Yeh kya ho raha hain..?

The sense of the surreal abates with the normalcy of the office. The new receptionist recognises my name, and its mere seconds before loud bear hugs disrupt an otherwise circumspect workplace. A heated discussion about the terrorist attacks and what we need to do sidetracks me from my mission, and my wonderment of the low numbers of death is scoffed. These are all ex-Taj employees, and reliable sources put the number of deaths closer to 550+ than the reported under 200. Why suppress this? None of us can come up with a remotely plausible theory. The discussion is upsetting. Almost as upsetting as watching Binny’s interview on TV.
Eventually, I’m plugged in and online, and hard at it, but I find time to beg Helen to procure a toasted sandwich from the rasta. Alas, the BMC has deemed it necessary to remove all hawkers from outside the office, so I have to rely on her assurances that a toasted veg. sandwich is still an obtainable dream. She lies, in spirit if not letter. A diffident knock interrupts my creative fiction; I have been bestowed celebrity status, as my sandwich is bought to me (a fact subsequently underlined, with heavily frowning brows, on the discovery). It’s just a regular toasted sandwich with veggies staring at me, but my disappointment transmogrifies into a Dali painting as I realise the plate is being set down by a gloved hand. Yes, a little man, in a puffin suit, clad in white cotton gloves. I have just been served a toasted sandwich, in the office, by a gloved butler. My shock prevents me from voicing my reluctant gratitude and I just nod weakly. White gloves??? Are the others in the office aware that there is a person walking around this city sporting white gloves and a license to buttle?
A joyful reunion with one of my bachhas before I venture into suburbia and the Sahara Star (ex-Centaur @ the Airport of dubious sale price fame). I amble through the foreboding gate to be waved towards an airline size x-ray machine which swallows my suddenly miniscule jhola, as I pass the metal detector test, absently wondering about the profusion of golf carts. My casual, ‘which way to the reception?’ is met with another waved hand (apparently speech is no longer attractive in the days of dire security) towards a golf cart. Surreal makes a triumphant return, as I try to look dignified bouncing around in the rear of a golf cart that follows the general rule of Mumbai traffic (just watch out for the guys in front of you, and let the guys behind worry about you). 90 seconds later, I’m deposited, sheepish expression et al at the reception.
I explore the exotic coffee shop, and am enraptured. One of the coolest spaces I’ve come across with its humongous open atrium, fish tank, lake like water feature and gorgeous cane furniture. I shun the offer of a table, and set up house in an oversize cane pod that would fetch a small fortune in Mumbai’s real estate market. 4 ½ hours, 6 cups of tea, a propensity of the chef to cut up your food for you, samosas disguised at dim sum, fake flowers on the balconies, silly revelations of life, lust and laughter, confusion about the symbol for men/women, an aborted trip to Manori, parasailing/gliding/ rock climbing/diving, a sickeningly sweet crepe, netball vs. handball, sprint vs. endurance, embarrassing moments (all mine!) and it’s time to move on. A pit stop in Dadar to hug Adil, 6 of Anahita’s fabulous sevpuris, an enjoyable if wholly inappropriate comment about my hips by the patriarch (if such a thing exists in a Bawa household), before my other bachha has me in splits with her ‘you’re so lucky, you live in the holy land’ moan. My eighth bawa of the day (that is 0.013% of that entire popuation!!), and I’m in their motherland! Is there no justice?
Equilibrium is restored when Havovi demands of the grinning security guard, the depth of Nes Wadia’s financial troubles if he has to charge Rs.50 for car parking! Lmao!! My UK residency for her utterly unspeakable inappropriateness!! None of us realise that Tuesday night is live at the Hard Rock, and I feel both middle aged and adolescent as the thumping beat reverberates through my ribcage. The band is superlative, conversation forsaken for nostalgia and the inept if enthusiastic table top YMCA shake about by the waiters at half time. Smoke on water, and the group dwindles to the hardcore, as Bade Miya awaits… 2 baida rotis, 1 chicken bhuna roll, 2 sheekh rolls, just sheek, 2 maazas and 1 bheja roll (told the waiter I’d just eat Baeta’s, which sent us off into hysterics that we never recovered from…!!). PNPC rules the roost as we decimate the offering on the bonnet (artfully propped to level with a soda bottle – if we had health and safety in our vocabulary, Bade Miya’s would have been shut down right after it opened!). Cheap. Familiar. Satisfying. Late nights that melt into early mornings. Friends. Some things never change.