It was mid-July 2017. It was a Saturday. It was raining during that week. In Mumbai, in July, it does not rain, it pours. The dark clouds had billowed up in the West; the rains were accompanied by blustery and fierce winds which came in from the Arabian Sea. The squalls were so heavy, that it seemed as thought the rain looked parallel to the ground. The experienced Mumbaikar knows how to handle his umbrella in the swirling winds. A visitor from outside often presents a clumsy spectacle, when he is unable to prevent the umbrella from turning inside out when the gush of an air current enters his umbrella.
That particular afternoon, the rains were severe but not so ferocious as to cause waterlogging of the city streets. It was an incessant downpour. The area where we stay is a notorious spot where streets get inundated with rain water. I had two surgeries at the Dhanwantari Hospital in Dadar West and around half past one in the afternoon, I was done with my work. I had changed and was ready to leave the Hospital.
I got down, picked my umbrella from the Security Cabin and I was getting down the stairs to walk towards my car. My telephone rang. I knew it was Alaka. She has a dedicated tone assigned for a phone call from her.
“Hello”, I answered.
“Have you finished with the surgeries?” query from the other side.
“Yes”
“How did they go?”
“Good”
“Where are you? Still in the Hospital?”
“No, about to leave.”
“But, where are you?”
“Opposite the Samarth Temple”
“Okay, come quickly. Rains are heavy. Don’t waste time unnecessarily talking to anyone.”
“No. I am coming home.”
“Do you have an umbrella with you?”
“No, I love it when the rainwater seeps inside my clothes.”
“ISHH”
“I was joking. Of course, I am carrying an umbrella.”
“Blue one or the black one?”
“Black one.”
“Arre, you should have taken the blue one; it has a double lining”
She was right. The blue one had a double lining. In the Mumbai rains, the umbrella “protects” only the top of the head. When the rains are heavy, small droplets fall from the top of the umbrella. It is like a spray; one has to just grin and bear it.
“Have you had any tea or snacks in the Hospital Café?” the train was back on the main line.
“No”
“Good or else it kills your appetite. When you approach Dadar TT, call me so that I shall set the pressure cooker with “Varan-Bhaat” (Lentil and Rice). You will have a fresh and a steaming “Varan-Bhaat” for lunch.”
“Yes. Okay then,” having said that, I waited until she disconnected.
My car was parked about a kilometer away from the hospital. It is impossible to find a parking spot near Dhanwantari. The Hospital is situated in Dadar West which is a busy and a very crowded place. We stay in Dadar East, Both the Dadars are connected by a century-old Tilak Bridge. Ordinarily it takes two minutes by car to cross the bridge but with the crazy, undisciplined and unruly, jam-packed traffic it takes fifteen to twenty minutes to cross a distance of one kilometer.
After a small walk of ten minutes, I reached my car. I kept my wet umbrella on floor at the rear seat. I cranked the car engine and looked ahead. Gazing at the snarl, I thought, I would take about thirty-five minutes to reach home; a distance of four. Driving through an almost standstill traffic is very annoying, but I have learnt to take it in my stride. I get exasperated when someone keeps honking, without any reason and when the traffic is just inching its way forward. There is an endless stream of private cars, taxies, tempos, buses, two wheelers buzzing like a swarm of bees trying to weave their way through the traffic and of course the crowd of pedestrians walking in different directions.
I had kept my car in the extreme left lane. On the foot path alongside, opposite Shivaji Mandir, I saw a young couple along with their young daughters stranded in the pouring rain, trying to hire a Kaali peeli cab.
The husband waved at an unoccupied taxi. The taxi stopped and the young man spoke to the cabbie. The cab driver drove away. A look of pitiful helplessness appeared on the husband’s face. The family had no choice but wait for another empty cab to arrive.
I had my car move forward and I found myself right in front of the hapless family. I rolled down the window on the passenger side and called loudly to seek the young man’s attention. He heard me beckoning him. He got down the kerb, bent forward and suspiciously looked at me through the car window.
“Hello, I have been watching you for the last ten minutes and I see that you are trying to hail a cab,” I said.
He shrugged his shoulders and did not respond.
“Where do you want to go?” I asked with a genuine concern.
The couple looked at each other.
“Dadar TT, but we are unable to get a taxi.” replied the husband.
“I did see that,” I spoke. “Would you like me to drop you, I am going in the same direction.”
“No, it’s fine. Thank you.”
“No, no, come on. Don’t feel awkward. Hop in.” I said firmly.
The couple looked at each other They seemed to have made a decision. They very hesitatingly entered the car. The father and the younger daughter sat next to me and the mother and the older one sat behind.
“I am Dr Vaze,” I calmed them down. “I am a surgeon. I am returning home from Dhanwantari after finishing two operations. What are your names?”
“I am Aniruddha Bhide and she is Anuradha Ranade. These are our daughters, Shalmali and Meera.”
“Are you married or….? Your surnames are different.”
Aniruddha and Anuradha laughed heartily. I had managed to put them at ease.
“Anuradha has retained her last name Ranade. It is quite pragmatic and sensible that way.”
“Yes, I understand that.”
It was going to take me twenty minutes across the Tilak Bridge to reach Dadar TT and I had enough time to chat with the young parents.
“Where do you stay?” I asked.
“Her parents are from Pune and my parents stay at Prabhadevi. We are in US and are here on a holiday,” he replied.
“Oh, where do you stay in US? And what do you both do?”
I expected him to say that they were computer engineers and were from the same “village” as ours, San Jose where my children stay.
“We both are from Finance and stay in Florida. We are returning home on Monday. We are going to Dadar to a store called “The Beautiful Flower” where we are told has a lovely range of clothes for girls.”
“No issues, I shall drop you enroute. By the way, which part of Florida are you from?”
“Fort Lauderdale.”
“Fort Lauderdale? Wow!! My sister and her husband have been staying in Fort
Lauderdale for the last thirty years. She is a Gynecologist and he is a surgeon. Dr Vasanti and Dr Subhash Puranik.”
“AYYA!! Vasanti Kaku??” Anuradha screamed from behind. She held her palms on both her cheeks, wide eyed; I could see her from the rear-view mirror almost jumping in joy. “Both my daughters have been born under Vasanti Kaku’s care at the Trinity Medical Center. We had invited both them for the naming ceremonies of both our daughters and they had come over for lunch”
This was unbelievable for all of us. The turn of events and the conversation during that car ride appeared too good to be true. It’s a small world after all!!
“Have you visited your sister’s place before?”
“Yes, in 2004. They have been inviting us every year and the distance between the West and East coast discourages us from taking that trip. It is like traveling to South Africa from India.”
“Whenever you come to Florida next, please accept our humble invitation and do visit us. I would be a pleasure hosting you at our house.” “Sure,” I answered politely and gave a smile.
After a little “drive” of twenty minutes we reached the Dadar Circle. I stopped my car right opposite “The Beautiful Flower”. The family of four got off quickly and after a warm and a hearty “Thank you”, hurriedly opened their umbrellas and disappeared into the store.
I called up Alaka. I was keen to narrate this event to her.
Also, the steaming “Varan-Bhaat” from the pressure cooker was waiting for me on that drenched Saturday afternoon. Is there any joy in the world purer than that??
