The train seemed to make her feel drowsy and the rhythmic clanking of metal on metal was a sweet lullaby for her. Last night’s news had kept her up and she felt it was her responsibility to find the truth. As the time ticked on by the passing of each station, she kept rubbing her fingertips in anticipation of what she would find. The time on her phone showed 10:00 am and the source of her anxiety was reaching its summit. “जीवनात मनोरंजक काहीही नाही!” (“There’s nothing in interesting in life!”), she heard someone ranting. Tirades of everyday life riddled with the symphony of cans of tin being played, claps with uneven intensity and songs of love, laughter and hate were the daily fodder of music in these small, moving compartments of commotion. At least her life was more interesting than the guy with a suitcase and a certain incompetent and waggish vendetta against his boss.  

In that dark corner of the room, she kept throwing crumpled balls of paper which she had torn from one of the books her father had given her to study. Bhumika never wanted to waste those precious pages from some unopened yet seemingly erudite manuscript. But she kept tearing the pages of it and made them into little balls that she could dunk in the corner of the room along with something else. Bhumika, an engineering student of Chemical Engineering at Vitthalrao University in Mumbai was ill at ease. Just like the modern Mumbai never felt natural to a local’s tongue, the Bombay within her felt incongruous. She had always felt out of place and her inner tempest always kept on growing with each passing semester in college. Yet her grades never dropped though her passion was slowly being eaten away. She looked outside the window and saw a sparrow on the branch of a tree outside her house. Flapping its wings, she was stirring up the air around while her dainty legs kept gripping on the branch. “Fly away dear, for this world isn’t yet ready for your disquisition”, she whispered to the hushed air outside her window. She looked at the small mound of paper balls she had made in that corner of the room. She was carefree in her room and the world outside sometimes seemed to be her jail. The mound was her nonchalance against the world’s pernicious stipulations. Bhumika was waiting for her grandfather to come home so she could finally tell him to convince her dad about not pursuing engineering. The sparrow inside her was willing to fly and all she thought she needed was a strong branch of her grandfather to leap from.  

As she kept checking her phone for any updates, a lady sitting next to her opened her purse to take out her little mirror. Bhumika started looking outside the window of the train to observe what her eyes could take in. Accumulation of dust, trash and gravel on the sides of the train tracks were the only embellishment she could observe while the lady next to her started ornamenting herself with a certain shade of red coloured lipstick. Well, the lady’s action seemed to be more interesting to her than the outside world. She started staring at the small square mirror in her hands and noticed how smudged it was. The mirror was touched by a million things discombobulating inside a woman’s purse. Occasional kisses from a certain lipstick, unwanted pokes of half melted, half solid candies, violent grazing of the loose change and the most innocuous touches of her fingers while rummaging through the chaos in that confined space. She looked at the woman and guessed her to be in her mid-forties with a certain plumpness to her figure. Her fingers calloused by everyday chores were trying their best to feel attractive by red coloured nail paint at the tips. Bhumika stared at the mirror and then switched her scrutinizing gaze at the lady. She wasn’t particularly beautiful and yet here she was trying to look the best she could. Bhumika’s habit of staring at people with inquisition was cold for some but it wasn’t supercilious. She looked at the woman’s face and again looked at the mirror and chuckled with a certain condescension. Unsurprisingly, the woman caught her in the mirror smiling and Bhumika knew that she had to make up an excuse for her behaviour.  Before she could even think of a reason to get out of this situation amiably, the lady bombarded her, “Beta aapko lipstick chahiye?” Much to Bhumika’s surprise, the question had left her dumbfounded as she was expecting a negative reaction. She politely refused the offer and looked down on her phone again.  

The lady stood up after a couple of minutes to get off the train at the station and opined on the way out, “मैं तो उससे बड़ी हूं पर कितनी सुंदर लग रही थी उससे। ये आज कल के बच्चे! (I am older than her, yet I look so much prettier than her. Today’s generation of kids!”) 

“Art, my child isn’t always going to come to you like divine inspiration. Many have come before Da Vinci, and many will come after him who say art flows from a higher being into our terrestrial world. But believe me, sometimes art will be hidden in a place so conspicuous that you will barely notice it. The powers of your deduction will unravel it and strip off the supernatural enigma so you can hold it in your earthly hands”, he said as she was sitting in the courtyard. She wasn’t sure why her grandfather was so philosophical today, but he certainly seemed to be lost in some other world. Bhumika always enjoyed her evening tea sessions with her grandfather and never missed out on any opportunity to ask him things from his time. The bond between them was impenetrable like those concrete walls of the tulsi pot in the center of the courtyard yet his venerable wisdom was like that soft, fertile mud in which her roots grew. She was fixed in her own ways and so was he and yet their relationship was symbiotic. The endless conversations about the old days, different communal experiences he went through and sometimes just racing to see who finished the biscuits with the tea first were their rather usual and refreshing evenings. Wiping the dust off the edge of his cane chair, he asked the question she was eagerly waiting for. “Do you want to tell me what is bothering you, child?”, he asked with the tenderness of a feather being lifted in a gentle breeze. She looked up at him as she was sitting on the floor beside the chair and knew she had to say it now. What came out was a fragile, meandering brook of consciousness and the truth the walls within her needed to disseminate. The evening breeze took a sudden change in direction and the tulsi leaves seemed to applaud her declaration with a vigorous dance of her leaves filling up the courtyard with their strong clove-like and spicy aroma. He smiled and stroked her forehead with love saying, “ऐ हुनर तमाशा ना कर, आ ज़हानत तू खोज कर.” 

It was 10:45 am on her phone and her fingers had started to become fidgety again after a short nap of approximately 10 minutes. She tapped on her phone’s screen and read “LEOPOLD CAFE” as a text message from a person called Ajit. She began preparing mental notes in her brain on what things she wanted to ask as the nervous energy travelled from her fingers to her feet. If she could, she would have synced her nervous tapping with the periodic clunking of the carriage wheels, but she was spasmodic. Just then she took a deep breath and reassured herself that this wasn’t her first time doing this work. Her station was getting closer and so was her biggest story to date. As soon as she was about to call Ajit, she was disturbed a large group of men clad in long kurtas surrounded her. They smelled of some strong flower like perfume, possibly jasmine or sweet musk and they were loud. The smell suddenly made her feel claustrophobic and her anxiety was replaced very covertly by her irritation. She looked at the man sitting in front of her and started her customary examination of a subject. Eyes, deep and jade black and the eyelashes accentuated with dark black kajal, skin shining as vibrant as metal shining in a hot summer’s afternoon and lips crimson red, full of some inner musing. The man did not flinch his eyes even when she stared at him, and it was certainly a mutiny against her inquisitiveness. Although the smell and loud talking of the men around annoyed her, she seemed to feel locked in that perpetual stare with the man. His beard was clean, the edges of the beard clearly demarcated from his pristine face and his neck muscles strained expressing their circulatory system. She tried to distract herself from his face but ended up miserably on his crocheted taqiyah. The delicate hand work of fabric befitting his head and the fine mesh through which his belligerent thoughts could escape. Unlike her grandfather who was prejudiced and hostile towards Muslims, she was impartial. Was it the strong smell of perfume or was it something else which made her inner bipartisan pendulum sway a little now? 

Bombay, a never-ending city with never-ending stories. A city grappled with the constant hum of railway trains carrying a million vagaries each day, a commotion of sound and festivals mixed with communal violence and rallies of protests, a conveyor belt of torn shoes walking on the sidewalks trying to make their dreams come true and somewhere amidst all this, a malnourished mother breastfeeding her child under a never finishing fly over. Modern Mumbai of miasma for some, a bombastic Bombay for some while a constant tug of love and hate for most of them. Lately, the billboards and banners along the sides of the ever-grey roads were riddled with one question rather than celebrities endorsing their vacant products. There was a new artist in the town displaying his or her unique art. A Banksy of their own or an outsider trying to rattle their intricate nest of lies and deception. Newspapers were filled with flamboyant stories, homes were rife with gabfests and in certain corners of the city, nervous tête-à-tête were initiated.  

After a long journey on the local train, Bhumika finally reached Churchgate station and started walking towards Leopold Cafe. Her walk wasn’t slow or casual at all and she was brisk, and the sound of her footsteps were certainly going to cause some vibration in the cafe. She kept on calling Ajit to see where he was and if he was going to meet her in the cafe. After calling Ajit a few times to no avail, she decided to see what was in store for her at the cafe. She had never met this Ajit and only recently started talking to him through a friend of hers. With constant honking of cars accompanying her 20-minute brisk walk to the cafe, she felt she badly needed a cup of coffee to clear her head from the noise and aroma of the perfume from the men in the train. On seeing the cafe, she exclaimed a little exasperated from walking, “Leopold, here you are!” She went straight inside and looked around while also calling Ajit from her phone. They were supposed to meet here, and he hadn’t picked her numerous calls yet. After stupidly looking around for Ajit in the cafe for 10 minutes, she decided to take a table in the corner and get a coffee for herself before she could decide to leave. It seemed to be a failed visit and maybe Ajit had stood her up. She ordered a regular Nescafe coffee and Leo’s cheesecake and sat by the corner. She kept looking at people wondering if someone also looked like they were searching for someone but all she could see was boisterous and loud teenagers trying to click pictures in this historical cafe. The only people who were silent and looked remotely interested in enjoying their morning breakfast were some older men with their head submerged in the newspaper ink. Bhumika was feeling extremely disappointed and even the cheesecake didn’t seem to turn her emotions around. “Maybe this is where the path ends, a false ending”, she ruminated. She looked at her phone and saw it was 12:30 pm and decided it was of no use sitting there. She clasped her face in her palms and screamed internally for being so foolish to trust someone over the phone.  

Just then, she felt a tap on her shoulder.  

“O fire, walk with me”, she said or was it he said? Bhumika couldn’t decide. She stared at the person standing above her shoulder and wondered what the person had just said. The person was definitely wearing clothes which were discernible. Tight blue jeans and a black tank top were certainly identifiable. She looked at the arms of the person which were thick and muscular, and she could see the veins popping out of forearms. The skin on his arms was smooth and free of any body hair and he smelled of a woman’s cologne. She looked up even further where her dilemma grew even wider. His face chiseled with a sharp tool by a very creative sculptor was glowing in the sun rays beaming from the window. The light green clean-shaven tint on his face was masked by a thick layer of make-up and foundation under his eyes. His cheeks were blushed artificially from the make-up and his hair curled and held by some pomade. She wasn’t sure how to address that person or what his identity was. 

“A little longer, my sweet child”, said the person.  

She composed herself and asked him,”Uhm..uhmm..who are you?” 

“Only a chaperone”, he said.  

Frustrated by his weird, coded language, she stood up impulsively and started walking away. She had realized that Ajit wasn’t coming, and this was some madman trying to lure her into some unknown well. Or a madwoman. Or a mad, who knows what? 

As soon as she got out of the cafe, the person called out her name loudly and very clearly, ”Bhumika.” 

She turned around to look and saw him smiling. She felt freaked out and walked towards him. She asked,” How do you know my name?” 

“Did Leo’s cheesecake have any memory effacing drug in it? Maybe I need to eat some of it then.” 

She narrowed her eyes in a scrutinizing way and enquired hesitatingly, “Are you Ajit?? 

“Yes, I am Ajit you have been calling since the last 30 minutes.” 

Shocked at this revelation, she asked again but this time with more sharpness, “You don’t look like Ajit.” As soon as she finished the sentence, she gauged him from top to bottom with even more incisiveness.  

“Just because I dress such, I can’t be Ajit? That is quite limiting of you to say”, he retorted. Adding to his reply, he asked, “What is the meaning of Ajit?” 

“I think invincible”, she replied.  

“Precisely”, he said with a smile on his face. 

Saying this, Ajit started walking away from the cafe. Bhumika, still reeling from this intriguing experience, wasn’t sure whether to follow him or stop him. But if he or she were truly Ajit, she needed his or her help to reach to the bottom of the story. Clenching her fists, she started following him. Wary of people around her, she kept distance between herself and Ajit. As she started walking behind Ajit, the memories of rolled up balls of paper in the corner of the room illuminated her mind. The mound of detachment lying there in the corner was slowly being burnt away by the cinders of her curiosity. Every step she walked away from that corner, every step she got closer to her own summit. Her search was on and the fire within her walked towards another unrevealed mound. 

As Ajit picked up pace after 10 minutes of walking without looking back, Bhumika ran and caught up with him. Panting, she asked, “Are you going to take me where I can talk to him?” 

“You seek him, don’t you?”, he asked. 

“Yes, I do. I need to get to bottom of this story.” 

“Do you think he will be the pinnacle of your achievements?” 

“What are you suggesting?”, she asked with a look on her face which seemed to be disgusted. 

“An identity is kept secret for a reason. He who doesn’t speak loudly, he who doesn’t seek him for his gains is truly able to meet him”, he said in a very philosophical way looking at the sky. 

“Can you just take me to him? I have had enough of the chaperone acting as a soothsayer or an occult person”, she replied curtly. Deep within her, she knew the reason for her act of pursuing him. She noticed how Ajit was walking with his buttocks protruding out of his tight denim jeans. There was a certain feminine grace about his gait, and she could not help admiring his feminineness more than her own femininity. The world had changed a lot, and she knew her grandfather would have never approved of such men or women in their times. 

As soon as they reached the Churchgate station, Ajit stopped and gave her a green scarf from his pocket. The scarf was the smoothest material she had ever felt. The green scarf smelled of Ajit’s feminine cologne and it felt like pure pashmina wool in her hands. For a moment, she was lost in how delicate the wool felt and somehow it made her heart tremble. She looked at Ajit and asked, “What is this for?” 

Ajit smiled and held her hand, “Take this with you and look for him where the worlds collide, and auguries of time strike 12 am.” 

Bhumika asked, “But where? How do I find him?” 

“You will find him”, he said and started walking towards the station. 

Bhumika in sheer desperation followed him to see if he was going to meet someone at the station but he kept on walking on the railway platform. He turned around to see her face and leapt on the train. “We will meet again”, he said with a broad smile on his face. 

Pashmina in her hand, the world revolving her and people rushing past her, the character of our story wondered. In the world of many paths, she had climbed onto a train which had no station yet.  

Further along came another S representing another action. The paths had been initiated only to be added together to form their singular reality.