“So what if he has a big house. For us our hut is as good as Mannat.” “Well, sure” I say, “but they aren’t coming because it is a big house. It’s because they love him.”
Illustration/Uday Mohite
Jet lag is the state of existing in two zones at once—yaniki like only half of yourself at any given time.
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Coming home after a stretch in another country, things feel just a little out of sync. Home feels both familiar and strange. Sad to say, there may be a hint of NRI about you—you take traffic jams personally; you are affronted that the Uber is going to take 15 minutes.
The Uber driver gives me the saas bhi kabhi bahu thi treatment. “I almost did not accept the ride. I thought oh god three-and-a-half kilometres away. Then I saw it was for Bandstand Mannat side, so I thought, chalo.”
I feel immediately apologetic for having a meeting in Bandra. I try to ingratiate myself. “Oh, you’re a Shah Rukh fan?” “Nothing like that. Why do you say that?” he responds, a touch tetchy. “You only said you accepted the ride because it’s near Mannat.” “Just saying it like that. What do I care where Shah Rukh lives.” I feel a bit indignant. “Well, lots of people do. They come na, to see his house.” “So what if he has a big house. For us our hut is as good as Mannat.” “Well, sure” I say, “but they aren’t coming because it is a big house. It’s because they love him.”
He snorts. “They come here just to get a beating. Makes any sense? There was such a crowd on Eid, they got nicely lathi-charged.” he says. His air of dour self-satisfaction implies he is too urbane to gawk at stars and gormlessly go around getting lathi-charged.
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I retire hurt but not without a small defense. “I guess Eid and November 2 are the two days they are guaranteed to see Shah Rukh, hence the crowds.”
He suddenly gets a condescending air. “That’s not why. This year Salman and Shah Rukh appeared together on the balcony at Eid.” As someone who finds it hard to exist in two time zones, I have not quite followed the news from home so I am suitably amazed. “What! Salman and Shah Rukh both? At Mannat?” “Yeah” he grins. “And Salman ka baap also, what is his name?” “Salim Khan. But how come?”
“Dunno, but they were there. First Salim Khan came out, then he brought SRK out by the hand.” “Seriously?” I exclaim. He giggles. The air in the cab is lively, his face festooned with smiles. “I have seen Salman’s Panvel farmhouse also. “Oh? How come?” I ask, fully involved. “I had a drop nearby, how else? It’s ekdum danger, full style. Too much.” He is in a different zone now, sniffy superiority gone, only a debonair delight in my reactions. “We don’t go to see these people. We see them along the road. Hum chalne wale log hain.” We are people on the move. We are the movie.
His stories have melted the traffic jam like ice cream in summer, and we have arrived at our destination.
Later, I look and look online for news of this joint Salman-SRK greeting and find—absolutely nothing. I have a good laugh. He was the movie and its star, in this city of stars and cars, where we all live in two zones at once, plausible fantasy and fantastical reality, Shah Rukh and Salman. I feel right in sync, back home in Bombay.
Paromita Vohra is an award-winning Mumbai-based filmmaker, writer and curator working with fiction and non-fiction. Reach her at paromita.vohra@mid-day.com
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