Remember Me?

by Harshali Patel (United States of America)

Making a local connection India

I last saw him three years ago. “R u here yet?” “When can I see u?” chimed my phone again before I could reply. “Reached the AirBnb, heading out to meet him at Flora Fountain. See you after.” “Why?!” I exhaled deeply, wondering the same thing. Five years ago, I had come alone on a whim to attend a Literature festival at IIT Bombay. But within 3 hours, I was terribly overwhelmed, exhausted and homesick. When I’d called my best friend to cry, she told me about him. I didn’t know his name nor what he looked like when I had set out to find him near Flora Fountain that day. But when I found him, we instantly connected on books. He had asked about my favourite book, and I'd cheekily said everything ever written by Oscar Wilde! He'd chuckled like he had figured me out. He became my first friend in Mumbai. Since then, every time I came here, I met him. Now I was here again and I felt drawn to meet him. I still didn’t know his name and I doubt he knew mine. “Sure you’ll find ur way? I can come along…” “Thanks but I want to see him alone.” “K. Text when ur done.” Rejections from autowalas was one of the few constants in Mumbai. I hollered at a passing autowala for the nth time, pleading in limited Marathi. “Kaka please Malad station gheun chala na, ushir jhalay” “Basa” As he tore through the maze of heavy traffic, my centre of gravity kept shifting every second and the hot wind tossed my hair like a salad, slapping it vehemently to the sides of my face. Despite that, I could spot a few familiar landmarks. I felt a strange relief and hoped that perhaps he will be there too, at his usual place. I reached the station drenched in sweat, my hair a sticky mess. Still, under the domino effect of hundreds of people half running to catch the local train, my feet picked up their pace. I ran, skipping a few stairs and whisked myself onto the already moving train because in Mumbai, you are always late. I dug my way to the window seat. As I regained my breath, the dull roar of the wheels grew louder, the train peeling away from the station like an ebbing wave. A steady breeze pervaded the open coaches but with it followed the stench of fish. Tall multi-storied buildings stood next to the low, bright blue roofed slums that lined the rail tracks, the divide greater and more apparent. It was a little after 6pm when I walked out of the Churchgate station into an era frozen in time. Gone were the rickshaws, substituted exclusively by the Kaali-Peeli taxis. Monotonous multi-storied buildings were replaced by a mix of Victorian, Gothic and art-deco architecture. Instinctively, I began walking, resurfacing memories guiding me. As I reached closer, my heart began pounding. Will he remember me? Was I hoping for too much? Uncertain, I watched him from a distance. He was in worn out black pants with a muddied grey t-shirt, his skin visibly darker and back more hunched than last time, perhaps from the weight of lifting books. He stood meekly at the entrance of his fortress, made entirely from books stacked neatly into towering piles. Hanging above it was a makeshift blue plastic roof, in case the Mumbai rains decided to make an early raid. I walked past the other booksellers, ignoring their calls to look at their offerings. A few customers were haggling for prices with him. When he was done, he looked at me. Just then, the fluorescent yellow street lights flickered to life. The words that were sitting in my mind all day, slipped out of my mouth. “Remember me?" “Yes. I remember YOU, not your name” We shared a smile. Then he disappeared deep inside the fortress, where he kept the rarest books- first editions, limited editions and banned books! Not everyone was privy to that knowledge. He came out holding a slightly rugged, leather bound golden leaf hardcover book and held it up to me. It read ’The Complete Works of Oscar Wilde’.