Every evening, on his way home, Pestonjee took a circuitous route—a detour at Apollo Bunder. In the monsoon months, the waves lashed against the stone walls of the promenade. Just when he assumed that the sea had exhausted her strength, a twenty-foot wave would emerge and drench him from head to toe and then return to the sea with his umbrella. The sea had been taking his umbrella since he was a child. How many umbrellas? Leaving behind a drenched boy underneath a dark grey sky. What did she do with them? Did they become antennas that drew lightning from the sky? His black umbrella was whisked away. He felt lighter. The sky was full of silver linings. At times, the lightning would create a path from the clouds to the sea—a passage between the two worlds. If he jumped at the right time, he could make it through. That required luck. Once someone saw a man jump and a lightning strike at the same time. The clouds, in their infinite layers, were lit. A bright passage opened—a gateway to heaven—and the man passed through. He had been walking on this promenade since he was a child. Ever since then, these thoughts. It was as if the sea had crept behind him like an old witch and had inhabited him. It was as if this place was the only permanent fixture in his life. To return to his immutable self, he only had to turn up. The sea had often called out to him, but he resisted, one umbrella at a time. Perhaps, the sea did not call him with her full heart and soul. He had turned up religiously during the most perilous of nights. All it amounted to was that one time when a wave had knocked him out for a few minutes. He held on to the iron railing. That year’s quota was over and he was not in it. Twenty-two swept away to sea and one miraculous survivor who was back on his feet within hours of being whisked into the unsettled waters like an umbrella. This afternoon, at twelve, it was dark. The clouds knocked against each other. The sky and the sea were the same shade of grey. Lightning and thunder followed each other incessantly  . an hour ago, the sea was twenty metres below street level, now only five. The clouds were on the ground and none of the boats were visible. Two strong lights appeared over the horizon. They were probably from the big liners that were always anchored at a good distance from the coast. Dusk was several hours away.

~

‘Pesi, please don’t say these things. You know my family. They have high expectations of us. My great-grandfather fought against the East India Company. Where would we be without him?’ Persis continued.

‘Where would we be? Really! Ha! He threw a dead rat inside a carriage—Ratwala.’