Yes, well, it is that time of year and when you read of my adventures of the last two days, you will know and accept and understand why I am going on and on about them!
It rained and rained and rained (ad nauseum) all day yesterday, starting with some sporadic showers and building into a strong and persistent downpour that rattled the windows of the newspaper office that I call ‘home’ for much of the working day. So, harassed by my fond father and various well-meaning friends – mostly from Delhi, where it was hot, sunny and completely cloudless – I left for my real home early, hoping to beat the waterlogging by at least the proverbial whisker. But it was a scenario Canute would have understood. We left while it was still daylight, looming big black clouds notwithstanding, and gingerly nosed the car out of the main gate. Futility was a co-passenger; at the first junction where a choice had to be made, we found we didn’t have one – and had to go in the direction we had not chosen.
It deteriorated to farcical dimensions soon after. We got to the bottom of the bridge that we normally take to go home and found people, cars, dogs and soggy policemen wading around in three or four feet of very muddy, dirty water. “TURN AROUND!” I bellowed at my garrulous driver, Sharief, who had just restarted the story that he had stopped telling me on the way in to work. Startled at the confused traffic, conflicting reports from the passing populace and an amiable police-truck driver, apart from the astonishingly high volume of my normally dulcet voice, he zipped around, only to stall, nose first against the curb, sprawled across the narrow street. “You are stalled,” I told him with growing panic, and repeated it twice more before he shook himself out of his amazement and proceeded in his usual completely unflappable and super-competent manner.
Retracing our route for a bit, we took a diversion I had been on once before in a cab. It took us neatly and smoothly along towards home, lifting my spirits and cheering Sharief up enough for him to tell me a couple of silly jokes and start a new story about his past adventures. Then we bumped into some more rain and the party came to an abrupt and untimely stop. It was almost literally a wall of water pouring down upon our hapless little chariot, beating its relentless way over the hood, on the roof and against the windows. We inched halfway around a large circle, exchanging comments on rain and life in general and finally were diverted, along with a lot of other early-bird traffic, into a side street that led into territory that was, once upon a long ago time, familiar to me. More inching followed, and we slowly crept along, our progress hardly rakish, punctuated by plaintive whining music from my cellphone as friends, family and one-time train-cohorts called to check on our position.
That is where I saw Mumbai at its nicest. Policemen smiled and told me it was good that I had decided to head home early, and would I please take the left turn to get there faster. A municipal sweeper, bent and tired, smiled and waved his broom at me to show me where the water would be less deep. And the locals, out in force, soaking wet and cheerful, directed us through winding bylanes that were flooded knee-high and awash with leaves, broken tree limbs and broken rubber slippers.
Today was a rerun for Sharief, me and the car. This time, we got halfway into town, then turned tail and fled back home…or tried to. We got stuck in the same bylane, with the same fallen leaves and old garbage, but the water was higher and lapped alarmingly against the bottom of the car as we sloshed our way through. It took about three hours to get home. Tomorrow, we play chicken before we leave the house. Or else we get ourselves a big-wheel truck to commute in.
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