The grey clouds stretch themselves like waking up from a deep afternoon slumber, sucking every drop of sparkle from the sea. They slowly, and then swiftly cover up the suffused rain-washed Sun, taking away its glory and lending the sea a sinister steely state. It’s early evening at Mumbai’s Bandstand Promenade; the sea-licked walkway where the posh Bandra folk run for their money, and their abs. It’s also home to anyone who gets the sudden urge to witness the sea. Wander Woman belongs to the latter category. On this exceptional July evening she finds herself sitting on the seaside parapet, watching Mumbai live on its edge. 

The black rocks below the parapet descend towards a tarry land, an underbelly of the city that feeds on its own refuse. A stray dog barks in a distance below, and three other graze the carved steps with their slender legs, howling in response. Senseless, they run to meet the sound, before going silent like a crashed wave. This middle earth belongs to them, and a few dwellers of the shadow world. A barefoot man clad in threadbare blue shirt sits on a giant rock, watching his own face in the pool of water before him. The sea is a hop skip and jump away, yet feels so far. The heavy monsoon breeze shifts the gaze towards the vibrant walkway that’s now gaining its evening momentum. 

A father guides his adult son from behind towards an empty bench. The son’s unkempt beard and shaggy hair hide a pale face. His limp limbs and empty eyes watch the sea mutely. The silence is broken by a ragpicker’s abrupt “thud” as he drops his bursting blue tarpauline bag. A pet terrier dangling from his leash shrieks at him…ggrkkaa ggrkkaa. The ragpicker takes no notice and walks on, his middle earth calling out to him. He doesn’t belong here. Everyone knows it. Accompanied by a thin wheatish stray, he descends down to his hell when a murder of crows flies from above him. The grey sea becomes a shade darker as another cloud wakes up.

The ragman has many things to choose from as his treasure. An empty bottle of Sprite, a worn-out black slipper for the left foot, chewed out corn cobs, half-eaten pack of Malkists, and an empty box of Marlboro. He picks the empty green bottle, throws it inside his bag and walks away. A stray spreads itself languidly across the black mass like a princess, while another stands tall, his gaze heaven-ward like a prince. A match made in hell. A malnourished drunk man in a soiled white shirt and loosely hanging pants gallops across the black rocks towards the carved steps. His wobbly frame is steadied by his frequently-trodden steps as he reaches the surface. He bends and picks up a small brown globe of dried coconut from the pile of strewn junk, its three black eyes staring at him as he throws it towards the self-respecting dog-prince, smashing it against a rock. Scampering for his life, the prince is awakened from his dream-state to his reality. His hell. In that moment, the clouds part and a bright glow touches everything below. The Sun is out again.

The glimmering sea in the distance is roaring, holding its own even as a concrete sealink bridge is taking shape over it. Yellow suspended cranes along the bridge seem like giant fishing rods made of steel. Man fishing for a way out of Mumbai’s traffic woes. Man fishing for fortune. Man fishing for greatness. Man fishing for himself. The glittering grey puddles come to life, and even middle earth feels habitable for once. The murky sea scent is swept off by the heavy monsoon breeze, carrying away with it all sense of despair. The sunlit walkway, lined with fan palm trees is gay like a child’s laughter. The swaying palm leaves are giant Chinese fans, caressing and coddling the sweat-soaked walkers, urging them to keep going. An old couple walks by, their facial features intermingled with each others’ to suggest they’re twins. Blame their similar diet and living patterns for this travesty. The woman’s face now looks like a man’s, and vice versa. They don’t seem to notice it and hold hands like they’re still lovers.

A pregnant woman dressed in a shapely deep blue dress is walking her cupcake-like Shih Tzu, the colour of a burnt biscoff cheesecake. A fair man dressed in black is holding his white slim terrier in his arms, while the man accompanying him holds his leash. Why does he have to hold his leash when he’s in his owner’s arms? A few moments later, the biscoff and the weak white terrier are hitting it off. And as follows suit, the owners exchange a few pleasant words. Ah, the perks of having a dog. No opening line needed. There’s no trace of the dark underbelly here, only swollen pregnant bellies and wealth dripping from their exquisitely bred dogs and branded sneakers. But the walkway is free for every scum of Mumbai to plant their feet on it. Those brandless generic folk for whom Mumbai isn’t a city of dreams but their sole reality.

A woman in her purple night gown is walking unsteadily, her head balding due to old age or chemotherapy. Which is worse? Her hands are clutching a red cloth bag tightly, like her life depends on it. Two burqa clad women are discussing money and marriage as they walk past, glancing sideways to make sure they’re unheard by prying ears. “If you earn 25,000 bucks, you can’t get married, sorry”, one is saying to the other. Words carried through the breeze. A woman in her forties, dressed in black printed leggings and a full-sleeved workout wear is walking with utter determination. Her ears are plugged to block all the noise from the world (and her mother-in-law’s taunts), as she walks with her eyes cast down and a strained look on her face. Her furrowed brows and tense jaw are part of her “workout look.” She’s walking all her stress off, but it keeps coming back like dust on a window sill. 

A typical aunty, dressed in seagreen salwar suit and sneakers is walking like psycho Raman from the film ‘Raman Raghav.’ Every step she takes lands exactly in front of her other foot, as though she’s that little girl on a tightrope. As the walkway tiles hit a roadblock in their continuing pattern with a black granite strip, she pauses like a maniac and starts over. Her hands are stretched back with her fingers intertwined to release her shoulder spasm from doing all the household chores. Maybe that’s what made her into this walking nut. We’re all on our edge in one way or the other, unraveling in one way or the other. The sea doesn’t judge, witnessing everyone as they are. The clouds cover the sun disc again, and the effect is surreal. The green patch along the shore gets darker, and the birds are now planning a return to their abodes. A solo crow zooms past with a twig between his teeth. A final dinner for the birds arrives with a saree-clad woman who unties a white cloth containing farsan. Seems like a Gujarati or Marwari from her bandhani print saree. All the crows descend from their lamp posts, ready to attack. Kkkrraawww kkkrraawww. Their Gujju thali.

A father-daughter duo are making superhuman efforts to make his wife (her mother) in her green night gown walk. Her soul is resisting as she shrieks at them, snapping in public. They don’t care for her outbursts anymore. She needs to walk or she’ll die. Dragging her arms, one tugged by the father, and the other by the daughter, this is the portrait of a happy family. Happiness has many darker shades too, like the sea’s steely depth. To give this woman company in her disability, a man arrives in a wheelchair, two manservants by his side. Parked at the parapet, he sways his left leg to gauge its strength. Maybe it’s stronger than yesterday. A few idle moments later, one of the manservants pulls him out of his chair like he’s lifting a bag of cement. Flopped on his shoulder like a dead weight, the man is carried across the walkway to a distance. The old man holds his hands and walks slowly, his limbs resisting, but his mind pushing him forward. Eternity later, he reaches his chair and plops on it like a child done with his homework, ready to watch cartoons on television. Well done. B minus. A dark brown Dachshund with wheels for his back legs half-trots-half-wheels past and we’re all suddenly in a tragicomedy. 

The living on the edge continues like an unbroken stream of river, with only the glacial clouds in the sky to suggest the presence of Time, its invisible hands sweeping across our still earth. No lie bigger than stillness. Still earth is still moving. Still sea is still flowing. Still mind is still thinking. Thinking of the hours gone by, now floating in the sea, containing all the hopes and dreams. Time carries everything with it, leaving no trace behind. And just like that, Wander Woman sitting on the parapet has vanished into the scene, blown away by the breeze.