The Many Lives of Ruby Iyer: A Bombay story ( YA Dystopian Thriller)

Author:Hariharan, Laxmi [Hariharan, Laxmi]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Books@Jacaranda
Published: 2014-11-12T16:00:00+00:00

19

WE HAVE BEEN driving for just over half an hour now and are entering the familiar stretch of road passing by the Haji Ali Dargah. Thousands come from all over the city to pray at the shrine of the saint buried there since the mid-fifteenth century. Now they are abandoning him back to the waves, which had borne his casket all the way from Mecca to Bombay.

I have passed by this shrine many times, a whitewashed, domed structure set out at the sea, connected to the mainland by a narrow causeway. When the tide comes in, it is cut off from the mainland. Part of the main; yet set apart. Just like me. It’s a reminder that I am now not far from the apartment I grew up in … my ma’s home.

I wriggle around some more, not very happy with the direction in which we are heading. That antsy, on-the-edge-of-my-seat feeling continues to rise, and I am not talking about the flames on my back, which are now running riot. They’re having a right merry time they are, making the most of being allowed full freedom to do as they please. The heat running up and down vibrates with a life of its own. That thing on my back, I know it’s never going to fade now.

“Did you know,” I nod to the sea on my right, shimmering in the late evening sun, “that is also called the Haji Ali Bay?”

“Hmm?”

“That. The bay …”

“Okay.”

There’s a pause as Vikram concentrates on the road ahead. The stretch in front of us is quite empty, so it’s not like he has to do much but keep the car pointed straight ahead. I am tired of seeing the opposite side of the road still packed with the endless stream of vehicles trying to leave the city.

I am also a little envious.

I want to join them, to head out and stay out till whatever is happening around us has run its course.

And then there will be no city to come back to.

“So, you are actually a townie, then?” It’s a stupid, mundane question, but it’s got to be asked now that we are heading into my old stomping grounds, the older part of the city. I find myself lapsing into familiar vocabulary. I admit I am one of them, too; a Townie aka a SoBoite. Or I was, to begin with.

“I suppose …” Is Vikram’s reluctant answer. It seems he isn’t overly thrilled about it.

“It’s okay to admit that you are …” I cajole, only to be rewarded with a long-suffering look.

Apparently, we agree on something.

Normally, you trust people who come from backgrounds similar to you. In my case, it’s just the opposite. The nearer the blood, the bloodier—another of Dad’s famous sayings is stuck in my head. I left home, but they haven’t left me. I mean, how much of our parents do we carry around inside us? Do we even know?

Then the car is flying up, shooting through the air like a jet at take-off, only to crash nose-down.

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