PERSONALITY
TREND
FASHION
SPECIAL
ARCHIVES

Kamala Das

I miss Bombay, its unease, its pre-monsoon skies, its high tides, the traffic sounds, its indiscriminate relationships

A cousin of mine, who had been living in a pokey little flat in Bombay that would sell for Rs 10 million today, packed up his things one day and came away to his home state, Kerala, to live out the rest of his life in comfort.

He has a factory at Kurla, a Bombay suburb. He had risen in status the hard way, working round the clock and getting a few heart attacks in the bargain. Cooped up in small rooms, bumping into imitation antiques and electronic equipment had made him a nervous wreck.

He bought an acre of land at Alwaye and got an architect to build a semi-traditional house, resembling the Nalukettu of the Nayar community. This kind of architecture provided for an inner courtyard from which one could watch the stars. My cousin's estate had coconut trees, nutmeg, grapefruit and cocoa. Accompanied by his Alsatian, he went out for walks along the boundaries of the ricefields at west Veliyathnadu. In a year's time, he began to look 20 years younger. And he dreaded the thought of visiting Bombay for the inspection of the factory.

Cochin and its suburbs are filling up with people of other regions who come seeking security for their families. One can hear Hindi, Punjabi, Bangla and Gujarati being spoken at the marketsquares.

I lived out my youth in Bombay; it was not called Mumbai then. For me, the city held no terrors. It was where my children grew. I still remember how we carried our first born to the Campion School for admission and how my husband talked in Spanish to impress the principal, Father More.

I used to walk along Marine Drive, even when the rain clouds thickened menacingly. I remember only love and friendship when I think of Bombay. Not being rich enough to buy myself a flat in that city, I returned to Kerala. Now, I do not regret my decision.

In Bombay, clocks ticked faster. There was always a din in the ear -- the din of the traffic, the din of the crowded neighbourhood. It was not the best place for writing. Yet, I wrote the best of my poems while I lived in Bombay. The sough of the wind rising from the sea used to make me uneasy and feverish. I could sleep so little. But poetry was there, robust and willing.

Yes, I miss Bombay, its unease, its pre-monsoon skies, its high tides, the traffic sounds, its indiscriminate relationships. My cousin says that all of us here would have degenerated into dry-skinned old people if we had remained in the city. "Look what the oxygen has done for us," he exclaims, drinking a tender coconut. In Bombay we would be drinking Coke or 7 Up.

In most Kerala villages, one can spot happy octogenarians chewing betel leaves and cracking jokes with the young women of the locality. The old still walk miles to worship at temples, avoiding the bus. They bathe only in the ponds.

People dress informally. They do not have to sweat it out in terrycot trousers. Thin mulmuls are appropriate for the day. In the cities, people age fast. By 40, they lose their teeth. Their muscles sag. Hair thins. Women panic and plan face lifts and silicone implantations. Arousing lust is a common occupation. Arousing love is not. Naturally, marriages fail. Vulgarity resigns supreme. The rich women watch The Bold and The Beautiful. They want to be like Brooke and have two options open to them.

Illustration: Dominic Xavier