Saturday, July 20, 2019
Bombay
The Saga Continues...Visits to Lawyer and Notary Public in Ranwar Village...and an Old Friend.
Namaste from Bombay!
This might be Freudian. I have so enjoyed living in this studio and am so loathe to leave it that I simply cannot bring myself to actually haul my suitcases from my balcony to my bed to begin packing! So it has been postponed for yet another day.
That said, my day was eventful---and, I think, productive.
I awoke to read my Twitter feed and have a phone conversation with Llew before I dowloaded the weekend edition of The Times of London and feasted my eyes on the gorgeous pictures that accompanied Donna Hay's recipes for ice-cream! An issue to be saved!
I did not have long to linger in bed, however, as I had an appointment with my lawyer friend Denzil at his office. I had my breakfast of muesli and coffee and set out, while much of Bandra was still snoozing, for an early morning saunter down St. Paul's Road, to his office. Along the way, I took a short cut through Ranwar Village which is one of the old Portuguese-style East Indian villages that have been around since the 1600s. With my phone I took a few pictures that I then uploaded to Twitter. Honestly, these corners with their Portuguese colonial legacy could be in Lapa or Gloria in Rio de Janeiro, on a section of the Baixa in Lisbon, in a tucked-away curve of a village in Goa--say Naicavaddo or Porvorim--or they could be right here on my own doorstep in Bandra where the architectural and cultural heritage of the Portuguese and its East Indian past can still be marveled at. There is a lovely chapel in beautiful condition that is sprucely maintained at the entrance of the village. And then one winds through narrow streets to get to two-storied bungalows with their staircases on the side (outside the building) rather than within (I wonder whether Renzo Piano who designed the Pompadour Center, now the Museum of Modern Art in Paris, got the idea from here!!!) Finally, you get to Ranwar Village Square where the streets are still cobbled, where there is a stone cross right in the center, where daily angelus and rosary are still recited by East Indian Catholics and where the old bungalows still stand (some in decrepit condition, others certainly proclaiming the current economic prosperity of their residents). How long they will survive the greedy onslaught of the Bandra builder remains to be seen as so many of these architectural gems have already given way to boxy high-rises.
Five minutes later, I was in Denzil's lovely air-conditioned office where he had my papers ready. All I had to do was sign and because he had another client following swiftly on my heels, we did not visit long. He gave me the address and directions to get to the home of the notary whose name was Norman and off I went to find it.
Chapel Road is another one of the Bandra East Indian strongholds that was once composed entirely of small bungalows that sat cheek by jowl. Over the years, the residents have sold them to builders or have neglected them so badly that they are now sorry eyesores. The bungalow in which this man lived was one such. My friend Marianel lives in another such East Indian heritage bungalow in the heart of Bombay's Girgaum in a place called Khotachiwadi. But while my friend's family looked after this glorious sprawling double-storied home with love and lavished time, energy, money and enthusiasm over it through the years so that it is a real showpiece and on the heritage list of protected structures and a stop on a walking tour for cruise passengers who then end up signing up for Afternoon Tea at her place, these were just decrepit little cottages that have clearly seen better days. Since their owners can no longer afford to look after them, it is little wonder that the builders are swooping in like vultures for the kill.
This man Norman looked as decrepit as his home. He was old and stooped, had a limp and the kind of face, voice and gait that would make Charles Dickens' place him directly in one of his novels. As for his home...well...we were seated in his living room that only had space for a huge curved desk, two cupboards that were groaning with items placed all the way to the ceiling on top of them, and big bags with handles that were full of all sorts of things that hung from hooks on the wall. It was as if all of New York's Bag Ladies had been invited to spend the night in this lodging. As for the desk, it was piled at least two feet high with stacks and sheaves of white legal papers tied with red tape--now you know where the term 'red tape' comes from, right? How anyone could actually find anything in that inglorious heap is completely beyond my understanding. How is it that lawyers everywhere in the worlds are rich fat cats but in India they languish in such unspeakable poverty?
Anyway...after he had scrutinized my three sheets of the affidavit really carefully and patiently, he put his signature and stamp on it and sent me on my way with a payment of Rs. 100--a good example of why they remain mired in near-penury. If only they would charge higher fees, they could possibly enjoy a better quality of life. Suffice it to say, that this quest for releasing my public provident fund from my bank had led me to paths untrodden--certainly paths I would not have trodden by choice. I am far more enlightened about so many things as a result of this quest. Needless to say, should my year in Bombay ever become a book (as my year in London is becoming), this saga will occupy an entire chapter in it.
With my papers all signed and sealed and ready to be delivered, I walked back home and actually passed by my bank. Were it open, I could have finished my job today...but the bank was closed and this chore shall have to wait until Monday.
Instead I went to Dad's place as he had called me to go over his reimbursement claim for his dental implants with him. When I got there I found that he was not in the mood to sit and do it at all as his lower back was aching with all the bending and cleaning he had undertaken following the end of the work on his bathroom and his chairs. Fever-wise, he was in the clear but he still felt inordinately weak and unable to get anything done. He was also worried as he kept saying he still had so much to do. I guess this is the bane of the home-owner. There is always something to do if one wants to keep one's home looking presentable--or else it would end up looking like the home from which I had just emerged!
I told Dad that we could postpone paper work on the reimbursement claim. Instead, I told him to rest and actually lie down as that was the best solution for a backache. He did as I suggested. Later in the day, he needed to get to his doctor but he insisted on going on his own when I volunteered to go with him. As for me, I asked Rohit for a damp rag and I looked at all the items that had been stripped off the bathroom shelves. I got rid of the old, empty, useless little containers of lotion, shampoo, conditioners, etc. and with the damp rag I cleaned the ones that would be returned to the shelves. I also asked Rohit to wash the Tupperware box that Dad and Russel use for their shaving tackle and the mug in which their brushes are kept. I have now instructed Rohit to do this on a regular basis--at least once a month.
I then left Dad's place and went straight to Jay, my photocopier, as I needed to get my passport, OCI card and this affidavit photocopied before I submitted it to the bank. That chore done, I walked home and as I was actually passing the building called Amber in which an old friend of mine resided, I decided to pay her a sick call.
My friend Ivy is probably in her 80s now. I know her for the past forty-five years, from the time when I used to teach Singing at St. Agnes' High School while still in my teens. She was a Grade VII Maths teacher at the same school. Since we also lived so close to each other, I used to see her regularly, Sunday after Sunday, at the 8.00 am Mass where she turned heads with her style and elegance. No lady who came to church had better posture than her or held herself better. On her stiletto heels, she walked from her home to church, each Sunday, her dresses fitting her impeccably, her accessories and make-up simply perfect. As it turns out, those dresses fit so well because she was a seamstress who stitched her own clothes and took orders for wedding dresses. In her life time, she told me, she had sewn at least 30 wedding dresses.
Seeing Ivy was on my list of things to do before I returned home Stateside. For the past year, I had wondered where she is and why I no longer see her at church. It was only a week ago that my American friend Gora told me that she has been homebound for several years following a broken hip. Her daughter Gia who was once known well to me (but whom I do not see around either) happened to be at home and it was she who told her mother than I had arrived to see her.
To say that I had a shock when I saw Ivy would be the understatement of the year--it seemed to be the day of many shocks for me! She was completely white-haired (clearly I had last seen her when her hair was well dyed) and came into the living room from her bedroom on a walker. She looks frail and broken--a sad shadow of her former self. Throughout my half hour visit, I could not reconcile my image of her during her younger days (and well into middle-age) with the wraith-like figure seated in front of me. It was only when she opened her mouth and started speaking that I could believe what I was seeing--for her voice and her accent remained entirely the same. It turns out that she has severe arthritis in her knees and, a few years ago, simply broke her hip bone (without a fall!). I guess osteoporosis set in and the brittle quality of her bone caused a crack. She is able to get around and has been told to walk but only with a walker. Her mind remains sharp as a tack and we had a lovely conversation as we reminisced over the old days in the school in which we were were both teachers. It was with a sense of sadness that I got up to leave and as I walked home, I felt very pleased that I had made the effort to see her.
Back home, I badly needed sustenance and a shower. So I jumped into the bathroom and feeling much more human after having been bathed in sweat on my short walk home, I sat down to enjoy a cold drink and cheese with crackers in the air-conditioned coolness of my studio. I then looked at my grant application again, caught up with a bit of email and then had lunch.
Valerie had sent me a new tiffin and I feasted well on her delicious chicken curry with potatoes, gherkins and dal with one chappati--how great hot fresh chapatis taste! I watched McCallum while I ate and then took a short nap. When I awoke, I blogged as I had not found the time to do so all day.
By tea-time, rain had started drumming noisily down on my roof. It was a good time to brew a pot of tea and eat it with the last of my chocolate-almond cake and two jalebis as I listened to my audio book--The Silkworm. It was a good hour before the rain stopped and I could think of going and visiting with Dad and Russel. And that was just what I did. Both of them were lying down as Dad felt like he needed the rest (good for him!) and Russel was tired of sitting up and had lain down as well. We chatted companionably together for over an hour before I left and went back home.
I finished my episode of McCallum while eating dinner (a repeat of my food of the afternoon) and then listened to a bit more of my book before I settled down for the night.
Tomorrow will be a busy day as I have to serve as Commentator at the 9.15 am Mass, pick up mutton patties for Jerry and Felcy who have invited Dad and me to their place for lunch, then attend the 4.00 pm staging of A Few Good Men at St. Andrew's Auditorium to which my friend Maria will be accompanying me. I do not think I will get much work done tomorrow, but it is a Sunday and I guess I am entitled to some leisure.
Until tomorrow...
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