path and try my hand at being a private investigator.
On the third side was a window dressed up in cheap floral curtains that occasionally offered refuge to hiding mosquitoes, while on the last side was my bed.
I dropped onto the bed. It bounced back like a bucking bronco. There I lay for how long I don't recollect, thinking about my entire day: particularly about her.
Finally, I had time to see the memento that she left behind. I observed it closely for the first time. It was about three inches long and golden. The craftsmanship of this tiny metal piece was genuinely astounding.
At the centre was a thin gold rod of a hexangular cross-section. Around this rod, gold creepers were spiralled, with tiny detailed leaves on it. It had a tiny translucent ruby bulb at the end with some silvery vapour swirling inside of it. The vapours inside were in the state of constant movement.
The creepers on closer inspection had some sort of inscription on it, a language that resembled the Brahmi script found on the Edicts of King Ashoka found at Nalla Sopara. It appeared expensive. Something not everyone would own.
She also bore the appearance and grace of somebody who comes from wealth. So it wasn't too strange for her to possess something of such value. It could have been a family heirloom, I assumed. Perhaps I could determine the family name or their history if I could bring the inscription to a translator of ancient texts. I wanted some way to get hold of her and trying to decrypt this inscription was my way of grasping at straws. I took a piece of paper and a pen. Reading the inscriptions, I cautiously drew the symbols on the paper as accurately as possible to take it to someone who could tell me more about it.
What was about to happen was something I would have never imagined. I finished writing the text and held the paper up to get a better look at it. Somehow the blue ink with which I had written was purple at present. As I wondered why this happened its colour changed to red. The writing on the paper started to glow and within a matter of seconds it started to smoulder. Next it began spewing smoke and burst aflame. I tossed the paper as far from me as I could and stepped rearward in fright as I watched the paper reducing to ashes in front of my own conscious and sober eyes.
The ashes crumbled further into a fine powder and were blown off by the currents of wind in my room. There were no traces of the paper left. Merely the emotionally shaken remains of what was once a brave person were left in the room. It took me a while to allow my fluttering heart settle down. When I did regain my composure, I realised I am wholly unharmed. The conflict between my courage and dread ended with courage prevailing. Perched upon my cot once again I took the pin in my hands again and gave it another whirl. Took another piece of paper and wrote the symbols down again. In haste I placed it on my floor, away from anything combustible.
I stood there mentally prepared to see the same reaction take place. I waited and I waited some more, but nothing seemed to happen this time. I sat on the flooring and held the pin in my hands and compared the inscriptions against what I had written (not so meticulously) this time. One character/ symbol was missing. I squeezed that symbol in the space that it was supposed to be in.
Like clockwork the ink began to glow, smoke started to bellow and within a matter of seconds, no trace of the paper was left.
I spent my entire night toying around with that pin (after I took the smoke detector's batteries out). I tried the text out in different sizes, orientation and combination. My conclusion was, so long as the alphabets were written in the correct sequence it would light on fire. It didn't matter what size it was written in, or in which direction. To confirm this, I wrote one character at a time on random spots on both sides on the paper. It still burned as I had expected.
The girl and the search for her had taken a back seat to the budding pyromaniac inside of me. What had erstwhile left me speechless out of shock, at present kept me arouse. I burned paper, card, plastic, foil, cloth, and anything else I could do without.
At about 4 am, I finally decided to call it a night and sleep. I looked forward to the coming day, something that I felt after a long time.