Mumbaistan (21 page)

Today, Dharavi seemed to be almost a different country. The roads, although crowded, had at least the minimal level of organization required to make them drivable. Not that one could drive very deep into Dharavi's womb. Raghu finally had to park his SUV at one point to proceed further into the teeming maw. Samir stepped out of the SUV, feeling lost. Raghu sensed his confusion, but didn't say anything. He let Samir walk through the gullies, looking here and there, at the signboards and at the never-ending stream of passers-by. Finally, Samir turned to Raghu and asked, 'Fortune Leather Factory?' Raghu's heartbeat thumped as he heard those words said out loud. He reached out for Samir's wrist, and led him by the hand through a narrow dirt-encrusted lane. The muck and slush on the ground made Samir slip a couple of times, but he regained his balance to keep walking. Raghu quickened his pace and Samir stumbled on behind him.

The narrow path now led into a large, open area. Raghu stopped. Gesturing towards a plastic recycling unit, Raghu said, 'That is where it stood.'

A cloud passed over Samir's face. 'I don't remember much,' he said in a cracked voice. He broke away from Raghu and walked a few steps around the open area, his eyes scanning the place, as if trying to match the surroundings to a faded photograph hidden in his memory. But he drew a blank—till he passed a paan shop. The middle-aged paanwala with a lush moustache, who was folding the paans, glanced at Samir as he walked past and kept his gaze on him as he walked around the area. Samir retraced his steps and neared the paan shop again. He locked eyes with the paanwala. A spark of recognition flashed on the paanwala's face. 'Samir bhaiya... aap?' he gasped.

All of a sudden, Samir's legs gave way, and he fell on the ground. The paanwala dropped the paan he was folding and leapt towards him. He managed to grab Samir in his arms and break his fall. He propped up Samir on a seat in his paan shop.

Raghu watched the goings-on intently. He was about to help Samir too, when his mobile phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID and cursed under his breath. It was the Mumbai City president of the ruling party. Raghu had no alternative but to take the call.

The voice on the other side was flat and emotionless.
'Kai zhalla, Raghu bhai?
Have you decided not to join our party?'

'No, Pachphute saheb, nothing like that. Just some personal work...' Raghu quickly replied.

'I know...you have been saying that to all my people since this morning, but please tell me the exact nature of this "personal" work,' Panchphute cut in. Raghu sighed. He realized that Panchphute could not be brushed off easily. Summoning all his creativity, Raghu began spinning a long yarn.

Meanwhile, at the paan shop, Radheshyam, the paanwala, overjoyed by Samir's appearance, hugged him again and again. A slightly dazed Samir did not stop him. Radheshyam began to apologize profusely for not being able to help him 'that night'. Samir got a grip on himself to begin a line of questioning.

'Tell me what happened that night,' he got straight to the point.

'Unfortunately, I was not here and you...you...were killed,' the paanwala stuttered. 'I'm sorry...that is what we were led to believe.' Radheshyam's face reddened.

Samir gave him a gentle smile. 'Yes, I was dead for almost twenty years. But now, I am alive and I want to know what happened.'

Radheshyam's face grew grim. 'A mob burnt down your factory, Samir bhaiya. It was believed that you were killed too...burnt alive...along with the seven others that night.'

'But who did it? Do you know?'

'They said Selvaraj did it. But I never believed that story. It was a mob. A crazed Hindu mob.'

'But why?' Samir continued to probe.

'Hindu versus Muslim riots. It was new then, but it's quite common nowadays.'

'But I am a Hindu.' Samir was confused. Radheshyam replied. 'I know, Samir bhaiya, but the mob was not local. And then...your workers were all Muslims...and apparently, somebody told them that your name was Samir Khan.'

Samir recoiled at this piece of information.

'Who?' he hissed. Radheshyam was nonplussed. 'No one knows. They never caught anyone from that mob.'

A frustrated sigh escaped Samir's lips. 'Did I live somewhere...here?' he asked.

Radheshyam looked at him in surprise. 'You didn't live here, Samir bhaiyya, you are a seth, your house is in Bandra... Sherly Village. I remember I had come to your house once to take a loan... You don't remember?'

Samir looked apologetic. 'No, unfortunately I don't. All I remember is that it's Bahaar...my wife's birthday today. Can you help me find my home? Find my wife?' Radheshyam looked at Samir's face for a long while.

'Come with me,' he said at last. He led Samir into his matchbox-sized paan shop. At the back of the shop, a door led into what looked like a small house. The house opened into a large back veranda bordering a thin, snaking lane. A surly-faced young man was cleaning a brand new motorcycle in the veranda. Radheshyam snapped his finger at the man. 'Mantu, go sit in the shop for a couple of hours'

Mantu opened his mouth to protest, but held back when he saw that his father was clearly in no mood for an argument. He tossed the cleaning cloth and turned to go into the shop.

Aye, Mantuwa, give me the keys,' Radheshyam called out. Mantu reluctantly handed the motorcycle keys to Radheshyam.

'Chaliye, Samir bhaiyya!' Radheshyam smiled at Samir. He started the motorcycle and gestured to Samir to take the pillion seat. Samir hesitated for only a fraction of a second, then got on. Off they went, swerving crazily away from the veranda, down the snaking path, into a labyrinth of gullies between the huts.

Meanwhile, Raghu had finished his long yarn. To his chagrin, Pachphute had not believed any of it. 'Raghu bhai, now that you are done with this filmy story, please tell me what is actually going on?'

Raghu realized that he should come clean. 'Okay. If you want the truth, I have finally found the man who holds the key to my father's death.'

There was a long silence on Panchphute's end. 'I hope you will not get involved in any criminal activity. Otherwise...' But by this time, Raghu had ceased to listen. His attention had now diverted to Radheshyam's paan shop. To his shock, he noticed that both Samir and Radheshyam had disappeared. In their place was a morose young man. Raghu sprinted towards the shop.

'Where is Samir?' he asked, breathless with the effort.

'Samir who?' asked Mantu.

'The man with the paanwala, who was just here?'

Mantu now lost interest in the conversation and began to apply chuna on a paan leaf. Raghu realized that his line of questioning would not get him any results. He took a deep breath and, with all his might, delivered a hard slap on Mantu's cheek. Mantu spun with the force of the blow, nearly falling off his seat.

'Where is he?' Raghu repeated, gritting his teeth.

The slap did the trick. 'He...he... left with my father on my motorcycle for...I don't know where...' a dazed Mantu replied.

Raghu realized that there was no time to be lost. He took out his mobile punched it to speaker phone mode, and handed it to Mantu. 'Dial your father's number.'

Mantu did as he was told, but all he got was an automated message that the number was unreachable.

Mantu shrank a little into the paan shop. 'Mobile phone signals are weak in Dharavi, saab.'

'Which direction did they go in?' Raghu asked.

The slap still ringing in his ears made Mantu extremely helpful. 'They were going up the gully from the back of our house and could be headed anywhere. But they have to anyway cross the Mahim level crossing. If you hurry, saab, you can catch them there, it's a long wait over there.'

Raghu grabbed Mantu's shirt and with one hard tug, pulled him out of the shop. Dragging Mantu along with him, Raghu ran in the direction of his SUV. 'If you are lying to me, you will be under the next train that passes along the tracks at the level crossing,' he snarled as he made his way through the slush-filled path.

Raghu reached his SUV in record time, considering that he had to contend with a slippery road and a reluctant companion who kept losing his footing every couple of steps. He pushed Mantu into the passenger seat and wove his SUV through the crowded streets, in the direction of the Mahim level crossing.

The vehicle was forced to come to a standstill at quite some distance from the level crossing itself, as a large number of vehicles were lined up on the road, waiting for the barrier to be raised. Raghu abandoned his SUV right in the middle of the traffic and, with a tearful Mantu in tow, ran between the parked vehicles, making his way towards the railway barrier. In the crush of traffic a short distance ahead of them, Raghu spotted two men on a motorcycle close to the crossing bar. The pillon rider was undoubtedly Samir in his distinguishable hospital attire. Raghu increased his pace. He took out his cell phone and re-dialled the number that had been keyed in by Mantu, but the signal was still weak. He quickened his pace further, but at that very moment, the signal turned green and the barrier was raised. The traffic sprang back to life again, pouring across the railway tracks to the other side. Raghu now literally dragged Mantu at full speed towards the motorcycle. The gap between them narrowed, till an impatient deliveryman with a hathgaadi blocked his way. Raghu tried to vault over the handcart in a desperate attempt to stop the motorcycle before it disappeared from sight, but his foot got jammed in the wheel and he fell headlong on the cart. Mantu's shirt ripped in two and slipped out of Raghu's grasp. Mantu ran back through the traffic before his captor could grab him again.

Raghu examined his injured foot. Luckily, it was only twisted, not broken. He hopped on one foot and tried to continue his chase, but realized that the motorbike carrying Samir had disappeared from sight.

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For Samir, the journey from Dharavi to Bandra was like travelling from a world steeped in sludge to another that seemed to have been transplanted from some first-world country. All around him, tall glass and concrete buildings were sprouting towards the sky, tearing upwards through dilapidated, older structures. The sleek unrecognizable landscape bore a mute testimony to the fact that Samir had been away for a long, long time.

Radheshyam now looked over his shoulder for the first time since they had started off on this journey.
'Bhaiya, Sherly Village aa gaya.'

Samir glanced all around him and was even more taken aback. He had hoped that upon reaching Sherly Village, the sights and sounds would jog his memory further, but all he could see around him was...change.

Sherly Village in Bandra West is a curious mix of old-world charm and concrete jungle ugliness. The tall buildings are always under construction, and most of the small cottages, peeping through these concrete monsters, are continuously taking their last breath.

Radheshyam stopped the motorcycle in a by-lane off the main Sherly Rajan Road. He gestured at a modern, seven-storied building. 'Gladioli Apartments', a large board announced in elegant ornate letters. 'This building is where your house once was, Samir bhaiya,' he said. Samir looked at the building. He then searched the surroundings, hoping against hope that something would spark off a memory Yet, nothing seemed familiar. His eyes rested on the names that were emblazoned on the gates of the other buildings around: 'White Rose Apartments', 'Sweet Mary', 'Charlotte Villa'. Nothing seemed to jog his memory. He would have continued to stare at the surroundings if it hadn't been for the sharp voice that called out to them, 'Please, no loitering near our building. There have been too many robberies recently, please go from here,' said a shrill voice.

Samir looked up at Gladioli Apartments. It was an old East Indian Catholic lady who was sitting on the first-floor balcony of the building. Before Samir could react, Radheshyam shouted: 'Do we look like chors to you, madam? This is Mr Samir Khanna, this building...the bungalow, which was here before the building, belonged to him... We are just here...'

But he stopped mid-sentence when the old lady rose from her seat in the balcony and shouted, 'Samir! Samir Khanna is dead. Who are you people?' Not content, she now shouted even more loudly, 'Watchman! Watchman!'

A world-weary man in a shabby uniform shuffled up to the gate and enquired, 'What is the matter?'

But Samir was in no mood to answer him, as his attention was now fully focused on the old lady. He shouted out to her, 'Please, madam, did you know me...I mean, Samir Khanna?'

The old lady was silent, looking thoughtful. The watchman advanced towards Samir and Radheshyam, 'Bhaisaheb, I don't care who both of you are, please go from here. These people don't want to speak to your types'

'Our types? What do you mean our types, haan?' Radheshyam was now parking the bike, gearing up for a full-blooded fight, but Samir stopped him. 'No violence. Let us go from here.' He turned to Radheshyam and signalled to him to get on the bike.

Suddenly, the old lady called out, 'Please, gentlemen, can you come a little closer? My eyesight is bad nowadays.'

Radheshyam shot back, 'For what? So that you can insult us some more and get us beaten up by your watchdog?'

The old lady shook her head. 'No, no I want a closer look at this man.' She pointed to Samir. 'Your voice sounds familiar,' she said to him.

Samir quickly walked past the watchman into the gate and stood directly beneath the balcony staring up at her. 'Can you see me better now?'

She looked at his face, then took in a sharp breath. 'Samir... Is it really you? I'm not sure. Your hair is all grey?'

Samir smiled, relieved. 'Yes, it is me. Thank God you remember... Uh...I am sorry, I don't remember your name.'

The old lady broke into a crinkled smile, 'Gladys...Gladys Andrade.. .your landlady. Don't you remember?'

Samir shrugged sheepishly. The old lady smiled. 'Aunty Gladys will tell you everything, please come up.'

She called out to the watchman, 'Please show them the way up.'

Radheshyam, who had been watching the exchange between Gladys and Samir, butted in: 'Samir bhaiya, do you need me, or should I go back to Dharavi...to my types,' he sneered at the watchman, who saluted in apology.