The rush and the quiet
After the call with Rahul we roll the windows open to drive away the heat hoarding inside the car. Sara peeks out into the street, breathing the hot air again. We left the airport, traffic flows orderly on the broad lanes of the highway, lined with palm trees. The city approaches slowly. Beyond the overpass, at a safe distance, we see the mirrored peaks of skyscrapers, a hill with an indistinct patch of shacks.
It’s when we descend the ramp to exit the highway that the gargantuan and chaotic mass assaults us, the horns erupt with the heat and the smoke from the exhausts through the open windows and the nostrils, vehicles and pedestrians shuffle, try to slip into any space, the division of the lanes stops making sense. The picture, though still strange enough to excite and exasperate me, is no longer unknown, and at first it’s not so much what’s around me that captures my attention, but the eyes debuting in the show. The mayhem cannot be unexpected, we’re just missing the proverbial cow on the road, and yet, just as the hook of a heavyweight crashing down, previous conversations, photos, videos, can do little to help sustain the impact of reality. It’s impossible to repeat a first impression, now I look for it on Sara’s face, I tune in to capture all her reactions to the whirlwind of cars, motorcycles, tuk-tuks that squeeze and crush in a wild dispute, buses and lorries painted in gaudy colors, floral motifs, bold letters on the back that invite you to honk (HORN OK PLEASE), the horns that always roar, from the hoarsest to the shrillest, bicycles, wheelbarrows pulled by street vendors, people sneaking between the vehicles or dozing in the central dividers, immune to the anxious cacophony, to the sooty roads and walls, radiating heat, dust and smoke.
Without three quarters of the world’s population, as Rahul just said, more than twice of Portugal’s population is concentrated here. There’s an inherent violence in a mass of people compressed in so little space, a formless and incomprehensible mass that, even while encouraging us to discover its intricacies, carries the threat of obliteration in its impersonal, disproportionate mechanisms, a danger that exhausts us and sharpens our senses with the constant need to be alert. It’s the first test, Sara’s gaze, lively and awake, leaps everywhere. Sadhna is decoding for her.
“What is that?”
“It’s a street food vendor, I can’t see what he’s selling.”
Sara is delighted: “Mmmm, I’m going to be so happy!”
“You can’t eat everything you see on the street, you can get sick. But don’t worry, I’ll take you to the best places.”
“And what are all those people doing?” A crowd gathers under a large banner with a photograph.
“They are Buddhists. They also celebrate a festival today. That’s their guru, Ambedkar.”
Sara points to a doorway between two walls, formed by a canvas with photographs of several men. “Are they all gurus?”
“No, those are politicians. That’s the venue for a Navratri event, like the one we’re going to. Navratri is a Hindu celebration.”
“But their faces are everywhere!”
“The parties sponsor many events. That hand is the symbol of the Congress Party, you’ll see some of the BJP with lotus flowers and Modi’s face, and other parties too. Do you know Narendra Modi, our prime minister?”
After many stops and starts we enter a quiet suburb. There are fewer cars and they use their horns less. The lush trees breaking through the spaces not taken by cement and tar don’t allow the gaze to wander too far, for a moment it’s possible to forget that we are in Mumbai. We stop in front of a building similar to the others. The iron bars on the windows and doors remind me of Maputo, I’m sure Sara notices them, but there’s no time to compare our impressions. Sadhna opens a door to let us through and the family is already there to welcome us, the father, the sister, the mother, a handshake, another handshake, and with the lady her body language tells us it would be too intimate, we mimic her nod, bringing the palms of our hands together at chest height.
In the living room Sadhna’s father unstacks three white plastic chairs. The sister takes the initiative, “Please sit down. How was the trip? Do you want something to eat? Chai?” The women disappear into the kitchen and the father sit next to us, very pleasant and polite. He speaks enough English to let us understand his pleasure in receiving us and the curiosity he has for our country. He’s surprised that English is not our native language.
The room is nearly devoid of furniture, white walls, stone floors, stacked plastic chairs, a desk, daily newspapers on a small glass-topped table against the wall, a cabinet with the television and the telephone, covered with a cloth, as I remember seeing in the homes of older people, who still treat the machines with awe and reverence. Underneath the television is a showcase full of knickknacks on display. Sara can’t resist, she gets up, looks in Sadhna’s father’s eyes for permission, which he grants with a broadening smile under his gray mustache, and she peeks at the collection behind the glass: medals, dolls, photographs, religious images… She compares one photograph with the full-length portrait, life-size, that occupies a corner of the room. It’s the same man, a guru so famous that even I recognize him by his thick rounded hair, Sai Baba smiles at us in his orange holy-man robes.
Sadhna returns with two smoking glasses. Her sister is behind with a plate full of sweets, she pulls the glass table towards us and tells Sara to stay seated when she tries to get up to help. Perplexed with so much care, Sara takes the glass by the edge so as not to burn her fingers. The blow makes the cream crust ripple, bringing a sweet and fragrant scent of spices.
Sadhna’s sister extends her hands to Sara: “You have such beautiful hands! Can I see them?” After a moment of confusion, Sara rests the fingers on her palms, the skin pale and dull compared to Sadhna’s sister’s, the color of chai. “So small and white.” Sara looks at her, looks at her hands, not knowing what to say. Sadhna’s sister smiles and shakes her head sideways. “OK thanks.” She releases it gently and disappears back into the kitchen in a hurry.
Her father adjusts his glasses and opens the newspaper. He reports the local news to us, which Sadhna helps to translate. From the kitchen comes the smell of more food. Sadhna’s sister returns with two stainless steel plates. She points to the round white cakes, to the red sauce and the white one. “Idli, sambar, coconut chutney”.
Her father’s eyes shine seeing our appetite. “Do you like?”
“Yes, very much!” replies Sara. “And you? You don’t eat?”
“No, no.”
Sara turns to Sadhna. “And your mother, she’s not coming? We can wait.”
“No, please eat.”
Without asking, the sister piles more idlis on our plates and now comes with the sambar pot. Calm and complacent, Sadhna lets her take care of the reception, intervening only when she thinks her sister is insisting too much.
“I think they’ve had enough already,” she says to her at last. And for us: “You must be tired. I will show you your room. You can shower and rest before we meet Rahul.”
Perpetual Motion is a serial novel. Go to the Table of Contents to read previous posts.
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