Short stories on Bombay: Part 1

It was a day like any other. Arvind Singh sat on the parapet wall, watching the waves crash below. The waters swelled and receded in an unending cycle. He kept an eye out for the big wave, that would come rolling along every so often. It would break the mighty stone barrier and drench some unsuspecting soul. Arvind couldn't afford to get drenched, his camera was too precious. One mistake and his livelihood would be in jeopardy. Things were already bad enough for him to deal with the expense of buying a new camera. His last camera, the beautiful black Nikon had been stolen last December. He hadn't even finished paying off the loan for it. Oh, how shiny and pretty it was! Kids would squeal with excitement when they saw him approaching, tugging at their parents' sleeves, begging them to let him take a picture. He could ask for as much money as he wanted, the parents couldn't refuse for long. The fathers would try to bargain, while the mothers quickly fixed their hair. But he wouldn't budge. 100 rupees it was, take it or leave it. Of course they would take it, their children wouldn't have it any other way. He would sure that someone's evil eye had fallen upon it. A camera that was envied by all the photographers wouldn't last long until someone cursed him for owning it. Arvind's other eye kept a lookout for prospective customers. Even after all these years, he was quick enough on his toes to beat the other photographers to an awe-struck tourist staring with gaping eyes at the Gateway of India. But no matter how quick he was, none of the photographers were any match for these new digital cameras. These wretched inventions had ruined his business. So small yet so powerful, any idiot could take reasonable photographs. As if that wasn't bad enough, the rest of them had cameras in their cellphones! How was a man supposed to make a living when such dastardly inventions could be bought by anyone with a couple of thousand-rupee notes to spare? People didn't value the steady hand and keen eye of a professional photographer anymore. Nor did they care for the thrill of seeing the photo appear out of nowhere when he skillfully waved the polaroid paper in the salty breeze. People seemed to prefer the grainy, shaky image taken with an amateur camera to his masterpieces.

Arvind was shaken out of his loathing when he saw a jackpot: A large Muslim family emerged out of an Omni van. The yellow-and-black number plate suggested that it was a tourist vehicle, which meant that the family was probably out of town. His hunch was confirmed by the awe-struck expressions on their faces when they saw the Gateway. “First time in Bombay, sir?”, Arvind said loudly to the patriarch, while walking at a brisk pace towards him. The head of the family was a harrowed man of about fifty, with a flowing white beard. His kurta flapped about in the wind as he fumbled around his pocket for loose change to pay the taxi driver with. Meanwhile, the five children had already started running about the promenade, startling the pigeons out of their peaceful cooing-and-eating grains routine. There were two women in black burkhas lined with beautiful patterns in gold-embroidery. They seemed more concerned with covering their faces than with making sure that the children didn't get too close to the parapet wall. The father finished paying the taxi-wallah, and bellowed first at the children for running around like that, and then at his wives for letting them. He shoed Arvind away with a flick of his wrist, and lazily walked towards the sea wall. Arvind was no newcomer to this wave, he hadn't been working as a photographer for sixteen years for nothing. He shifted his attention to the children, shouting “Smile, beta! I'm going to take a picture of you! My, you look like a little Abhishek Bachchan in that outfit!” It didn't take long for the children to lose interest in the pigeons. They were screaming at the top of their shrill voices, “Abbajaan! Humey photo leni hai! We want to have a picture taken!” The old man looked grudgingly at Arvind, as if to admit that Arvind knew where to strike a blow. He asked with a gruff, “Kitna?” Arvind smiled, showcasing all his paan-stained teeth, and said, “One hundred rupees only, sir! Don't take if you don't like.” The old man raised his eyebrows and replied, “Pagal samjha hai kya? Dus rupiya doonga.” Arvind simply continued grinning, and said, “Oh sir, if I started taking pictures for ten rupees each, I'll have to take one of myself and print it in the obituary section of the newspaper. I'll starve at that price.” The old man didn't seem to care. He held two of his children firmly by the wrists and started walking away, ignoring their tantrums. Arvind quickly followed him. “Okay, special offer for you sir, specially for your special children. Praise Allah that they are so beautiful. My camera will be blessed to take pictures of these little angels. Give me fifty rupees and we'll call it a deal.” The old man let go of his children, who darted towards the pigeons, making them fly away in panic once again. He said, “For fifty rupees, you will take one of the whole family, and one of myself with my pretty wives. Chalega?” Arvind nodded in resignation, while thinking to himself, “Pretty wives my ass. Good thing they're not sightseeing in Ranibaug, people might think the baby elephants have escaped.” He lined up the old man and his wives, then got the childre to kneel in front. He hoped they would stay still, so that he wouldn't have to waste his precious polaroid paper on imprefect photographs. With the Gateway in the background, he pressed the button. With a whirring sound, the paper rolled out of the camera, to which the children yelped in delight. He shook the photo expertly, and then smiled as the children went “Oooh!” as the picture magically appeared. The whole family crowded around to see the photograph, and the old man smiled with a 'I can't believe I still look so handsome' look in his eyes. Arvind rolled his eyes and said, “Now just you and the pretty ladies, sir.” The old man replied, “It's okay, I like how you have made me seem so good-looking in this picture. Take the full fifty.” He thrust a crumpled note into Arvind's hand, grabbed the photograph and put it carefully in the pocket of his kurta. As he started walking towards the Gateway, more vendors approached him, selling everything from boiled peanuts to postcards of the Taj Mahal Hotel. Arvind looked up towards the towering hotel, smiled, touched the note to his forehead, and muttered to himself, “Boni.”