A friend and I are walking back home after a late dinner in Juhu. The weather is beautiful. There are few people on the road, and hardly any traffic. All of a sudden, my friend begins singing, “Tinka tinka/ zarra zarra/ hai roshni se/jaise bhara/ har dil mein armaan hote tau hain/ bas koi samjhe zara.”
The song is from a Priyanka Chopra film, way before her Quantico days. I join in. One song flows into another, and then some. This is no Antakshari, just a medley of Bollywood hits - from the sublime to the raunchy, and the outrightly bizarre.
We have just begun to sing ‘Kajrare kajraare tere kaare kaare naine’, and we realise that we are walking past Amitabh Bachchan’s house. “Let us reduce our volume. Aradhya must be sleeping,” says my thoughtful friend. I will not blame you if you don’t follow Bachchan on Twitter. Aradhya is his granddaughter.
***
The phone rings in the middle of my sleep. In my incoherent morning voice, I say, “Hello! It’s just 8. Why are you waking me up?” My cousin from Bhopal has an emergency to discuss. She is a young school teacher who became one because she thought it would be easy.
“I have given my students some grammar homework but I don’t know some of the answers. Please help me. What article should be used before ‘Europe’ - ‘a’, ‘an’, or ‘the’?” I wonder if she is joking, or if I am dreaming. I ask her to repeat, and buy some time to get myself together. She does want the answer.
“None,” I say. “Europe is a place.” She goes on. “Why do we say the United States of America? That means you can put ‘the’ before a country but not before a continent. Right?” This is turning out to be a mini-lesson, and I haven’t even had my green tea with a hint of honey.
“Not really. We don’t put ‘the’ before ‘India’. English has different rules for different countries,” I tell her. Now she asks me, “Okay. Tell me something. The United States of America and just America - they are the same thing, aren’t they?” My Mexican friends would have loved this one. “Actually not. There’s North America, and there’s South America. The United States of America is a country within a continent.”
The matter is settled. My cousin promises to buy an atlas. I offer to have a weekly chat about grammar. And my quilt is too comfortable to get out of.
Many who say they are going to visit the shrine do not move past the juice centre
Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of Haji Ali. You really must stop declaring your love for A R Rahman now.
Remember Fiza? Yes, the one that had you spellbound by Sushmita Sen in ‘Mehboob mere/ Mehboob mere/ Teri aankhon se mujhe peene de/ Kuchh dard hai tere seene mein/ Mujhe mast mahaul mein jeene de.’ (My beloved/ My beloved/ Let me drink from your eyes/ The pain in your heart/ Let me thrive on this ecstasy).
Well, that movie had another beautiful song. And this one was shot at the Haji Ali dargah in Mumbai. I am here with friends from Delhi, Shillong and Bangalore. They were keen on the visit. I am not sure if this is what they had expected. The glamour of Nizamuddin is missing here. No qawwals. No foreign tourists. No photographers. Only silence, beggars, and families enjoying the sea breeze.
Herein lies the charm, perhaps. Or in the fresh fruit cream that we relish outside Haji Ali Juice Centre. Here is a little secret: Many who say they are going to visit the shrine do not move past the juice centre. Everyone is seeking their own heaven.
***
Call it the curse of the namesake. I introduce myself at an art gallery in South Mumbai. “Oh, you aren’t the other Chintan, right?” asks the lady who owns the gallery. I am stunned by the laughter that follows. Her reference is to artist Chintan Upadhyay who was recently arrested in connection with the murder of his wife Hema. “What’s the latest? Do you know what is happening? It was quite a shock,” she says. I am the one recovering from shock. I don’t have the skills to split myself into two bodies, or the genius to take on the same name.
My mother is making masala dosa, so I have been sent off to buy some batter. The shopkeeper here is busy lighting incense sticks before framed pictures of Jesus Christ and Mother Mary. I come to this shop often but haven’t been here since Christmas.
I offer belated wishes but he looks a bit embarrassed. He says, “Main Hindu hoon. Maalik Christian hain. Lekin haan, baat aapki sahi hai. Waise tau sab ek hi hai.” (I am Hindu. My boss is Christian. But yes, you are right. Eventually, we are all the same.)
I have a feeling that the dosa might taste more delicious today.
Chintan Girish Modi is a Mumbai-based writer. That he shares his last name with a Prime Minister is purely a matter of coincidence. He tweets at @chintan_connect
