The Vanquisher of Obstacles--Chapter One

Swami

Bombay, 1958

I climb down the narrow iron ladder onto the dusty platform. The ends of my toes touch the ground. I flinch. Aiyoh! I curl my toes into my slippers. It’s not yet eight in the morning and the sun has already scorched the gray asbestos-roofed railway platform of Dadar station in Bombay to a white-hot.

A wave of heat along with a stench of sweat and drying urine envelops me. Men and women leap off trains, yelling at each other, herding numerous children, while expertly collecting their bags and negotiating with pushy porters. I look up. A huge banner hangs across the platform, torn in places, its bright lemon yellow faded in parts. But large letters in black, ‘Welcome To Bombay,’ stand out cheerful and welcoming.

Here I am at last--a twenty-two year old engineer. A penniless but capable, no--brilliant young fellow, eager to unfurl the rest of his life with his own strong hands, eager to set the streets ablaze with the fire of his ambition. Eager to—“Swami this train will go to the car shed soon, we don’t have much time,” my brother Gopal says in a harried voice. He and our bags are some distance from the train door, waiting in line to get off. The more efficient passengers are already walking away from the station in quick business-like strides, while Gopal and I struggle to get our bags out of the train and on to the platform.

Vendors shout their wares from stalls covered with red and green striped awnings. Peddlers balance trays of sweets and savories on one hand and chase away flies with the other as they make their way through the crowd.

Men in light gray half-shirts and shorts with matching oval Gandhi caps stand in stalls hawking lemonade and fizzy drinks, clanking bottle openers along rows of dark green bottles and calling out in sing song voices to attract customers. An emaciated girl of about eight and a slightly older boy, flexible and slim as a rubber band, are performing tricks. The boy is doing handstands and cartwheels while the girl is clapping and singing songs in a sad nasal voice. A large handkerchief spread in front of the girl is dotted with coins.

People here seemed to exude raw energy. Their faces bear a look of determination, their quick feet move as if they are gliding on wheels. And though hot and humid, this thick Bombay air seems to carry an electric charge, a sizzle of anticipation.

Hmm…what is that delicious smell? I turn to look for the source of the aroma--freshly fried garlicky potato buns, surely. A stocky bowlegged young man walks by carrying a basketful. My empty stomach twists itself into a tight knot, as if attempting to get a glimpse of the delicious snack I am compelled to let pass. I try to stifle the pain with a firmly placed arm over my stomach when a huffing porter in an oversized faded red shirt and loose, bedraggled white pants comes out of nowhere.

“I take to taxi? Only two rupees sahib sir.” He rubs away at his prickly gray head with one hand and scratches an armpit with another. I shake my head no with some violence. He pushes me out of his way and tries to pick up one of our trunks. His eyes gesture for me to help as he adjusts a red rag on his head. When I won’t assist him in placing it on his head, he picks it up and with a grunt settles it on his shoulder. Then he starts to grapple with me for another piece of luggage.

Gopal jumps off the train and opens his arms wide. “Ah…Bombay!”

The porter is still tugging away at my arm.

“Where have you been? Get…get…rid of this--” I wrench a large bag out of the porter’s clutches.

“I was looking for our thermos,” Gopal says. “Someone must have pinched it.” He pushes the porter away. “Jao, jao go away.” The porter puts our trunk down. He folds his hands from the tips of his fingers to his elbows, bows and touches Gopal’s feet and pleads for the work, claiming a wife and six or seven mouths to feed. Then apparently realizing that we are truly disinterested in his services, he kicks our bags and leaves cussing loudly in Hindi. Gopal makes to run after him but I catch his arm. “Idiot,” Gopal says. “You have to be firm with this lot.” He scratches his chin, looks at our bags. “Hmm…we could take a local train to Matunga but its rush hour. There won’t be enough time to get in with all this. Lets take a bus, that way you can see the city too.” We are close to the exit when he stops. “Wait here, I need to check the departure time for the Calcutta Express for one of my roommates.” Gopal walks up to a display board.

I stand away from the crowds in front of a fruit juice stall decorated with pyramids of limes, oranges and pineapples.

“Look at this one,” a soft female voice says in English. Is she talking about me? I present my profile in its best angle with nose tilted up and chin cocked, pretend to look at some movie posters.

“Bit thin but nice height--look at his curls--and those huge brown-black eyes? Mummy is after me to make up my mind about two boys--the horoscopes match perfectly, she says. But one’s hairy belly aches to spill out of his shirt, and the other smells like he hasn’t seen the inside of a bathroom in months. I can just see him rubbing his smelly, unwashed thing against me on our wedding night. Ah, my darling…he’ll pant and I’ll just vomit on him.’ Her friend lets out a low chuckle. “Why can’t she find me someone like that?”

I turn slightly to get a glimpse of the face that goes with the voice. Bright eyes, pretty nose. Not bad, not bad at all. I send them a smile. The women quickly hide their faces behind books.

Gopal returns. “What are you looking so pleased about man?”

I glance at the girls. Gopal shakes his head.

We take our luggage to a bus stop flanked by garbage bins and stalls selling everything from t-shirts and saris to fresh sugar cane juice and small electronics. A long line of taxis is enticingly close, with the drivers leaning against their vehicles, some digging their noses, others smoking beedis cheap unfiltered cigarettes. Strains of music coming from the taxis and the myriad shops and stalls blend into a raucous garble where we stand. Not far from the taxis is a line of horse carts painted with a hodgepodge of images of gods and goddesses in exuberant colors, some compassionate, others fearsome.

We wait for half an hour in a snaking line of tired-looking men and women. I try holding my breath against the smell of rotting food but give up after a while. Thankfully, a near-empty dusty red bus arrives and several people get on. I look at Gopal. Not this one, he mouths. The line has now melted into a cluster of impatient people waiting for another set of wheels to approach the stop.

One soon arrives, tilting precariously to one side with people hanging out the door. Before it can come to a full halt, a few jump off. The bus doesn’t look like it has any intention of taking more passengers and continues to move. People around me let out loud, angry groans. A tall man approaches our bus stop, lifts his arm, and brings it down to the ground as if prostrating in front of the bus.

“What is he doing?” I say.

“He works for the state transport department--that’s their signal for the bus to stop.” Gopal leans forward, as if preparing to run a race.

The bus stops for but an instant, and the state transport employee lifts himself into it. Gopal bulldozes himself into the bus right behind him and asks me to hand him one piece of luggage after another. He fields the colorful curses being hurled at us from the others wanting to get in, as well as the bus conductor’s dire warnings, with placatory words and excuses.

We settle ourselves in the now-blocked entrance once Gopal has generously let the driver go on his way. The people left outside continue to shout and hammer the sides of the bus with fists.

Gopal breaks into a triumphant smile and while buying our tickets from the bus conductor starts to commiserate with him about the deplorable working conditions of state transport employees. The conductor is quickly mollified. Maneuvering the giant steering wheel with his entire upper body, the slight but expert driver navigates the narrow, congested streets of Dadar, making sharp turns and narrowly missing many a pedestrian, hardly ever worrying the brakes. To my relief we soon hit a major thoroughfare. A cool breeze blows in through the windows and everyone begins to look relaxed. Gopal finds an empty seat and pounces. “Take the window.” He lets me slide past him.

I now have an unrestricted view of my new world.

Majestic Victorian buildings flank both sides of the wide road. In front of them, Gul Mohar trees emerge from the ground like giant bouquets of flowers with their narrow trunks and wide-spread branches sprinkled with fiery orange red flowers and fern like leaves, Tall bushes of bougainvillea dot the dusty earth here and there calling attention to their rich purples and pinks.

Schoolgirls and boys walk along the wide footpaths, dressed in uniforms of blues, reds and browns. The girls toss their pigtails, laugh, skip. The boys throw friendly punches and swing colorful water bottles above their heads. Weaving around them trying to get ahead are the more world-weary briefcase-carrying businessmen. Women in beautifully draped saris walk at a languid pace, laughing, talking.

Gopal stretches across me and sticks his neck slightly out of the window. He lets the breeze hit him full on his face.

The bus stops at a red light. A respectable looking man wearing a crumpled shirt and sweat stains around his armpits looks up at me. His forehead is creased, his expression restive. He sends me a small knowing smile. Does he see transparent ambition bubbling on my face, I wonder? I turn away from his piercing stare.

Will I be standing under the hot sun someday looking a little like this man? Is my quest for a path to prosperity doomed before I even start?

The bus moves forward and I feel myself jerk back towards the seat.

With a relieved sigh, I close my eyes.