Chapter one
An evening at Leopold
The single most important mission of Mohan Sham Kathe was to marry a white woman. She need not be good looking or healthy or rich or wise, but oh yeah, she had to be white. Every Saturday, Mohan Sham Kathe followed a ritual that was harder to break than breaking the habit of sleeping every night. He would don his best attire, which invariably constituted a plain bright yellow T-shirt with a frayed collar, and a pair of ill-fitting stark blue jeans that he would spend hours ironing creases on. To complete the coordinated look, he balanced an oversized cap on his head. He of course would rather die than let anyone know the cap was there to cover his balding pate. He was thin as a scarecrow and had the gait of an ostrich. His face, almost mouse-like, belied any emotion except some lines of frustration creased permanently on it. At 33, he was at the prime of life. And so, every Saturday, he would religiously catch the crowded local train from Malad and travel in eager anticipation among sweaty smelling passengers all the way to the ‘happening’ Churchgate where he would first walk the streets to gawk at the palatial houses (“its good to study the way people live”) and then as the evening drew nearer, move on to the pub in Colaba called Leopold, a place frequented by, you guessed it – foreigners.
He would go there every Saturday and manage to grab the best seat that would offer the vantage position from where he could surreptiously glance at the optimum number of phirangs. He once almost burned the place down when the only seat he could find empty was a corner table from where only three other tables were visible, two of which were occupied by bleeding Indians. He saved assiduously every week for the occasion, and after he parked himself on the best seat available, would order and hang on to a fresh lime soda for dear life till the waiter glared enough to shame him into buying another round of soda. When he could no longer pretend that he was waiting for someone to join him before ordering more drinks or food, he would hesitantly leave. As he chugged back home in the local train, it was always with a sense of exhilaration reliving every precious moment he spent feasting his eyes upon the exquisite white folks. He lived for this.
On that particular Saturday, Mohan was feeling particularly hopeful. He sensed something special was going to happen and that lady luck was all set to flash her brightest smile at him. Maybe a white man would look at him. May be he will get to brush against the white skin of an angel. Who knows, she may even smile and say hello to him. Shivering with aching anticipation, he entered the pub.
He saw them at the bar. They were two ladies and one guy. When Mohan later proudly narrated the incident to his friend of years, Sameer Dattatraya Mokashi, he couldn’t recollect how they were to look at. Clearly, beauty was indeed skin deep for our hero. And so when he walked in and saw the gang of three huddled next to the bar, he decided to risk it by settling for a seat next to them that offered just the lousy view of the bar and the bartender behind it, not to mention an Indian bar tender at that. As he ordered his usual drink of fresh lime to the bemused bartender, he casually glanced at the threesome; only casual for him was every two seconds. He hit the jackpot in less than a minute when the American smiled at Mohan. Saying a quick prayer to Lord Krishna (how he became a devout of Lord Krishna and a member of the ISKCON community is another story for another day) and revising the rules of English grammar in his mind, he smiled back. The conversation that followed went something like this:
“Hey there”
“Hallo”
“How you doin”
“I am fine. How are you?”
“So you a regular here, eh?”
“Yes, I am frequenting here in this place often”
“Ever been to the bar upstairs? I hear its hip”
“I would be liking to. But they are only allowing couples for entrance”
“Hey, you sound like fun. Join us what say?”
“Yes”
The next one hour was the best hour of Mohan Sham Kathe’s entire life. He didn’t care the three didn’t include him in their conversation much. It seemed they weren’t much impressed with his narrative of how he dropped the y from his middle name in honour of people from their country. It didn’t matter. It was a rare privilege just to be seated amidst them. He was too awestruck to speak anyway and he tried too hard not to stare. By the end of half hour, his new found friends suggested they move to the bar upstairs. They were two couples anyway. Mohanwould’ve given his right arm to have his friends and family hear him being coupled up with a white lady. It didn’t matter she seemed to be in her 50s. He gleefully agreed. The next half hour was spent in sheer ecstasy. He was in the mood to indulge, and so he ordered the third fresh lime of the evening while his partners merrily glugged away one beer bottle after another. After a while not a word was spoken to him, andMohan knew what it was like being treated like one of their own. Afterall, they weren’t being formal with him by deliberately chatting with him. They felt comfortable enough to not speak a word. If there ever was a cloud 999, Mohan Sham Kathe was playing a harp on it. He tried to recollect which neighbour of his owned a camera. He must remember to get it the next time around.
At the end of sixty precious minutes, the three suddenly remembered they had to be elsewhere. They wanted to spend more time withMohan, but had this pressing engagement that couldn’t wait. Mohan almost felt sorry for them and wistfully wished he could grant their wish of wanting to be with him. The white man asked for the check and offered casually to pay for Mohan’s drinks. The two ladies intently watchedMohan with a crooked smile on their face. “No, no, please,” said Mohan. “In fact, let me be paying for your bill also.” The white man laughed and backslapped Mohan, and shook hands with him. The ladies kissed him on his cheek. Even before Mohan could regain his composure, they were gone. The bill was for Rs. 890.
To this day, Mohan maintains in their hurry, the threesome forgot to take his contact number. He continues to go to Leopold every Saturday, now in the hope they will come back some day looking for their delightful Indian friend.
