A Tale of Two Mumbais

Kabir dropped his office bag on the floor and sank down onto his luxurious couch, loosening his tie. The huge grandfather clock in the corner of his way-too-big-to-exist-in-Mumbai living room read 11:49 pm. He absentmindedly fingered the platinum cufflinks at the end of his shirt sleeve and let out a deep sigh as his mind constantly replayed the evening he had just had. All these weeks of non-stop work, sleepless nights, files and figures and phone calls.... all for nothing. All to be brought back to square one. He glanced at the huge gilded photo of his parents hanging up on the biggest wall in the room, his father’s face forever looking down on him, forever judging. If this was an 80s Bollywood movie, he’d get drunk on the top shelf whiskey from his bar and give photo-dad an earful, he thought wryly, almost laughing out loud, with the emotion quickly turning into another heavy sigh. Maybe I will have that whiskey, he thought to himself, and slowly made his way to the bar, shedding his suit jacket as he went. He poured himself a drink, a larger one than usual, definitely a larger one than his father would have approved of, and walked out onto the huge sea-facing balcony.

Every cliché about Mumbai was completely true; it was the city that never slept. Despite it being almost midnight, the street below was as loud and bustling as ever, the sounds of crashing waves drowned out by the horns of a dozen cars all zooming past, all with things to do, people to see. The lights of the famed Queen’s Necklace glittered and somewhere in the distance he could see fireworks. For a while he watched these, brilliant hues lighting up the inky sky, taking slow sips out of his glass. When the display finally ended, he drained his glass and resignedly went back inside, the closing balcony door bringing back the deathly quiet of his empty house, a quiet he still hadn't quite gotten used to.

He went through the motions of his nightly routine, a force of habit rather than actual care, and finally sank down in bed. Sleep was definitely elusive tonight, and he restlessly went on and off his phone, scrolling through his chats and finally landing on Priya’s. His finger hovered over the call button in the corner, his mind in turmoil. He finally shook his head sadly and deleted the chat entirely, suddenly exhausted. He fell into a sort of half slumber, dreams interspersed with semi-conscious thoughts, blurred visions of his father’s final words to him transforming into the silhouette of Priya walking away from him, too far from his grasp, away and away......

Mohan was deep in thought as he entered his kholi that night. Though not a very long walk from the sprawling penthouse Kabir lived in, Mohan’s tiny room in a common housing unit was as though in a whole other world. “Papa!” his two kids came running to him as he entered the small but clean dwelling, taking his shoes off at the door. “Arey, you didn’t sleep yet?” he said, hugging them as his wife approached as well, wiping her hands on the end of her sari. “They wouldn’t sleep without saying goodnight to their papa,” she told him, mock-scolding the kids and getting them to bed. The whole place was just one small room with a bed in the corner that they let their two boys share. Mohan and his wife slept on a mattress they would put out in the middle of the room every night and the bathroom was out in the hallway, to be shared between their family and another.

Mohan watched as his wife Sunita warmed up their dinner, a simple and satisfying meal of dal and rice. “I always tell you, you should eat without me. I get home so late,” he chastised her. She waved him away and then brought out the two plates. They sat on the floor and ate, and Sunita told him about her day; she worked as a house help for a couple different families nearby. She could tell Mohan was distracted though and joked, “what's wrong, dal too spicy?” Mohan smiled and told her it was perfect as always. He thought, as he often did, how lucky he was to have a wife like Sunita. He helped as much as he could, but she was the one who seemed to be able to do everything, raise their kids so well, keep their room so neat and cook delicious meals. He got up to put their plates away and she followed him, waiting for him to say what was bothering him.

“Its Kabir Sahab, Sunita,” he said with a sigh. “I'm worried about him.”

Here was where he and Sunita disagreed. “These big, rich sirs don't have problems Mohan,” she said disdainfully. “Certainly not problems we should concern ourselves with.”

“No Sunita. Kabir Sahab isn't like that. He doesn’t have anyone at all. And today he seemed so much sadder after I dropped him off home from the Taj....”

Sunita snorted. What did these 1%ers know about problems? With their fancy cars and swanky apartments, and more money than they knew what to do with, they didn’t have to worry about being able to feed their kids or get them a good education or even simple pleasures like watching a movie on a Sunday afternoon. “He had dinner at the Taj, I'm sure he’s doing fine Mohan,” was what she said to her husband, pulling out the mattress so they could lie down. Mohan checked on the kids and then joined her, helping her lay down the sheet and tucking it in. He lay down, glad to rest his legs after a long day. “But you know he has been through so much Sunita,” he continued as he watched his wife brush out her long hair and lie down beside him. “Ever since Ahuja Sahab passed away, he has been working non-stop. Priya Madam also stopped visiting him. He is all alone,” he mused. His wife said nothing. Mohan had been Kabir’s driver for a year now, and for five years before that Kabir’s father’s before his untimely passing. She knew Mohan held Kabir and his father in high regard but she was not as inclined to.

“Chalo, lets sleep now,” she finally said to the restless Mohan. “Kabir Sahab will be just fine, he has his millions to keep him company,” she added lightly. “Yes, but he doesn’t have a woman like you na meri jaan,” returned Mohan, pulling her close and making her laugh coyly. She shook her head at him and they both fell asleep shortly, their slumber a restful, peaceful one.

Mohan’s job with Kabir was not a very stressful one. He drove Kabir to and from work as he had done his father before him, and was on call all day to drive him wherever needed. The rest of the time, he had to himself to do as he pleased, as long as he was at Kabir’s side with the car within a few minutes of being summoned. The job often meant working late into the night and the occasional trip out of the city, but Mohan didn’t mind; he enjoyed Kabir’s company and was always paid extra for the extra hours.

Kabir Sahab seemed just as stressed today, pondered Mohan as he glanced at the bleary-eyed young man in the rearview mirror. “Sahab, aap thik ho? Is everything okay?” he inquired. Kabir gave a sad smile. “I'm fine Mohan. You tell me, how are Sunita and the kids?” he deftly changed the subject, and gladly, almost longingly listened as Mohan lit up and started telling him all the latest shenanigans his kids had been up to. Silly as it sounded, this was one of his favorite parts of the day, the one that felt the most familiar and normal, care-free. The ride to work wasn’t long enough though, and soon Kabir was through the gates and at the stylish glass doors of AhujaTech. He greeted the doorman as he entered, heart heavy, mind already spinning. Today was going to be rough.

When Mohan got a call from his Sahab to come pick him up from the office door that evening, he saw Kabir with a cigarette in his hand, unlit still, deep in thought. He stopped in front of him and rolled down the window. “Kabir Sahab, you smoke?” he asked, surprised. “A habit I kicked after my father caught me once when I was nineteen,” Kabir replied, rolling it between his fingers. He half expected a lecture from his clean-cut driver, but he couldn’t hide his surprise when Mohan said, “Sahab don’t light it yet, I know a better spot.”

He got into the car and looked out the window as Mohan drove him down a different street than usual. A few turns into side streets later, Mohan stopped the car and Kabir looked around in interest. Though the neighborhood was familiar, he had never been on this street. Mohan motioned for him to get down, and then pointed at a small tea stall on the opposite side. “Raju has the best tea in Bombay Sahab,” he told Kabir. “Have your cigarette with a cup.” Kabir followed him as he approached the stall and ordered two cups. Chai-sutta, literally meaning tea and cigarettes, was a long-standing Mumbai tradition, one Kabir hadn't participated in in maybe seven years. He smiled as he lit the cigarette, knowing it was bad for him and knowing he would stop again; but today, he’d give himself a break and have a cup of tea. Mohan passed him a glass when it was ready and he alternated between taking a sip and then taking a drag; ahh, the nostalgia. “Mohan, thank you for this, the tea is excellent,” he said warmly, smiling genuinely for the first time that day, or maybe that week. Mohan looked at his face and suddenly made up his mind. “Sahab, I have noticed you don’t seem yourself,” he said gently. “You can tell me if you have any problems. Ahuja Sahab was like a father to me and I know how hard it must be for you...” he trailed off, slightly embarrassed now, wondering if he had stepped out of line. Kabir was just staring at him, not quite knowing what to say or even what to feel. Every time someone mentioned his father, a wave of emotions hit him and it was a fresh wound all over again. The pain and anger, mixed with guilt and a huge sense of loss. “Uphold the values of our family and take care of the business. You are the last Ahuja. I don’t expect you to achieve much, but I expect you to at least try your hardest. Don’t be a disappointment.” A disappointment to whom dad? There was no one left. His mother had passed away when he was just a child and at the age of twenty-five, he found himself alone and in charge of a family business he never wanted to be a part of.

He shook himself out of his thoughts before the resentment and guilt truly kicked in and looked at Mohan. “Thank you, Mohan, but you don’t have to worry. Im okay.”

“Sahab, don’t mind, but I know you’re not. Today is Friday. Do you have any plans?”

Kabir was a little taken aback by this change of topic. “No, you can just drop me off at home,” he replied, as they walked back to the car.

Mohan hesitated but then decided to just do it. “Sahab, do you want to do something different tonight? I meet my friends for drinks every Friday, you can join us.”

As soon as he laid out this invitation, Mohan realized how stupid he sounded. Why would Kabir Sahab want to hang out with his buddies at a cheap bar when he could go to fancy places like the Taj and socialize with high-class people? This was too beneath his boss; trying to save Kabir from having to reject the idea kindly, he hurriedly said, “I don’t know what I was thinking Sahab, sorry. I will take you home.”

“No wait,” said Kabir. “Did you mean it? Will your friends be okay with it?”

Mohan couldn't believe it; was Kabir actually considering it? He tried to imagine Kabir in his usual haunt and failed. “Of course, they know all about you, it will be an honor,” was what he chose to say to Kabir instead.

As Mohan drove them towards the bar, Kabir was wondering what he was getting into. It had been a spur of the moment decision, a combination of not wanting to be alone and curiosity about the life of his driver. He was starting to have second thoughts now; no colleague or friend would hang out with their drivers like this. Not that he thought he was too good for it, but was this too weird? Too personal? Would Mohan’s friends and the bar patrons be okay with this?

He didn’t have much time to mull over this; Mohan was already pulling up to a seedy-looking place with cheap neon lights on the door. It was called Janta, which meant the people. Kabir looked at it skeptically, suddenly aware of how much his designer suit was going to stand out in there. He decided to ditch the jacket and tie and undo the top few buttons of shirt before they walked in, and cautiously followed Mohan through the door.

Loud, old-school Bollywood music blared inside, and it smelled like Chinese food and cigarette smoke. The place was full and there was loud laughter and singing coming from every table; Friday night had already begun. Someone called out Mohan’s name from the largest table right at the back and he raised a hand and made a be-right-there gesture. “You ready Sahab?” he inquired of Kabir, giving him a chance to back out still. But Kabir was ready and walked up with him to the table. “Arey Mohan finally, why so late today?” yelled out a guy when they approached. His eyes fell on Kabir then and he was silent. The others followed his gaze and suddenly Kabir wondered if this had been a huge mistake. “Hello everyone,” he said awkwardly. “This is Kabir Sahab guys, he is going to drink with us tonight,” announced Mohan, glaring at his friends, gesturing them not to say anything. Mohan’s friends were an affable lot; despite Kabir’s earlier reservations, they didn’t seem to care much that he was there, just curious as to why. But they took it in their stride as Mohan went around the table introducing them; Ram and Ajay were drivers like him, Hari was a security guard and Ashok was a plumber. They all worked in the same neighborhood and had built a solid friendship and Friday night drinks ritual in the last few years. Mohan looked forward to these nights where they could all blow off some steam and gossip about their bosses; tonight might be a little different.

If either Kabir or the guys felt uncomfortable at all, they didn’t let it show. Kabir let Mohan order for him and it was decided that it would have to be back to basics; Old Monk rum, India’s pride and joy, often called the national drink. It was cheap, strong and decent quality, the perfect drink for college kids and for when you don’t have much money to spend. “I haven't had this since I was seventeen,” said Kabir enthusiastically, eyes shining. “Sahab, don’t get too excited,” laughed Hari, well-aware of the acrid taste of the bitter liquid. “Please you guys, just call me Kabir, at least for tonight,”

The group exchanged glances, unwilling to drop the sir after Kabir’s name. Yes, they were drinking together but they weren't friends. Besides, Mohan would be back at work the next day. Kabir sensed their reluctance and didn’t insist. This was their world and he was happy to just leave his behind for the night.

Soon, the cheap was booze and the conversation was flowing, and Kabir found himself already developing a nice buzz, courtesy of the very strong rum and lack of food in his stomach. He was listening in on some of the conversations, not focusing fully, not participating. Ashok was talking about finding a nice girl and settling down, and his married friends were teasing him. Ram was making a lot of cliché, marriage-is-a-prison jokes and the others were laughing. Kabir, now drunk and unable to contain his emotions, burst out “You guys don’t know how lucky you are to have wives. Ashok has the right idea, get married, you need someone to love.” Kabir didn’t look around to see their reactions. His mind was now on Priya, on how she always smelled like vanilla and the tiny mole by her left eye and the little snort she did when she laughed too hard, the way her hand felt caressing his face and her body felt under his, the way she whispered his name softly when she wanted something...and how defeated she sounded when he refused to listen, the fights, the tears. “I can't do this anymore Kabir. I love you and I have tried so hard but you don’t want to change, you don’t want to try.” His refusal to stop working, to slow down, to process his father’s death, to forgive him. The guilt he carried for how resentful he still was towards his dead father. Resentful because he was handed this responsibility without asking, because he was left all alone, for all the times his father was too busy for him, for all the unsaid I love yous and im proud of yous. Priya had wanted him to see a therapist, but he outright refused. His father would have scoffed at that, laughed, called him weak. He had thrown himself into work, trying to learn a business he had no interest or aptitude in and was still trying to make a father who never cared proud. For what? He had failed; he had lost important deals, lost money and most importantly he had lost Priya. He could still hear his name on her lips when she said it last, holding onto it, Kabir....

“Kabir Sahab?” he was roused abruptly from the depressing movie in his head by Mohan. His friends had gone back to their drinks and jokes and Mohan was looking at him with concern. “Chalo, let's go outside, let's have a smoke,” he said, pulling Kabir up to his feet and gesturing to the group that they will be right back. Kabir stumbled out behind him, unsteady.

Once outside, Mohan lit himself a cigarette too. Kabir’s eyes widened. “Just sometimes Sahab,” said Mohan sheepishly. “Don't tell my wife”

Kabir laughed a little and put a finger to his lips before lighting his own cigarette.

“Kabir Sahab, I know this isn't my place, but I want to tell you something.”

“Go on.”

“I grew up in a small village in Maharashtra. My family was very poor when I was growing up and I knew I had to come to the big city if I wanted to make any money. My father was an alcoholic and would beat my mother up. I couldn’t bear to see her like that but there was nothing I could do. All I dreamed about every night was escaping and taking my mother with me.”

Kabir looked at him in stunned silence. Mohan had never told him this and he wasn’t sure why he was choosing tonight. All he knew was that he felt so deeply sad for him in this moment. There was a whole world out there that he knew nothing of, that he was sheltered from. Mohan was still talking.

“Unfortunately, my mother couldn’t survive the repeated attacks and one night she succumbed.”

A single tear rolled down Mohan’s cheek but his tone didn’t waver as he continued his story.

“My father was a powerful man in the village and everyone was scared of him. No one did anything and we had a quiet funeral. I knew his anger would turn to me soon enough and I ran away and came to Mumbai with the clothes on my back and 100 rupees in my pocket.”

Mohan went on to explain how he had met up with a distant cousin in the city who taught him how to drive and let him stay with him in a tiny room shared with three other men. He had found odd jobs while he learned how to drive, moving on to various driving jobs before finally being referred to Kabir’s father. He had met a nice girl and married her, had his two kids and was now making a decent enough wage to move into a bigger place in a year or two.

Kabir couldn’t believe the amount of struggle Mohan had faced. Next to him, his own problems felt almost petty; he had grown up with money and privilege and things had always come easy to him. This was a side of the city he knew existed but had never seen, or perhaps turned a blind eye to, too focused on the small problems of his privileged existence. He was sobered and humbled by Mohan’s speech.

“Mohan, I am so sorry, I never knew. I never even cared to ask. I am so sorry.” he said to his driver.

“Sahab, you’re getting me wrong,” said the fellow gently. “I’m not trying to make you feel guilty or show you that people have it worse. People have it much worse than me as well. I have a roof over my head and love in my life, I’m happy. All I am trying to say is, it will get better.” He laid an arm gently on Kabir’s shoulder and gave him a smile.

Kabir was completely overwhelmed. Here was this guy, who had been through so much, consoling him. He impulsively pulled the man into a hug. “Sahab!” said Mohan in shock, pulling back.

“Mohan, thank you,” said Kabir emotionally. It was such a simple thing, perspective. He took out his phone and before he could overthink or chicken out, he texted Priya. “I’m sorry. I’m ready. Please meet me.” His heart lighter than it had been in months, he put an arm around Mohan and steered him back into the bar as the song playing proclaimed “Ae dil hai mushkil jeena yahaan, zara hatke zara bachke yeh hai Bombay meri jaan!” (Oh heart, it's tough to live here, be careful, this is Mumbai my love!)