Kala Ghoda in the monsoon induces the sappiest kind of nostalgia. First, there’s no art plaza in the rains. No pretty watercolours, no dancing Dagdus, no friendly painters sitting around on folding chairs. The Wayside Inn closed down long ago; there’s a Chinese restaurant in its place. And now we read that Samovar might go, too.
I’m at the Jehangir to meet a friend from Powai at the Osian preview. More nostalgia. Pink-cheeked Sivaji Ganesan. Fabulous Dilip Kumar. And oh, Rajnikanth. He strides purposefully towards me in not one but five panels, his arms akimbo, his hair blow-dried back just so. And there’s that look in his eyes: the angry South Indian man. Woo hoo.
And now I’m mooning over Raj and Nargis: Aag, Awara, Shree 420, Chori Chori. Their faces in profile, their tragic expressions, their straight noses. Sigh. And now, The Bachchan. Amitabh and Rekha in Silsila. Amitabh and Dharmendra in Sholay. Amitabh and Rajesh Khanna in Anand. Amitabh in Kala Patthar, with black stuff on his face. Amitabh in Don. Amitabh everywhere. AB. Baby.
More. Pather Panchali: Apu’s wide-eyed gaze, Harihar’s anguished eyes. A stage set with Javanese Golaks. Dhinchak Hunterwali, ethereal Devika Rani, soulful Mughal-e-Azam. Tamil posters for Woodward’s Gripe Water.
And then the icons. Ramakrishna Paramahamsa, the "Pagol Thakur". Netaji’s faraway gaze. Gandhi emerging from a train. His slender form, his bright smile. His funeral procession walking towards Rajghat. It’s suddenly all too much. You’re almost in tears.
On the stereo, mournful songs of tedious courtships. Worshipful film students and impatient young journalists, taking notes, whispering into cellphones, tsking, rolling their eyes. An old man standing silently before the poster of Nutan in Bandini. An older man standing before one of Devika Rani.
And so we end up at Samovar, sipping guava juice, thinking how wonderful it would be if nothing ever changed. If these little moneyplants inside rubber boots, hanging on the grill, were to remain the same. If the red paper lampshade above the blackboard were to throw light, eternally, on the specials of the day: guava juice, litchee juice, mango lassi, pakori jaljeera, kala khatta…If this paraphernalia on the table remained here forever, in exactly this sweet, cluttered, lovable arrangement: this red plastic ketchup bottle, the cane-wrapped glass holding paper napkins and straws, the aluminium ashtray, the bowls with green chutney and Samovar’s special salsa, and of course the tiny green ceramic basket with the yellow marigold inside it, its petals tight and crinkled and mysterious as the future.
Outside, old folks are still dozing in the balcony of the David Sassoon Library. A street dweller wearing a large trash bag like a shirt sits on the stainless steel bench and unfolds a newspaper. And around us, tourists are buying fake Ray-Bans to wrap around their faces, getting charcoal portraits made, having their names written on tiny grains of rice.
*****
(In the Mumbai Mirror, July 2005)
