Excerpt Read an excerpt from The Lost Flamingoes of Bombay here: On the day Karan finally visited Chor Bazaar, he was alone, his anxiety about his future as documentarian, journal keeper and photo maker of Bombay at a crescendo. Rambling through the sweltering chaos of the bazaar, ungrazed by any inspiration, he recognized with some measure of dismay how many months of uninspiring, tiresome work had made it difficult for him to emerge out of the deep well of his torpor. Although Iqbal’s various commissions gave him practice, he desperately needed time to work on his collection, to articulate his private and wounded sense of adulthood, its disquiet, innocence, amity and discord, all of which was being slowly played out against the stark, taut canvas of Bombay. He was desperate to photograph the caves in the forests of the national park, the noisy dawn at Sassoon Dock and a smouldering evening at Scandal Point, the slum urchins spinning wooden tops on the pavement and the made-up memsahibs on Altamont Road, their eyes flashing envy and disdain like the diamonds on their nasty fingers. There was all this. And more. But time. Where was the time? Not only was Karan hungry for time, he was also ravenous for talk. Now and again he did discuss his photographs with Iqbal, but his boss was generally too busy to talk at length. And Zaira knew precious little about the subject, even if her interest in his life was greatly encouraging. Conversation about his pictures would give him clarity and impetus, direction and current; he wanted to rub his mind against another, talk freely about the failed photograph, the lost moment, the catastrophic composition, the perfect picture plucked out of the wreckage of an imperfect day. But talk, the real, deep, purposeful thing, illuminating and difficult, with room for pause and uncertainty, eluded him. He had expected a big city to provide him the shelter of able, poignant companionship but Bombay had only introduced him to varying species of loneliness. There was the oneliness of the late night, when red moths beat harried wings against hot street lights and sleep was a faint, faraway music. There was the loneliness of having no family to count on, no letters to write, no phone calls to make. And, most wretched of all, there was the loneliness of being around people for whom he felt neither a sympathy of mind nor an appeal of the heart. He wondered if a girlfriend might alleviate the situation, but feared that the onus of the relationship would come in the way of his real love—his camera and its unpredictable, incredible harvest. Could he find a woman who would return touch for touch, silence for silence, word for word? Someone with whom he could share, at eventide, the day’s pointless particulars, and who would find in him the custodian of her most private aesthetic, as he would in her? In the last two months some of his loneliness had no doubt been relieved by Zaira. After the dinner at her apartment, they had spoken on the phone on numerous occasions and met up again, only the previous week, at Samar’s house. Zaira had badgered him into visiting parts of Bombay he had never even considered worth exploring and he had surfaced from his dark room with pictures that would make lasting additions to his work. In fact, his visit to Chor Bazaar had resulted from Zaira’s ultimatum. Unfortunately, his endeavour to locate a Bombay Fornicator had not met with any success. Two stall owners in the bazaar had barrelled him with all manner of lewd questions when he had asked them to show him a Bombay Fornicator; one fellow, with tombstone teeth, had promptly pointed north, in the direction of the city’s red-light district. He left their side, a cloud of loud guffaws hovering over him. As evening evaporated into a thick indigo dusk, Karan realized his chances of finding the Bombay Fornicator were shot, and dejection trampled his heart. He had stopped, as a final attempt, to ask another shopkeeper about the Bombay Fornicator when he noticed a woman studying him from a distance; the intensity of her gaze was mesmeric, puzzling. ‘Excuse me,’ she said as soon as he was within earshot, ‘I just overheard you ask about the Bombay Fornicator . . .’ ‘Er . . . yes . . . do you know anything about it?’ He walked toward her, entering the private cosmology of her unabashed curiosity. She was sitting on a carved Chinese bench, legs crossed to her side, shoulder-length night-black hair splayed over the ridge of her shoulders; she was playing with a small figure in her hands, and her thin, delicate fingers suggested hidden purpose and solid efficiency. ‘There are all kinds of fornicators in this city; which kind are you looking for?’ His cheeks reddened. ‘I wish I knew.’ ‘Perhaps I might.’ Her skin had the luxuriant polish of leaves in a tropical jungle; her heavy-lidded eyes moved over his face. There was an unsettling calm about her, like a lake at midnight. ‘You might?’ His eyes gleamed. ‘Can you help? I mean, asking a stranger in a bazaar to help look for a Bombay Fornicator sounds absurd even to my own ears but . . .’ he stuttered. ‘It’s not absurd.’ ‘My query did not surprise you?’ She put down the talisman in her hands on the bench, and Karan noticed it was a tiny brass monkey. She stood up. ‘I come to Chor Bazaar too often to be surprised.’ ‘I’ve spent close to an hour speaking to the shopkeepers here; all they’ve given me is the slip or a sneer, and I don’t know which is worse.’ She folded her slender arms across her chest; her cream dress, a whisper of sultry elegance, came floating all the way down to her immaculate, girlish ankles. ‘Why’re you looking for a Bombay Fornicator?’ ‘I work as a photographer with the India Chronicle. And my friend, Zaira, has been on my case to find and photograph the Bombay Fornicator. Trouble is,’ he said, scratching his chin, ‘I don’t even know what the damn thing is!’ ‘They’re rare to find these days.’ Moving away from his face, her eyes travelled the length of his long brown arms, the curve of muscles reminding her of a river at a bend. ‘Not many dealers stock Bombay Fornicators.’ ‘At the very least could you tell me what it is?’ ‘Wouldn’t you much rather see it?’ ‘I guess so, but won’t you give me a clue?’ Her brows puckered. ‘I thought I saw one a few minutes ago . . . although finding it in the mess of this bazaar will be tricky.’ ‘Please! Just tell me what it is.’ She started to walk, her eyes scanning the shops; he followed her. ‘Did you want to photograph the Bombay Fornicator for your magazine?’ ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s not for India Chronicle.’ ‘Then it must be for your friend who put you on the job.’ ‘Actually, it’s for my private record. You see, I moved to Bombay and decided I would make this big, bold record of the city. The littlest things. The foams in the gullies of Dhobi Talao. The tail whip of a horse cantering at Mahalaxmi at dawn. Dusty balustrades in the wrecked mansions of Kala Ghoda. Everything would enter the lens and come through to a permanent place, and for that to happen if I’d have to tear down the walls and break sheets of glass I’d do it, to see everything raw and awful and perfect . . . I’m hoping to create an epic record of Bombay.’ ‘An epic record of Bombay?’ she repeated, amused. ‘I meant . . .’ He blushed, conscious he was guilty of blabbering. ‘That sounds like a lot of work. Why don’t you have a drink instead?’ She gave a laugh. He smiled, the edifice of his confidence suddenly reduced to rubble. ‘I guess I must sound like an idiot. This talk of immortalizing Bombay with my foolish camera.’ ‘Not entirely an idiot.’ She smiled warmly; she found his ambition sincere, surprising, defensible. ‘Not yet, in any event.’ ‘From the day I came to Bombay,’ he said quietly, ‘I felt like I was staring destiny in the eye.’ ‘Well, maybe you were meant to photograph the city, then.’ ‘Yes.’ His eyes shone, luminous with excitement. ‘I have no doubt about that. Bombay, this city, this moment in time, and,’ pointing to his camera, he said, ‘this camera.’ ‘You have terrible taste,’ she said with a clap of her hands. ‘I approve thoroughly.’ Her voice wrapped itself around him; it was easy to imagine that at the end of the corridor of her voice there was a little room in which a blues singer was hiding from the world, serenading emptiness. ‘Now, for your friend’s sake, I hope we find the Bombay Fornicator. You’ll have to trust this Chor Bazaar old hand, though.’ ‘At this point, I’ll trust anyone.’ ‘That would be wrong. Not ethically, but practically. That’s something I’ve learned in my thirty-six years in Bombay.’ He stopped in his tracks. ‘You’re thirty-six!’ ‘I’m not sure if I ought to be flattered by your tone.’ ‘Well, you don’t look your age at all.’ ‘How old are you?’ Her eyes slitted, reminding Karan of a snake. ‘Twenty-five.’ ‘You don’t act your age at all.’ He tried not to look entirely deflated. ‘Come along now.’ Her fingers touched his arm ever so softly. ‘While we look around tell me what you’ve seen in Chor Bazaar so far that could end up in your pictures.’ ‘There was a stone mermaid with an oriental face . . .’ ‘Ah, probably nicked from a Mahabaleshwar mansion.’ ‘And there was a palanquin on the back of an elephant, home to . . .’ ‘. . . three black kittens,’ she completed. ‘You saw that too?’ ‘How could anyone miss the kittens? They were so lovely, so abandoned . . . Did you see the store selling antique glass bottles?’ ‘Yes, I did.’ Light breaking through the clutter of countless bottles had splashed all over the vendor, an old man with a beard as white as a ghost. ‘He looked like a disco ball with all that light raining down on him!’ ‘I never thought of that coot as a disco ball,’ she said, amused by Karan’s description, ‘but you got the nail on its head.’ The dignified Muslim vendor on a wooden stool, doused in echoes of ruby and jade, had been oblivious of the interest he had aroused in them. The path ahead turned off into a bend. ‘Let’s go down this one last curve of Mutton Lane; if we don’t find it here, I’m on my way home. I have a pottery studio,’ she explained. ‘And I’ve left three pitchers in the kiln. I’ve got to be home to save them from being overbaked.’ As they went down the narrow lane, their arms brushed against each other’s; Karan felt strangely, powerfully aroused. The urge to touch her again, to seek the warmth and thrill of her skin, was overwhelming. She looked as if she was trying to retrace her steps, to return to the place she believed she had seen the Bombay Fornicator earlier. Halting before a furniture stall she rubbed her hands gleefully. ‘You’re in luck, Mr Shutterbug!’ ‘I am?’ She pointed ahead. ‘Look past the carpenter.’ ‘Yes.’ He craned his neck. ‘At the end of the row of shelves.’ His eyes travelled the line of her extended arm. ‘That chair with long arms and hexagonal netting?’ Karan’s eyes moved to the gaunt carpenter sandpapering the claw foot of a chaise. ‘Yeah.’ ‘That’s it.’ She patted his back, urging him forward. ‘Go, have a look.’ He went into the shop. ‘Comfortable!’ he said, settling into the long-armed chair. ‘Neat lines. Great wood, unusual shape.’ Disappointment filled his face; what a lot of fuss for a chair. ‘Why does it have this funny name?’ ‘Put your feet on the arms of the chair.’ The carpenter looked up, intrigued by her soft, commanding voice. Karan swung his left leg on to the armrest. ‘Like this?’ ‘Yes, and now the other leg too.’ Karan followed her instructions. Lying back, he dropped his hands to his sides. ‘Spread your legs.’ ‘Excuse me?’ ‘I said: Spread your legs.’ His mouth fell open. ‘Good.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Spread them some more.’ The carpenter paused his sandpapering and turned to look at her. ‘Now throw your head back . . . Excellent! Let your hands stay at your side. Perfect!’ With his crotch aloft, his legs drawn out, Karan felt completely exposed. The carpenter gaped; he half expected her to march right over and sit on him, her pelvis over his, drawing him into the wilderness of her lust. Instead, she stood her ground, watching from afar, exuding a feral dignity. ‘If you still don’t get why this chair is called the Bombay Fornicator,’ she said, ‘then you should hop on to the next train bound for a monastery.’ He sat up, smiling like a baby who was being tickled on its soles. ‘Nice! You told me never to trust anyone in Bombay; then why did you help a stranger?’ ‘You bear an uncanny resemblance to someone I know.’ ‘Really?’ he asked, intrigued. ‘Who?’ ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘someone I know well.’ ‘And what do we have in common?’ Her eyes roamed his face again, studying the thick, inky eyebrows, the indented chin, the thin, flat ears. ‘Many things . . .’ ‘I guess that must spook you out.’ ‘A bit.’ ‘You won’t tell me who the person is?’ ‘He’s . . . someone.’ He decided not to probe any further. ‘The resemblance must’ve been uncanny.’ ‘In our own ways, we’re all gluttons for coincidence. What’s your name?’ ‘Karan Seth.’ He stood up. ‘Well then, Rhea Dalal will watch for your pictures on the pages of the India Chronicle.’ Wiggling her pinky at him, she turned and walked away into the thick, noisy rush of lanes. On her way to her car, she passed a tandoor and halted to look at its coals, orange smouldering in black, ash at the peripheries. She touched her hair self-consciously. An hour later, Rhea paused in the hallway of her apartment and gazed into the antique silver-framed mirror, wondering if she knew the person reflected in it. Was she just another south Bombay housewife? Could she think of herself as a potter? Or was she only a dilettante? And what of that odd, affected, trite title she had made up to impress Karan: ‘Chor Bazaar old hand’? Although a miscellany of identities was available at her disposal, none of them could define the person she secretly believed she was. Entering the living room, she stretched out on the sofa and gazed at the staghorn ferns suspended from the ceiling. Below the dramatic display of dangling staghorns was her husband Adi’s wine cabinet; desire for him filled her with a dull, sweet ache. She thought of calling him but he would probably be busy in some business meeting. Rhea had known Adi since her teenage years; they had married sixteen years ago. Adi spent a fortnight each month in Singapore, managing a hedge fund. In the duration of his absence, on days like this, she longed ardently for him; if he were here, he would relieve her disquiet. She would lie with her head on his lap and tell him what she had seen in Chor Bazaar: the black kittens in the elephant howdah, the pewter vermilion holder for new brides, the brass monkey with its long tail curling in the air like a question mark. A recollection of her day would make it real to her, help her comprehend how lovers bore witness to the narrative of each other’s fates. Sixteen years with Adi had taught her that marriage was a strange and marvellous organism; her own had kept her heart alert to the animating mysteries of life in addition to giving her the strength she needed to keep her solitude whole. But, much to her consternation, she had discovered that no matter how beautiful a marriage was, no matter how exhilarating and avid, it could still make room for despair, for the poignant acceptance that two people would let each other down without ever meaning to, their gravest errors passing unknown, and always unforgiven. Adi’s face floated in her head, and then it was replaced by Karan’s as he had reclined on the chair in the bazaar, his legs parted, his fit, young lion’s body radiating sensuality. Strangely enough, Karan’s uncanny likeness to the man Rhea loved to distraction extended to certain mannerisms as well: the way Karan stood, ramrod straight; his habit of scratching his jaw when he was anxious. If the rush of coincidental similarity had drawn her attention, then another aspect, murky but identifiable, had motivated her to help him in his hunt for the Bombay Fornicator: for Karan had reminded her of herself as a young woman, an artist preparing for her conversation with the world, ambivalent about the quality of her work but no less dedicated to its practice, serious and single-minded, ambitious and insecure, awkward and fierce. Not only was it astonishing how much Karan reminded Rhea of her youth, but she had also seen in his eyes the desire and drive that had once burnt bright in her own. She rose from the sofa and went to the kitchen. After boiling water for a pot of peppermint tea she went up to the terrace, to her studio, with a tray bearing sugar, a white tea cup, a plate of Quality ginger biscuits. For a while she tried to work on her pottery, but she soon realized how severely her excursion to Chor Bazaar had unhinged her composure. She left the studio and stood on the terrace, gazing at the city Karan Seth had chosen to make his subject. Neat, vibrant squares of red chillies laid out to dry on her neighbour’s terrace had not yet been collected and in the fading light they looked like patterns on a mythical carpet, so dark it was as if they had been dyed in blood. Bats shot in and out of the overgrown branches of a giant banyan, its thick, gangly aerial roots descending to the earth like tentacles. Lamps flickered tentatively over the sea, distant dhows bearing lean, drunk fishermen. These images coalesced, becoming a blur of the familiar, consoling details that had parented her childhood; now, for the first time, she was wondering what these sights meant to someone who was not from Bombay. Just as poison could be drawn out of the veins of someone bitten by a lethal snake, she thought Karan too would draw out these images from the innumerable capillaries of the city, relieving it of its magnificent agony and iridescent delusion. However, was he really any good? She had not even seen a single photo he had clicked, yet here she was readily ascribing virtue to his work! Afraid of relying too much on her instinct she went into Adi’s library adjoining her studio, where she sat cross-legged on the floor and leafed through a few dog-eared copies of the India Chronicle. As she turned the pages, her eyes searched the picture credits. Each time she saw a photo credited to Karan she recognized what she had suspected on meeting him: his incendiary talent, so huge and rambunctious it bled out of him like monsoon from an August sky. One picture, in particular, left her breathless. Iqbal Syed had commissioned Karan to shoot pictures to accompany a reasonably long feature on the city’s destitute lunatics. Karan had found his subject on Dadar Bridge. Fat and wildly regal, clothed in a torn bruise-purple satin gown, thick black curls corralling a dirt-encrusted face. With her elbows resting on the wall of the bridge, the woman was taking in the amazing chaos of the market below: marigold vendors and onion wholesalers, teenage prostitutes with career crotches, shining heaps of green chillies and big baskets of burnished lemons. The madwoman had an enchanted smile; the irises of her large, lashless eyes spilled over into the whites, and this furthered the impression that something was, in fact, looking through her. Pressing the picture of the madwoman against her chest, Rhea bent her head, closed her eyes and rocked to and fro, fearing her life was about to change forever. ‘Don’t take this personally,’ Rhea said into the phone, a week later, ‘but I think you’re ridiculously gifted. Your pictures are revolutionary; they’re tender and funny and powerful. They’re like folks songs, and old trees.’ ‘How did you get my number?’ A goofy grin had captured Karan’s face. ‘I called the India Chronicle switchboard; the operator put me through. I have a proposition in mind.’ The awkwardness she felt at speaking to him went undisclosed, her voice remaining impassive, controlled, regal. ‘There’s nothing more I like on a Monday afternoon,’ he said roguishly, ‘than being propositioned.’ ‘Would you care to photograph the flamingoes at Sewri?’ His eyes widened. ‘I’ve heard a lot about them.’ ‘Been around a while now. The flock’s got messier and massive and I thought they might add to the corpus of your images of the city.’ ‘I’d be glad to tag along.’ He was thrilled by her use of corpus; it made what he did sound wonderfully important. ‘If you give me your address I’ll pick you up on Sunday, early morning. Very early.’ ‘Certainly . . . But why are you doing this for me?’ ‘Because I believe in your work.’ ‘Others reckless enough to say that before have never offered to drive me all the way to Sewri.’ ‘And also, so you understand once and for all, no one in Bombay can be trusted.’ At dawn the following Sunday, the sullen silence in Rhea’s car was fractured by Billie Holiday crooning ‘Solitude’ in a sad-bad-girl voice that summoned to mind low-lit bars and shots of single malt Scotch. ‘Who told you about Chor Bazaar?’ she asked him. ‘Zaira.’ ‘You don’t mean the actor?’ ‘Yeah.’ Karan was impressed with Rhea’s driving; keen and swift, like a sting ray, he thought. ‘How do you know her?’ ‘I had photographed her best friend, Samar . . .’ ‘The pianist.’ ‘Yes. I met Zaira at his place. We became friends.’ He blushed, uncomfortable with what she might misread as name-dropping. ‘She’s real, with a terrific heart; he’s over-the-top and hilarious.’ ‘My husband admires Leo McCormick’s work. You’ve met him too, right?’ Rhea refrained from adding that she considered Leo’s writing sterile, soulless crap. ‘His approach to India is, well, unique.’ Karan paused, registering for the first time that she was a married woman. ‘You don’t sound like you’re a big fan of Leo.’ ‘My husband is the one who’s really into McCormick’s writing,’ she deflected. She noticed the mention of her husband had caused his tone to stiffen. ‘What do you do?’ ‘On a good day, I’m a potter; I recall telling you as much in Chor Bazaar.’ ‘And on a bad one?’ ‘An artist.’ ‘What’s the difference?’ ‘The degree of pretence.’ ‘So you think I’m all up there because I call myself a photographer.’ ‘I don’t apply my standards to others; it protects me from being judged by theirs.’ ‘Well, thanks a lot.’ ‘Don’t get so worked up.’ When she slapped the back of her hand playfully against Karan’s shoulder, a sharp, aching bolt of pleasure shot up his spine. He looked at her, but her face was relaxed and vague, neither confirming nor denying the voltage running between them. ‘What?’ ‘Nothing.’ He felt his ear lobes throb with white heat. She brought the car to a halt beside an industrial unit; in the distance were the remains of abandoned ships, hulks and anchors; an overpowering scent of salt and grease hung heavy in the air. ‘Well,’ she said, her eyes feasting on his face again, ‘here we are, Mr Seth.’ The Sewri mudflats were like nothing Karan had seen before: the land was cratered and huge puddles of water had collected in the undulations, reminding Karan of the first pictures of the moon. In the soft light of a new day, flamingoes spread out as far as his eye could see. The birds had shallow-keeled mandibles, elongated, spindled legs, wide wings with serrated, feverishly pink feathers at the edges. Their curved, pirate-hook beaks reached industriously through the silt, pulling up crustacean algae. From time to time they rent the air with flat, unimpressive goose-like cries. Almost as if he were under a spell, Karan left Rhea’s side and marched off into the shallow, stinking water. From a distance, Rhea admired his purposeful, agile stride, his correctly held shoulders, his narrow waist. She was drawn not so much to the high summer of Karan’s body—his dark hair with its dapper shine or the tight brown ropes of his long, determined arms—as to his virility, the reckless, organic abundance of youth; she imagined him on his knees, gently bending a woman in the exquisite distress of ecstasy, his hands gripping her by her waist, pulling himself deeper within her in smooth, energetic motions. He returned to her side about twenty minutes later, his eyes sparkling. ‘Incredible! Where do they come from?’ ‘Who knows?’ She shrugged. ‘They were just wandering before they stopped here. But it couldn’t have been for the view!’ ‘I could never imagine there would be a place for lost flamingoes in Bombay.’ ‘Who’d have thought, huh?’ ‘That lost things end up here?’ ‘Beautiful things, too.’ ‘They ought to be taken care of.’ ‘If they can care for their own, that’s plenty.’ ‘Where do you reckon they’ll go from here?’ ‘Where does anyone go from Bombay?’ ‘Surely Sewri was never meant to be their final destination!’ ‘Maybe they had no destination in mind.’ ‘How can they live in a swamp . . . In a city of one too many millions?’ ‘They’ve learnt to hustle, settled for Sewri when they could have had more. I guess if you don’t snatch what someone else needs, you’re okay.’ She folded her hands about herself. ‘Which means they’re an endangered species in more ways than one.’ ‘Don’t they have to leave? Go some place, like their home?’ ‘Home?’ She looked at him, then blinked slowly. ‘What’s that?’ ‘You know . . .’ he said, ‘the place where they belong.’ ‘Maybe they don’t know it just yet, but here’s where they’ve always belonged.’ A loud noise in the distance—perhaps a gunshot or a burst tyre—interrupted their conversation and set off the flock: one or two of them flapped their wings anxiously, giving off a strange, piercing shriek. ‘Maybe we’re all lost,’ Karan resumed thoughtfully. ‘Maybe so,’ Rhea said. ‘But how terrible to be found out.’ ‘Look!’ Karan pointed excitedly, scrambling for his camera. ‘They’re taking off.’ The flock hurled itself against the warm, burnished sky with a thunderous flutter. ‘I’m so glad I came,’ he said as the birds passed overhead. ‘I saw them a few months ago, when I was on my way to photograph Samar. They must be an omen.’ ‘An omen of what?’ she asked, knowing there was no answer to her query. He didn’t answer; he was working. His silence reminded her how completely given he was to his task. She raised her head and stared at the birds with him, caught in a web of awe and loneliness. As she watched the flock rise higher into the sky, something in her lovely, frightened soul took flight, freeing her, unexpectedly and briefly, from the earth’s heinous gravity.