When my phone got filled to capacity after the deluge of new
numbers, of movers and packers, new schools in Kolkata I needed to check with for
my son, new colleagues at my new office, new bosses, new HR managers, I decided
it was time to delete a few numbers from my Mumbai days. I needed more space
and in any case I wouldn’t be calling up some numbers in Mumbai ever again.
So I thumbed through them in alphabetical order, deciding
which ones I could dispense with. The very first number, saved as A, was my very
own in Mumbai, strategically saved to avoid calling another’s phone unwittingly.
Every time I boarded that can of sardines called local train, I’d get crushed
amid humans jostling for space and my phone would by default dial the first
number saved under A. I’ll soon have to replace the A with my new number in
Kolkata so, I thought, I could delete the Mumbai number. But it had become so
much a part of my identity, my password when I went to surf the net at my
neighbourhood cybercafé in Mumbai. Maybe it could be retained, there were so
many sentiments attached.
Next came my landlord’s number in Mumbai, the retired cop
from Bahrain who made it possible for me to live four of my five years there
without involving any broker. We paid no commission to any broker, mutual trust
was our interface. Often, I paid him the 11-months’ rent more than a week after
we went together to renew our lease agreement. I would pay for the court papers
and to the typist who put our arrangement in words, while he would bribe the
cops to approve the same without the necessary formality of verification. When
I left, he and his wife told me to tell him in advance should I ever return to
Mumbai and they shall ready their house again, maybe ask their tenant to
vacate, for us. There was no question of deleting his number.
Then came the mother of a patient who shared the room with
us when my mom was admitted for a knee-replacement. She at first avoided us when
she heard that my mother was a doctor. But, gradually, on realising that we
were as shocked by the hospital staff’s curiosity to know if ours’ was an
insurance case and when an expert insisted that my mom needed a pacemaker to weather
the knee-replacement surgery, she befriended my mom. On learning that I worked
for a newspaper, she asked me if I could solve a problem she faced at her
office. When I realised I would not be able to do so, she understood, sharing
with me an experience of hers, years ago, when she found a nail inside a cola
bottle. She rushed to a newspaper office, the bottle in hand. She hoped to see
its photograph in the next day’s papers but instead got a call from the cola
company that evening, saying they wanted to compensate her for the unfortunate
incident. It’s ironical I am naming neither the cola company nor the newspaper
office she approached. I’m not in touch with her any more, but will retain her
number, and maybe let her know my new one soon.
There were names of some editors of other publications,
which I should retain, for I keep getting calls from friends looking for a new
job, asking for such contact IDs in Mumbai.
Numbers of correspondents from an earlier organisation I worked for in
Mumbai, who still remember me every Eid or Diwali.
There were numbers of brokers I had saved prefixing ‘broker’.
I had no need of them for the last four years in Mumbai, but they remind me of
my early days of struggle, you need those numbers the moment you land in Mumbai
with a new job.
The number of the man who sent us home safely, after office
every day at my last office in Mumbai. It’s difficult to forget his smile, even
if he sometimes made us wait for an hour before there was a car-a-quorum in the
direction of our home. The last time I took a drop home, he too boarded the
car as he had to go some place beyond mine, like he often did. When I got off
at my place, I told both him and the driver, ‘Phir milengey’ I know not why.
And he too replied, ‘Phir milengey’.
