30 years on…

and I look at the woman in front of me. 30 years, a husband, two children, community work, part time business, and a few kilos. From young, coltish, soft spoken attractive to serene, confident, pragmatically gorgeous. Maybe, all of Bombay hasn’t gone daft, and her philosophical attitude weaving in and out of the greys of life make me believe it won’t be that hard to come back home. She gives me hope. The oldest friend I have in this city, who disappeared off our juvenile radars when she got married at 21. I think we have come full circle. I’d like to think so anyway. She’s a woman worth knowing, and she piques my curiosity. So many questions – about what she now believes and why, to know more about the woman she now is, her life… but a hesitation, that a 16 year hiatus brings, steals the words from my throat. Next time, I will ask… and I’m hoping there will be a next time.
Looking out at the foliage benignly shielding the swimming pool from curious eyes as I wait makes me realise that this is the first time that I’ve ever been to Shamiana during the day. 30 years in the city, exorbitantly endless cups of tea, an embarrassing familiarity with the menu, indecision on whether the old Shamiana was better, and this is the first time I’ve moved tables as delicious sunshiny warmth shimmered into the ability to change your skin tone despite a plate glass window.
It’s also the first time either of us has been to the Taj since that Wednesday. Her kids were here that night….but she won’t hide them away in fear. The sense of surreal clings to me as I wait at the barricade for a 4 man security detail to check the car before allowing me to proceed down a eerily deserted road. She looks the same, no sign of the trauma, the gutted sections neatly boarded up and painted white to blend with the rest. If I hadn’t known better… but the shift of my heart to my throat is involuntary, and I want to cry. I never imagined a day when that road would be devoid of anything. A metal detector, baggage x-ray machine complete the illusion that you’re really an attorney consulting at a maximum security prison…. then, you’re in the lobby. Like I was last year. And the year before. And every time I’m home. Fewer people. Hushed. The tree of life, a tribute to the 31 employees lost, being photographed by the curious, the respectful, the angry and the inspired. I hurt for those not on that list, apparently, to deny the terrorists the pleasure of gloating over of just how many lives they destroyed. A warped logic that strangely deflates my anger of the day before…. But it still doesn’t make it right.
The last time Sujata and I were at the Taj together, she was getting married. A generation ago. A shared city, shared hurt, disparate lives, another first; the first time we’ve dawdled over tea, cappuccino, waffles and lunch together at the Taj. Perhaps it’s time for new beginnings, for all of us.