Last night in Mumbai……….escape from the big shitty

busted my chops, as they say somewhere (it was a long time ago) to get this one to you by pub time on Sunday……but what can you do?

‘You shameless fuck’, I think to myself, having ordered a pot of tea at the Taj Mahal (Rs250) in surroundings so luxurious you have a choice…..you can slink away like a prairie dog after the lions have made their kill,…. or you can straighten your backbone and recall your headmaster saying ‘god helps those who helps themselves’ – or if you come from California – ‘fake it till you make it’. Like you belong there………

To think that some people actually live like this – the paint is even, the light fixtues, which work, are level, the coving, coping, architrave, skirting board and ancilliary fittings are level, clean, ship-shape and Bristol fashion. The carpets are fresh and the rooms are so big you can’t see the walls. Corn in Egypt!

Its my last night in Mumbai, the kung fu silks are in the laundry and I’ve made the right choices – after a suprisingly trauma-free train ticket buying sojourn to Victoria terminus window 52……..a nice pot of English breakfast at the Taj…..i gots me a (fake) New York gangstah at 11 o’clock trying to get thru to ‘me bitches’ or ‘ma homeboys’ styling hisself out as a DJ and Rachmaninov in the background is painting a picture exceedingly surreal. I’m at a window seat in the ‘Sea Lounge’ overlooking what must be the the South East view….but its 2am so all I can see in the window is the reflection of a cowboy hat that doesn’t really belong here, that they think belongs to a filmstar – because the 1st episode of ‘Mohne Rana Dey’ has aired – and a customer at cafe Mondegar recognized me (its him off the telly!). The maitre D said the 2nd pot would be on him…..which recalls to mind a guy that Putney Jock, Leicester Bob and myself met in a pub round the back of the Barbican (know all the hotspots,me!) – claimed he set up the helicopter ambulance service for Devon and Cornwall – ‘Its not what a man is,’ says he, ‘its what a man appears to be’……

There’s a jack-up rig lying a mile offshore in the harbour – I clocked it when I 1st revisited the ‘Gateway to India’ (currently a refurbishing botchjob) – and I’m going to have to find out why – it could be there’s no mystery – might just be lying offshore waiting for its next exploratory lease-job, in the nearest available water. It transpires they’re just fishing, if you know what i mean – if they find oil here in significant deposits, its going to change the geopolitical dynamics faster than you can you say ‘……oh hello, China on my doorstep’. But thats a picture for another time…..the ‘down wit dat’ muthas have split, which leaves me as the sole customer in a dining room the size of Texas…..and I’ve just ordered me up a pack of marlboro light @ Rs169 – my streetside camel lite cost me 75…..but its 3:30am – whadjagonnado?

Some of you know full well that I’m the kind of guy who knows how to behave…..so I affirm and re-affirm with Ritesh (nightshift chief Cahuna and don’t you forget it) that I’m not depriving him of sleep….shit it must cost them more just to keep the lights on….and hunker down for my 3rd pot of tea – think I’ll stretch them a bit and ask for Earl Grey – but given that even the ceiling tiles in the bogs are made of marble – I dont think they’ll break sweat!

I set the alarms on my (now functioning) mobile, because between now and …..bout 12 hours, i have to work out if i can half-inch an ashtray from the SBX sports bar for *****n, and remain Karma-free…….they are pleasing to the eye, even if only because you can’t see the seam and unless one is an engineer or lathe-master, you cannot work out how they are made. Those of you who know the Hong Kong Joe Bananas beach towel story know it cant be done – its right up there with killing the guy whose wife you stole – if it aint yours, dont take it. (here endeth the lesson)……

Anyway – I’m going to run, and not to Mohenjdro Daro – I’m going South….its not mission unaccomplished (way too early for that) and no wheels have fallen off – there’s no ‘blood in my shoes’ – but the Monsoon, after weeks of giving us a mere glimpse of stocking, has moved in like Kali on a saturation bombing run, and the filming has dried up accordingly. (ooh, nice juxtaposition)……

It’s 5am and I’m sort of not really on my way home because I don’t want to go to bed – so I’m crouching down at the side of the causeway studying the labored breathing of a rat that is bleeding from the mouth. Its tail is bent and bloody – but its not dying of a broken tail. My diagnosis captain, is he got clipped on the tail by a taxi or somesuch which flipped him up against the wheel at speed, with lethal consequentiality. I look around for something hard enough, like scrap plywood maybe. This is the side of an Indian street – thats not such a longshot! – all I find (strange to relate) is half the cardboard from a cigarette carton. Tough break, kid! I give it a gentle sideways prod in a kerbside direction as it eyes me, maybe thinking why cant this fuck leave me to die in peace? – it cant even hobble, I’m thinking its legs are broke as well. I wonder briefly just how unpleasant the sound and feel of squashing a rat will be, given only cardboard and my shitkickers between me and the micro-horror beneath. On reflection, shoulda kicked him into the middle of the road, let some random traffic deliver the coup de grace (yes, it is always DELIVERED, there is no other way). I didn’t. Maybe they have endorphins too. They don’t do mercy killing here – just like Arsedog1 (all in good time!) – must be something the Buddha said – and as we know – he was a fat bastard!

Wizened old fucker asks me ‘eey maan – yoo wan taxi?’ – tell him I’ve got nowhere to go (!) – but i’m in a playful mood (dying rats an all) so I ask him his name: aapke naam blaah, clocking his sunglasses on the dashboard. ‘They call me Sammy Davis Junior’…….apparently he’s famous round these here parts, and well he should be – because he’s been driving a taxi in Mumbai for 41 years ( ’67, i think) – shitteth thee not. Imagine that!….. stick my head out of the window like a dog that has regained its sight and off we charge at at 15 kph – thats as fast as she goes! We take chai from a stand at the side of Victoria terminus (train station). It rains. We tour all over South Colaba, Sammy pointing out the architectural nodes of colonial decrepitude…..there was nowhere to pee at the chai stand, so we stop at a rubbish tip for me to siphon off…..in the absence of smell-o-vision, can only describe the stench as crippling. I fell sideways – and thats just as well.

Enough! Sayonara Sammy, home, tip, crash, up, bag packed, settle up. Negotiate for the ashtray at SBX – get it for free. Midday beer at Mondegar – ask them to say goodbye to Huxley for me – the manager: good english, firm handshake – likeable fellah!……to Leopolds – order spring rolls to take away, scrambled eggs for now. back to Volga 2, pick up the bag – ask where’s my kung fu silks? – they call the dhobi wallah – they’re on their way. They arrive – hot and damp. Bless ‘em. Back to Leo’s – stuff the spring rolls into the sportsbag, wolf down the eggs, press the flesh with the waiters and wave goodbye to manager Thompson – shoulder the bag, head the hat, hail the cab. Do not miss the train.

Through the subway, find the platform. Take a breath;…take a picture – of the sportsbag sitting on the platform next to the door to carriage 3a. Get on the train, find the bunk, stow the bag. Mission accomplished.

The spring rolls are still hot……………………………….but hey! – we are not the amateur what once we was!

‘this is where the rubber meets the road!’