It Happened On Navroze

The Parsis celebrated Navroze on Wednesday 19th August this year. Till a few years back,  I was quite oblivious of this festival, until I wrote a story which fleetingly had its mention. Then, I had done a bit of research to incorporate in the narrative. In Delhi, where Parsis are less than a handful, one never learns of this festival. Here, in Bombay, it is quite well celebrated, and we observe a holiday. Anyways, getting a mid-week off is always a welcome manna.

On this auspicious day, I embarked on the second phase of my Holy Grail’s quest – buying a record player. Having failed to find a good (and reasonably priced) three-speed player, I have finally settled to buy a Denon two-speed one, and had also learnt that the only shop that I could purchase it from is at Atria Mall, Worli – quite a distance from my residence (and a major reason for the damning procrastination). In between, I had bought a stand-alone Philips player, from a used-goods seller, but the sound quality turned out to be woefully pathetic, and I just packed it up, hoping to return it for whatever price I get to the same seller.

Before going to the shop on second floor, I parked the car at Atria Mall, and hailed a cab to check the shops at Heera Panna Shopping Center (near Haji Ali Dargah). I had heard much about it, but never could get time to pay a visit. The airconditioned market is a veritable maze of closely packed little shops selling electronics and leather goods and other trivia. In essence, it is much like Delhi’s underground Palika Bazaar – similar to the extent that both markets are known for their ‘gray market’ stuff, and were hugely popular in India’s pre-liberalizaton era. I walked the market’s criss-cross alleys taking in multifarious sights and smells, but I could discover nothing that held my interest.

On returning to the Mall, adrelanin gushing in my veins, I double-climbed the escalators, and nearly ran through the polished corridor to that corner shop…only to be greeted by a grim closed door. My heart sank. Frustration overwhelmed. Disappointment settled into my core like drying cement.

The opposite shopkeeper helpfully explained, ‘It’s closed only for today’; but his platitude hardly helped. I offered a weak smile, and trudged back, without any mood left to do any window shopping.

As soon as I reached my car in the basement parking, another shock awaited me.

A pale yellow lizard sat contentedly, perched atop the roof, its neck straining menacingly outward. I searched around for any object to shoo it away, even though I realized even this small act would be, in effect, a huge bravado act on my part. I abhor reptiles. And lizards more so, since they can be encountered with pretty easy regularity.

I desperately looked around for help. A doorway led to some sort of a store-room. I peeked in. Seeing nothing that could help, I spoke to a dour man, probably a chauffer, standing there.

“Ay chpkl h gdi kpr” I mumbled, nervously eyeing the animal on my car’s rooftop over the driver’s side. To my dismay, my voice sounded like worn out pipe emitting extremely unintelligible gurgles.

The man looked back blankly.

“Is there any newspaper or broom with which I can remove that thing off my car!” This time my voice was sharper, carrying an anxious pitch, and I spoke all this in Hindi. Finally the person moved and peeped towards the car. Hearing my voice, another person also came along.

“Arre, chhipkali hai, hawa se udd jaayegi” the second person dismissed my big concern with a casual non-chalance . What the hell! It’s a lizard, not some damn bird! The first man also sort of echoed something similar.

“Par andar kaise jaaoon?” I almost screamed.

“Aap hi ghus ke car bahaar nikalo” the second person advised the first man.

And I felt like hitting them both before doing anything to the offending creature, who sat coolly on the roof, without a care or concern. “Whether I enter or he, anyways the door will open, and the lizard is bound to scram inside the car!” I exploded, my voice several notches higher, and jumping in nervousness. Even as I said this, the thought of driving in an enclosed vehicle with a lizard inside, sent a shiver rippling down my spine.

They both eyed me, as if viewing some crazy comedy show, but mercifully understood my intense plight, and began clapping and making noise to divert the animal away.

“Is it gone?” I croaked, craning my neck to be sure that it had jumped off.

“No” they said, in unision, and I could feel my heart plummet into my heels once more. “Par aap andar jaao, ab woh aage hai, aur khidki mat kholna. Hawa se gir jaayegi!”

I wasn’t convinced. But had no choice left.

With a minimal crack through which I could squeeze my bulky self (why wasn’t I slimmer, I moaned) I entered, only to look up and find the reptile’s strangely pale underside out on passenger side window. The two men clapped and shoo-ed some more, till it disappeared out of view.

Khidki mat kholna, the advise echoed in my brain, like a flash-back voice-over in some Hindi film, but to my dismay another immediate thought burst forth- I had to open the window to pay for parking ticket. Why hadn’t I thought of this before sitting! Should I jump the barrier? Too messy!

Hitting the accelerator I drove as fast as I could in the constricted basement, praying that the lizard be thrown off by the sheer speed. At the payment counter, I opened a sliver that barely allowed the exchange of coupon and money, simultaneously eyeing all four sides. The counter lady gave a curious look.

All the way, I kept the accelerator savagely pressed, and the speedometer barely dropped below 100 kmph. I cursed the car’s sturdiness, because I knew only if it shook hard enough would the effect be realized.

My route ran via the newly constructed Bandra-Worli Sea Link, and I despairingly hoped the sea-winds were rough enough to dislodge the beast off my car; though, inwardly, I knew it was a foolish thought. Lizards never fell off this way. Still, my eyes never left any of the windows, and I drove a wee bit recklessly, making the car shake as much as I could. But, where was the lizard?

At the Bandra end of the Sea Link, I again opened the window to a tiniest crack to allow the official to verify the two-way ticket receipt. My eyes busily fluttered & viewed all around. Where was the lizard?

If the day wasn’t already skidding into a rough patch, I almost banged into a cyclist at a crowded crossing. Not almost. I did bang into him. But since I was barely moving through the mass of cars and autorickshaws and pedestrians, he wasn’t hurt. But I think his cycle was. I gave a reconciliatory smile. Ideally, I might have alighted and offered help, or money. But two things prevented me – one, his belligerant attitude and cuss words (hell, it was an error, and he hadn’t been all that correct in suddenly swerving himself in front of my car, from the left side!) and two, but of course, the lizard. The fear of having it enter the car far exceeded the goodness of placating an angered cyclist.

I drove off, though the man tried to cling to the left-hand side mirror, and for a second I thought it would rip off. Once more, I eyed back. Where was the lizard?

The roads on this part were crowded. The car couldn’t yield beyond a measly 30 kmph. When I noticed a crow swooping over the boot, I understood where she had hidden herself; though, I wasn’t clear if the crow had managed to grab its prey. I wished so.

I stopped the car at another hi-fi shop (near my house), and rushed to the rear-end. Yes. There she was. Sitting casually. On the boot. Like a queen. Having enjoyed her ride from town to suburbs!!!