as storage space for water; brimming idly—

Bombay’s perpetual water shortage; the taps

dry for most of the day, the flush

not working. Then going out. Our walks

by turns quarrelsome, silent, jocular,

amidst the crowds that jostled before the Taj, where on other

days I’d sit in the Sea Lounge, listening

to the piano; now pressing past balloon sellers

and pushers, to whom he claimed he was immune

in my company. My father retired, and later

my parents moved from this city; they sold

their lovely post-retirement flat in St. Cyril Road

in Bandra. And Suresh kept “slipping” and going

back to smack. “An addict can smell out drugs anywhere

he is,” he boasted. Britannia Biscuits

had changed, as things do, been touched by scandal, in a tussle

for power between two share-buying players,

a textile tycoon, Nusli Wadia, Jinnah’s

grandson, and a Singaporean cashew prince, ending

in the latter’s arrest and his death in prison.

“Take me out of here,” said Suresh, meaning “Colaba.”

When we come to Bombay these days—my wife,

myself, and our infant daughter—we stay

in either the Yacht or WIAA Club or

are put up for a few nights at the President Hotel

—this five-star orphanage or dharamshala—

when my book readings beckon. We go to see Suresh

in his room in Colaba, or he comes to see us;

he’s still shy with my wife, and would rather speak with me,

but makes dramatic attempts to win over my daughter.

He’s going bald. Since I’ve no home in this city,

we stop for lunch and wonton soup

at the Bombay Gymkhana, whose verandah is the only

place I can put down this mewling, regurgitating

baby on a wicker chair. People

around us are eating; the curious mix

of children from Cathedral School and lawyers

and managers and society ladies and poets

like Imtiaz Dharker, and editors of newspapers.

Not infrequently, I run into

old school friends or acquaintances

like Anurang Jain, one of the twins,

Anurang and Tarang, who now lives in

Aurangabad, a businessman,

or Anant Balani, film producer,

still awaiting his big success,

or Saran, who always says “Hello”

although I didn’t know him very well in school.

It’s odd how the bullies have calmed down, how

the slimes and duds and good guys have

alike transformed into gentlemen,

or moderate successes, or ordinary

executives. There’s Shireen—who was

in my class before I was transferred

to B, both of us teased pitilessly

because she lived on the floor below me in

Il Palazzo. Her father, an irascible

cardiologist, practised the violin furiously

for relaxation. My friends burst into “Knock three

times on the ceiling if you want me”

whenever they saw her to embarrass me.

The first flush of that shame’s over. She’s

a solicitor, and looks assured. “Amit,”

brown hair around her freckled face, “I read about you