Remembering Mable* I dialed the number and waited for a response. After a minute I heard a youngish male voice. “Hello” “Hello. Am I speaking to Alex?” “Yes You are” “Real Estate?” “Yes” “Hi. My name is Pradeep and I’m looking for accommodation.” “Rent or purchase? “Rent. Paying guest type.” “And how did you get my number?” “Classified Ads. Mumbai Mirror.” “OK. See, I have this beautiful row-house that will suit you perfectly. Belongs to an elderly widow. It is on Hill Road, an up-market place in Bandra. It’s within walking distance of Bandra station. You can get an auto rickshaw or a bus just outside…” I’d just accepted a job in Mumbai and was looking for an affordable place to live in. My wife and son would continue to live in Surat. There was no way they’s adjust to the life in Mumbai. I accepted Alex’s offer, and so the 15th of January 1996 found me struggling up a rickety wooden staircase of a house so dilapidated that it took a miracle to hold it up. Climbing the stairs just ahead of me was Mable, the owner of this “up-market” property. The staircase led to a sizable hall (by Mumbai standards) with a creaky wooden floor. To my right were two doors – one closed, the other partly open. Mable pointed to the half-open door and said “that is where you will stay.” She trailed me into the room, her sharp eyes following my every move. The room was sparsely furnished with a large, ancient wooden bed that had probably been made about the time Shah Jahan was sourcing marble for the Taj. The only other items of furniture in the room were a chair and a low wooden table on which I placed my suitcase. A window opened outwards overlooking another clutch of row houses – similar to the one that was to be my home.‘Welcome to Mumbai Pradeep’ I said to myself. I looked around. I was actually in one-half of a large room that was partitioned roughly in the center. “There is an elderly gentleman who’s rented the other room” Mable informed me. “He’s a businessman,” she added - meaning of course that I was going to share space with Mumbai’s elite. I walked out into the hallway and had my first good look at Mable. She was around 70 but did not seem to believe the authenticity of her own birth certificate. She stood about 5 ft 4 in her slippers. I wouldnt say she was over-weight. It’s just that her height did not match up to her weight. Going by those height-vs-weight charts you see hanging in doctor’s offices, she should have been about six-four. Her hair was cut short and dyed a reddish-brown. Her accent, mannerisms and family name clearly spoke of a Goan ancestry. The disproportionate distribution of her body mass compelled her to stand with the upper half of her body leaning slightly forward and the lower bit tilting in the opposite direction. Something to do with the center of gravity and laws of balance I guess. “OK now, here are the rules” Mable began. She had a low, deep voice that would have made a certain cricketer green with envy. “You are allowed only one suitcase. Nothing more. You cannot use any electrical gadgets other than the fan and tube light in your room. Your wife cannot stay here. No visitors. No noise. Home before 10 pm. You will get a cup of tea in the morning, that’s all. The bathroom is downstairs. There is a TV here but it’s only for me.” “And one more thing,” continued Mable in her deep contralto “do not touch the telephone. If it rings, let it ring. My son and his wife live in New York. My son calls me all the time and if you answer the call, my son will have to pay a lot of money for nothing.” I nodded. “Can my wife call here sometimes?’ I asked her meekly. “Occasionally yes, but that’s a privilege and not a right. If you want to use the phone you have to share the cost.” With that she waddled downstairs to cook her dinner. I walked across the room to the window and took a peek at the street below. It was a narrow lane - the “up-market” Hill Road that my real estate agent had talked about in such glowing terms. Half the street was occupied by boisterous vendors; the other half was left to the pedestrians and drivers to fight over. The challenges of being a paying guest at Mable’s hit me from day one. I was dragged out of my sleep at 5:30 each morning by my neighbour’s chants and the loud tinkling of a bell as he said his daily prayers. A gap in the flimsy plywood partition ensured that I did not miss a single chant or tinkle. Pooja done, he would switch on his cassette player. With the chances of my going back to sleep shot down, I’d run downstairs to the kitchen for a cup of Mable’s tepid tea. A quick shower and I was ready for the day. Just across the street from Mable’s home was a pork shop that I had to pass on my way out. I soon realized that pigs smell a lot worse after they are butchered than they do before. Holding my breath, I’d walk briskly past the butchery. As if the assault on my olfactory senses at the pork shop was not enough, I had to pass an overflowing garbage dump before I reached the main road and could breath freely again. After a long day at the office, I would return “home” for some well-earned rest, looking look forward to lying in bed and reading the newspaper. Mable , though, had plans of her own and insisted on acquainting me with the goings on in the world – her way. She would peep in – at 9:30 pm - with the day’s special edition of Hill Road News. With one clenched fist resting firmly on her hip and the other holding up her chin, she’d take off without formalities. “You know the lady living two buildings away? She has such a loving husband and two sweet little children and don’t know why, but she left them this morning and ran away with the …..” “And that Muslim gentleman living two streets away? His business suddenly took ……..” Mable was a veteran and news gushed from her vocals like water from fractured mains. I could only squeeze in a grunt or two as she jumped from one story to another – none of which were either relevant or of any interest to me. Often, just as she turned around to leave and I said “finally”, she would turn back. “I did not tell you about the murder …….did I?” “I think you did.” “No that was the other one, this was even more ghastly ……” another fifteen minutes of nodding. It was fortunate for me that Mable’s world was restricted to one small locality. Finally, Mable would retreat to her room and I’d read myself to sleep – but not for long. The moment I turned to my side, seeking a more comfortable position, I’d hear a cascade of wooden planks striking the wooden floor and find my body suspended between the two ends of the wooden bed that still held up. The racket created by the plummeting planks was amplified a hundred-fold by the stillness of the night. Just as I was struggling to haul myself out of the mess, I’d find Mable at the door. “What happened?” Was she blind or deaf or both? “Oh nothing, the planks from the bed have fallen off that’s all Mable” (she insisted on everybody calling her Mable). “OK. It never happened before, I don’t know why... “. With that that she’d waddle off to her bedroom, still mumbling to herself. It was left to me to roll up the stone-hard, 12 inch thick cotton mattress (same vintage as the bed I think), drag it to the floor and gently replace the wooden planks one by one. For some reason these planks were a few millimeters shorter than they should have been. Even the slightest movement was enough to dislodge them. This done, I had to replace the ancient mattress as gently as possible on the bed and just as gently crawl into bed again. This stay-fit mattress-lifting exercise had its benefits – I did not have to go to a gym. I always brought home a bottle of mineral water. “Why do you waste money on water?” Mable would scold me. “There’s plenty in the refrigerator.” I could never get myself to tell Mable was that the water in her fridge – like everything else therein – smelled and also tasted like the meat that was sold across the street. “Why do you have to go home to Surat each weekend?” Mable would ask on Friday mornings as I packed my bag. “Such a waste of money.” “Mable I have a wife and a little son waiting for me...” “But you can go once a month” “No Mable, it has to be every week.” Mable would shrug and say, “the boy who stayed here before you, went home only once in a while. But……..” One evening, I was all by myself at ‘home’ when the phone rang. I let it ring for a few minutes. When it continued to ring, I took the call. It was her son. Learning that his mom was not at home, he disconnected. 5 seconds was all it took. I should have shut up about the incident but being the naive creature that I am I shared the news with Mable when she returned. “Your son called while you were away Mable” “How do you know it was my son?” “I took the call…..” “But I told you not to touch the telephone.” “But Mable I was expecting a call from my wife and I thought it was her call…” “I don’t care and by the way, that is a privilege I gave you. It must have cost my son tons of money. I have been very good to you. I let you take your wife’s calls. I even bought your son a gift for his birthday. I did not have to do all that. I told you not to touch the phone. Don’t do it again… blah blah blah” I decided right away that Mable’s hospitality was something I could do without. When I told her I was leaving at the end of the month she said “But where else will you find a nice, comfortable place like this one with hot water and all that?” I smiled as I turned around to say one final good bye to Mable and her “up-market” row house. Epilogue: Several years later, I happened to be in Bandra and passed by Mable’s home – my home for six memorable months. The windows were all boarded up and there seemed to be no sign of anybody living there any more. Never found out why. (*Name changed to ensure personal safety)
Posted on: Mon, 24 Nov 2014 09:27:24 +0000
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