Bombay Monsoon, page 30
The monsoons retreated in September, and life took on a hot, dry regularity. I went to work, wrote my stories, and chatted with Janice over Vikky’s tea. Then I’d go home to my flat and new servant, Tinku, a really sweet guy who, I knew, would never slit my throat in the night. I enjoyed one drink before and one after my pure veg dinners. And then I would read Graham Greene and Evelyn Waugh—that was the mood I was in—as I listened to Hindi film songs on the radio.
MONDAY, DECEMBER 22, 1975, 3:40 P.M.
Christmas was approaching. It promised to be a strange holiday season for me, what with no snow, family, or close friends. I was about to return a call to Zubin Mehta, the music director of the Los Angeles Philharmonic. He was in Bombay and had agreed to meet me for a quick meal and an interview at Britannia, the old Parsee restaurant I’d visited with Janice in Ballard Estates months before. We only had to arrange the date. But Janice interrupted me before I could dial.
“This arrived for you a few minutes ago,” she said, handing me a small parcel about six inches long and three inches wide.
“No return address?” I asked. “Maybe it’s a bomb.” I held it to my ear and shook it.
“Just open it, Mr. Jacobs.”
I untied the string and tore away the paper. Inside there was no note, no card. Nothing but a bag of sev.
Sev.
“Mr. Jacobs,” called Janice as I ran for the door. “Where are you going?”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Over the past twenty-five years, I’ve been lucky enough to make more than fifty trips to India. For work, pleasure, and family. In fact, I’ve spent nearly four years there. Bombay (Mumbai), Poona (Pune), and Bangalore have been second homes to me. I even held a PIO card (Person of Indian Origin), thanks to my marital status with an Indian citizen. PIO cards no longer exist, but, as I write this note, I’m waiting for my Overseas Citizen of India card to arrive. All this to say that I consider myself an honorary Indian, and am supremely proud of that imagined status.
I tried to use my experiences—the best and worst of them—to provide a glimpse into expatriate life in India. Many of the anecdotes in this book, both positive and negative, were inspired by my time there. The scene in Poona, for instance, where Danny encounters a herd of buffalo on North Main Road, may seem far-fetched. Yet, it happened to me. More than once. I lived for eighteen months in a development directly across the road from ABC Farms in Koregaon Park. And, yes, the buffaloes still take the right of way, even if ABC Farms is no more.
The monsoon is a powerful giver and taker. A successful season brings a bounty of crops to the Subcontinent, while a disappointing one can result in ruin for farmers and shortages for city dwellers. For me, it was always a long, wet time that I used for thinking. And plotting. The monsoon looms large throughout this book, setting the mood as it pursues Danny and drenches Bombay. To describe this awesome meteorological phenomenon, I relied on memories of days and nights spent trapped inside, happy to be safe and dry, as the rain drummed on the roof and lashed the windows.
Descending the Western Ghats of Maharashtra was the most terrifying ride of my life. And climbing the ghats was the second most terrifying ride of my life. I do not exaggerate. Today you take a safe, modern superhighway from the coastal plain up to the Deccan Plateau. But when I first made the trip in the 1990s, there was only a narrow, two-way road, pocked with holes and hardly a guardrail in sight. I was certain we’d never make it. In this book, the passages detailing the vertiginous heights, sharp turns, and near misses are surely inadequate to describe the actual, stomach-churning fright of the drive.
A final thought on Bombay Monsoon. During the twenty-one-month Emergency, civil liberties were curtailed, political opponents were jailed, and the press was censored. Democratic institutions were restored in 1977, when Mrs. Gandhi finally lifted the Emergency. In researching this book, I was struck by how quickly democracy can be swept aside. In our country—one year before the Emergency, in fact—Richard Nixon resigned from power when it became clear his support was gone. He did not attempt a coup, as, for all intents and purposes, Mrs. Gandhi did in 1975. In 2021, we survived a brazen attempt on our own democracy. The insurrection failed, but that doesn’t mean the threat is gone. The Emergency should be a lesson to all who cherish democracy today.
I hope my love for India shines through the heavy weather in Bombay Monsoon. If you’ve enjoyed this book, please consider leaving a rating or a review on Goodreads or any of the popular online portals.
BOOK CLUB DISCUSSION GUIDE
1. Colorism was and continues to be an important social issue in India. What are your thoughts on how it is perceived by the people of India versus foreign transplants?
2. Danny experiences a fair amount of culture shock. How do you think he handles it?
3. What are some examples of racism in Bombay Monsoon?
4. What do you think of Danny’s observations of prejudice in Indian society? In Western society?
5. Did the historical reference to “The Emergency” under the leadership of Indira Gandhi surprise you?
6. How culpable, if at all, do you think Shushmita is in Willy’s illicit dealings?”
7. What do you think of Harlan’s tactics at the beginning of the book? His feigned racism and obnoxious behavior?
8. Danny is seduced by Sushmita, but also by Willy. What are your thoughts on the lure of sex and of privilege in Bombay Monsoon?
9. Do you think Danny is a dupe or a romantic?
10. What do you think happens between Danny and Sushmita after the last page?
James W. Ziskin, Bombay Monsoon
