We had missed the first half of the play. But it was alright. For once, I surprised myself by not getting all upset about being late. We sat outside, chatting pleasantly over coffee. We went in for the second half, which, like the first, was a set of monologues.
The first: the aspirations and lives of people from small towns who come to Bombay to make a living. (Now, when was the first time I heard of that one?) One small-towner joins an ad agency, the other becomes an assistant in film editing (lucky bastards, I say!); they get nostalgic about their small-town ways and lives; sentimental about how a city—this big one—with so many humans, can’t possibly have no humanity (that was profound, eh?); and then how their lives (read: marriage) fell apart, but the big city once again came to the rescue; how it is still quite alright really, this big-city life. (Of course, no mention of small-towners who spend the rest of their lives, and those of their children, sleeping on pavements, eating crumbs off them, and never quite moving beyond. But, of course, the audience does not want sob stories on a Saturday night; they must be assured that their lives are quite alright.)
The second: Zafar Karachiwala. I am not singling him out; I just recognize him from the days of Hip Hip Hurray, some 15-odd years ago. He plays a ‘junior artiste’ in films. (Now, that must be a novel idea at least?) The audience loved him. Especially every time he said “benchod”. It was quite amusing, not Karachiwala, but the audience, who still sniggers—like 15-year-olds who have overheard a profanity they should not have—at the mention of words that have, in real life, almost lost their potency with overuse.
The third: Rajit Kapoor as a seriously disgruntled flier, writing a much-aggrieved letter to Mr Richard ---son (I missed it, did he say Lawson, or actually Branson?) about the food he was served onboard. An original enough idea; an original enough execution; very good acting (caricature-ish), of course. Glad for it.
The fourth: A terrorist from Faridkot who is a bit dyslexic, and is prone to goof-ups while executing grand plans of terrorism. His family names its children after famous terrorists… Bush, Kasab, Nixon, Sobraj. (I am curious, very curious, about how many in the audience got the Nixon reference. They, of course, got all the Bigg Boss jokes and laughed loudly at them. Did they get the Faridkot bit either? Or Manesar?) I don’t know his name, but the actor was quite good, although the act wasn’t quite.
Acts over, actors take the bow on stage, and the audience—like every single audience in Bombay after every single play—stands up to clap. I always thought standing up to clap counts as a standing ovation. And standing ovations are too precious to be hurled by the fistful. But Bombay’s audience must be a very forgiving one, to find every play worthy of it. Or maybe it does not know much better. I would like to believe it’s the former.
Clapping over, we head for Carter Road. I am wondering if anything is open at 11.30 in the night. And, soon enough, I realize how appallingly wrong I am. There is a traffic snarl, with people and vehicles jostling for right of way. We have waffles—surprisingly good ones, actually, from a small, crowded shop. The young fellow behind the counter is hassled and harried, but polite and efficient; the couple of others manning the shop are a little clueless about how to go about the whole waffle-making business; they are confused, nervous, and are holding up the queue. Customers complain because they are made to wait. A couple of shops away, a store is being painted. The shutter is pulled down to a little more than a foot from the ground, but paint fumes come out in plumes. People complain a little more.
It’s a little suffocating. Not the paint. But the midnight strutting of feathers: women “check out” each other—top to toe; who is wearing what, and how; men in bright, coloured pants, and equally bright contrasting moccasins, lean against cars (not their own), with carefully lazy glances around them, preening. I remember why I had forgotten what Carter Road is like at midnight on Saturday: I remember why I had not been there for years.
I wonder. Those guys behind the waffle counter, where are they from? Which small-town? Did they even know what waffles are, or maple syrup, before they got this job? And those guys painting that shop in the middle of the night? Where are they from? Where do they sleep? When do they sleep? None of them will ever get a job in an ad agency or as a film editing assistant. And their marriage falling apart will not be the worst thing to happen to them.
But dahling, it’s Saturday night! I would like my waffles with extra cinnamon on them. You see, when I was last in England, that’s how I had them.
