Dogster: Twilight at the Apollo: Mumbai
 

Let's divert and go to Bombay.
The story so far:
http://www.fodors.com/community/asia...f-cruising.cfm

Here are some snapshots from the Zone. Nothing particularly filthy although sensitive readers might care to look away. I must warn you, though. There is a HORRIBLE conclusion. Some of you might need sedation afterwards. I know I did.

But not for a little while. There will be a few instalments before you have to hide under the blanket. I will just go off and sulk if you don't let me know you're reading.

So - for you: my vast internet audience of errr... seven:

'Twilight at the Apollo'

Dogster is in the Twilight Zone: Mumbai.

He’s lost in the Hotel Apollo in Colaba, kinda confused. This isn’t quite where he should be – but then again, maybe it is. Time will tell. Whatever the location, it is not on his itinerary.

Colaba is prime territory for the fool and first-timer. Unlike the big old pile of bricks for Britain on Apollo Bunder, it’s the real Gateway to India. All the innocents abroad pass through Colaba - some are literally fresh off the boat. Colaba leaps out at you, runs up and grabs at you, pulls at your sleeve; drags you into danger, dishes the dirt and flings it in your face. Initially, all anyone can do is react - there’s no time to stand back, look or process; it’s a litany of ‘no, no thanks, good luck, how’s your business, I’m not buying, no, I don’t want... no, no, no...’

All part of the great Colaba plan; keep ‘em reeling, just keep talking, inundate and conquer. Everything depends on that first fleet-footed moment; the false friendship, fake passion and phony fun – there’s a whole community of locals whose chosen profession and sole skill is to extract money from fresh meat by fair means - or preferably foul.

Rajkavi Gulshan Marg ebbed and flowed with life at night, epicenter of two thumping nightclubs, three hotels and half a dozen low-life bars; taxis dropped off and picked up; burly security men with oily hair and black shirts patrolled the street; dealers made a quick sale, spun off laughing into the shadows; all the normal business of business in Mumbai. I saw the glint of mobile phones, cheap gold on dirty fingers, fights, ** and strange transactions, men lying drunk in the gutter, kids wrestling cripples for a buck – but I saw laughter and friendship, too.

Taxi drivers, pimps, Sausages, Sunnies and whores meshed together in a perfect Mafia machine. Each had his territory; invisible borders which could not be crossed, controlled and run by invisible criminals who must not be crossed. I can’t pretend to know what was really going on; these were layers of darkness beyond my comprehension – a network of shops and barbers, sly grog dens, dealers, dingy doorways and alleys that led to nowhere - but then, everywhere leads to nowhere in Colaba.

‘Austraya-a-a-a!’

Sunny is in his late forties, a short man, nothing but a false smile and a pair of Elvis Presley sunglasses molded like the tail fins of a Cadillac. All I can see is me reflected in his eye. His fat fingers are heavy with gold. Those rings can’t be very precious. He sleeps on a mat in the street.

‘You come back!’

We’ve had quite a long term relationship, Sunny and I – but then, Sunny knows everyone. He was first cab out of a busy rank the second I hit town, sold drugs from a taxi stand just across the road. He’s a rogue. Rogues are fine, provided you don’t give them your money.

‘Yeah, Sunny – I’m back.’

We talked when he was bored. It was off-season - nothing else to do.

‘Where you been?’

He didn’t listen to my answer. It was all about the questions, not the reply.

‘I’m going to Hong Kong next week,’ he said cheerfully.

‘Holiday?’

‘Just three days - then back...’

He smiled and lowered his voice.

‘Two hundred grams - brown sugar.’

According to the Urban Dictionary, ‘brown sugar’ is an attractive black woman - or heroin. I shudder to think how much two hundred grams of either is worth.

‘Gawd, don’t tell me about it. I don’t wanna know.’

He shrugged.

‘Don’t people get shot for that?’

‘No problem,’ he laughed, ‘I do it all the time.’

‘Wow, that’s a great bike.’

Sunshine was young and fearless, glowing in the reflection of his shiny striped shirt. It looked like something John Travolta had discarded on the set of ‘Saturday Night Fever’ but was the height of fashion for lowlife Mumbai. He sat on a big, bad bike at the epicenter of two thumping nightclubs, three hotels and half a dozen low-life bars, all connected by an invisible network of mobile phones.

‘It’s not his!’ a mate shouted and laughed. ‘He’s just posing!’

Sunbeam, the mate, was dressed in an identical iridescent striped shirt. Perhaps they were twins; brothers in arms – between them they sold every drug you could think of and some I never knew existed, pimped and provided anything on two or four legs. There was a cheerful, engaging criminality about both of them; they would have slit my throat in an instant had it suited them but Dogster was seen as benign.

Their territory extended half-a-block on either side; Sunshine worked the stretch of road from here to the corner of Tulloch Road, Sunbeam the hotel stretch down to Shivaji Marg; old man Sunny worked the prime location on the Causeway, outside Cafe Mondial.

‘This would be my bike,’ Sunshine said, caressing the handlebars, ‘if you’d give me some business...’

‘You know I don’t buy,’ I chuckled, ‘good luck.’

‘Everyday you say good luck - but you never give me any good luck.’

I sensed it was put up or shut up.

‘You don’t sell what I want to buy.’

‘What is that?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I can sell that...’

A portly British expatriate wove uncertainly down the Marg. He was drunk, on a bicycle and a mission. I watched from my fourth floor window as he lurched to a stop, consulted briefly with Sunny then ducked into the shadows. Cocaine, I’d imagine. He looked like the merchant banker type. A second later they were back. Evidently there was a stoush going on; the Brit handed over money – but, judging by the shouting, clearly not enough.

They remonstrated; to and fro, to and fro. Sunny waved his mobile phone.

‘Don’t screw with me,’ he was saying, ‘I’ll call in my mates!’

‘Pffft!’ said the expat and gave him the finger. Sunny cut to the chase and dialed. Within seconds the drunk was surrounded. I saw two shiny striped shirts in the crowd. Hello Sunshine.

This was a moment to pay, not bray.

Of course, the expatriate brayed. That’s what British expats always do. He argued and protested, took the higher moral tone; when all that failed he shouted and shoved. He was truly the most stupid man in the world.

He vanished under a hail of blows, none particularly lethal. Sunbeam slipped in a kick. Brit swiftly paid for his pleasure in blood and rupees. No matter - in ten minutes, with a line up each nostril, he’ll feel no pain.

A police car cruised slowly along the street. Sunny’s gang scattered leaving the expat spattered, slowly heading horizontal. The cops were patrolling for the weekly baksheesh; one broken Brit was of no importance - he shouldn’t be there in the first place. They curled their lip and drove away.

The expat staggered to his feet.

Someone had stolen his bike.

‘You fock-k-ka-a-a-as! I hate your country!’ he exploded, ‘I hate your people!’

Everybody laughed. They’d taken his money, his pride and his bicycle. All in all, a good night’s work.

More tomorrow - if anybody's reading.

Vro-o-o-om-m-m-m...

Here comes Skate. No legs, half a girl on a skateboard, strong arms, strong heart, big smile. I see her out of my window all the time.

Vro-o-o-om-m-m-m...

She’s twenty, draped in half a sari, a moving flurry skating deftly down the road. We met last night. I was sucking on Sweet Lime at a drug den that masquerades as a juice shop on the Causeway. Skateboard whizzed by, wheeled around and stopped in front of me.

‘Oh, don’t give me a hard time, honey,’ I moaned gently, ‘you know me. I’m just having a break.’

‘No problem,’ she chirped. She was having a break, too. Skate was beautiful. She had Rajasthani eyes.

‘How’s your business?’

‘Quite good, really.’

I felt very tall and had to sit down. Luckily the drug dealer had chairs. We chatted about the tourists and the terrorists, the rich men and the poor, as if life on a skateboard was the most normal thing in the world - which, of course, it was – to her.

‘You know I’m going to give you money, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Skate said.

‘How do you know that?’

‘Because I’ve got no legs.’

‘Hello Uncle.’ A croaky voice from a doorway.

It’s Carlotta, the fighting whore; she’s young, works this block with the casual flair of a catwalk model. Today she’s a floating vision in grubby pink with a sparkling border of gold. She’s a panther and a pussycat, rapacious and warm, full of lust, syphilis and laughter. Things will get better for Carlotta when darkness falls.

‘Remember me?’

‘Of course I do. I see you every day.’

She smiled. Carlotta was in the right business, grubby but gorgeous, a tribal wench with a fok-k-k-me stare. I’d seen her two nights ago in a fist-fight with one of the competition. She was magnificent. She could swear like a sailor’s navvy, kick like a colt and deliver a left hook that had me gasping.

‘How is your business?’

‘No good,’ she said and pulled a face. She was a little drunk.

‘But today will be a good luck day.’

Carlotta had a filthy twinkle in her eye. It matched her sari.

See that kid? That’s Sausage. They are all called Sausage. It’s easier that way. This particular Sausage is like an assassin rat if you don’t know her. She’s the only little girl I ever wanted to kill.

Sausage is a street urchin. Her job is to follow tourists around till they explode. She is a very persistent Sausage. I met her on my first visit to Mumbai, a cute, grubby little girl who ‘...stuck to me like glue, who couldn’t be diverted, sweet-talked, cajoled, bullied, threatened, in any way made to stop...’

I was being nice – she’s a monster.

Luckily my murderous actions were tempered, only just, by my thoughts. Now Sausage and I were the best of friends; she saw me every day. I wasn’t a target. I was a neighbour. She had no idea I’d wanted to kill her - she didn’t remember me at all.

‘Hello, Sausage! How are you today? Where’s your mummy?

She pointed to a pile of rags on the corner. Sitting naked in the gutter beside her drunken mother was a tiny child. Looking after the baby was a six year-old boy. This was Little Sausage, her brother. I’d seen him just last night, flying through the air. He looked over and waved.

Little Sausage hung suspended in space, a very surprised look on his face. I think the large German tourist who had launched him there was just as surprised as he was.

Hans was eight foot tall, built like a Panzer division and much stronger than he thought. The kid probably weighed as much as three packets of tea.

Hans met Little Sausage and rapidly reached the point of no return. Tagging along beside Hans annoying the hell out of him, the child was the final straw that broke his big Teutonic back. Oberführer Hans lost it for an unwise second, grabbed the kid by the scruff of his neck and flung him into mid-air - where he has been hanging, politely waiting for me to finish, while I filled in the background.

He’s about shoulder height to the German, sailing in a graceful arc across that brawny chest. His eyes are wide; arms spread wider, a rag doll en route to the tip. Car horns Blah-h-h-h! Beep! Ching, ching! Vro-o-o-o-orrrr. Little Sausage hits the ground, tumbles over into the roadway. He’s surprised, a bit shaken but not wounded. He bounces up.

Hans continues down the sidewalk. He looks shocked at what he’s done, kinda red, kinda puffy. He doesn’t look back. He’ll be really ashamed of himself in a hundred yards, once the adrenalin wears off. There isn’t one of us who hasn’t cracked in India.

Admittedly, most of us don’t hurl the beggars into space. No matter. No harm done.

Not to the kid, anyway.

Little Sausage sees me. Before he’s even dusted himself off that little hand is waving.

‘Mah-h-h-n-e-e-e-e...’

I give him one of my celebrated Dogster looks of death. One of these can freeze an urchin to a block of stone. Little Sausage knows not to tangle with the Big Cabana. In a flash he’s gone, dancing gaily though the traffic.

Everybody eats at the Majestic, a whakkety klang ker-r-rrash of a place full of families and the guys from the street, always full, always buzzing and always just a little bit surprised whenever I turn up. The Dining Hall is the last functioning remnant of the great Majestic Hotel, still crumbling on the corner overlooking Wellington Circle.

There’s nothing grand about the Majestic Dining Hall but it sure lives up to its name. Portraits of Mr. Majestic and an even more majestic Mr. Majestic Senior fill half one side wall. Each gets a garland of orange chrysanthemums and a spotlight. So they should.

Over the cash desk, just by the exit door, an altar has been built to honour Lord Gluttony, one of the minor Hindu saints. He gets a garland, too. Every night at 7.30 there are prayers. It’s quite a bless-fest. Red hot coals and oil are combined in a censer to produce enough smoke to gas Gujarat while the cashier sways and mumbles, wandering slowly round the restaurant blessing the watermelon hanging from the front entrance, the threaded oranges dangling across the door, the refrigerator, the staff and the kitchen, the Majestic maharajas hanging on the wall and each and every customer.

Incense and curry have a strangely apposite effect on my palate, I’ve discovered – still, it’s not very often you get to eat and smoke at the same time.

Go for the Chicken Thali.

It comes on a large silver dish – or though, given the surroundings, the base metal may be slightly more humble. There’s a little silver bowl of raita, a little silver bowl of rice, egg curry in a little silver bowl, vegetable curry in a little silver bowl and a slightly larger silver bowl of chicken. Pile on the paratha and you’ve got a Chicken Thali.

The price for this extravaganza? Sixty-eight rupees. At the time of purchase, that was U.S. $1.40.

That’s why everybody eats at the Majestic - because they can. There’s the Sausage family, shoveling a hundred rupees of daily beggary down their throats. There’s Carlotta enjoying the fruits of her afternoon labor. There are two of my massage men, deep in conversation, eking out my lousy tips; there’s the Mumbai Mafia, hunched in a booth; there’s a Jimmy and a Jimmy and a Jimmy, a gang of sneak-thieves chowing down...

There’s a crinkled foreigner with an odd expression on his face.

I think he’s smiling.

Ahhh.

That's a better place to leave it. Happy Doggy.
If only the next story ended up that way.

Later.

I'm here, reading and awaiting another thrilling dogster tail! Thanks.

Ah, a new chapter in your adventures. What a nice treat to start my day!

Reading . . . how could I not?!!!

Ahhh, it's nice to know I'm not alone.'

As you can see - these pieces really ARE snapshots. There are no death-defying adventures in Mumbai; just an avalanche of detail. So I'm layering them. Hopefully there's a cumulative effect.

For those wishing to feast their eyes on the glories of the Hotel Apollo:
http://www.hotelapollo.co.in/

‘There’s something in your ear,’ his finger was saying.

I swipe away at the offending lobe.

‘It’s still there,’ the finger said.

I can’t remember anything about him – just a finger waving at my ear. I try again.

‘Still there,’ said the finger, ‘let me get it out.’

I was non-plussed.

He’s poking about in my ear with something soft. It takes me a second to work out what is going on. I pull back.

‘What are you doing?’

I spot the filthy cotton bud. You don’t need a description.

‘Argh-h-h-h! Go away! Rack off!’ He did.

Later I thought I’d been mean.

Here’s a man who has picked up a used cotton bud from the gutter and was trying to make a career out of it. That’s enterprise and invention. I had to admire that.

‘I’m a carpenter,’ said one solitary young lad. He was freshly showered and neatly dressed, shaved and smelling of cheap cologne. ‘I work every day from six o-clock. Carpenter.’

For the next few minutes he spun his story. Poor sod - works all day, slaving away for a dollar, living in a hovel with thirty five boys, sending money home to his poor sick mother and thirteen younger siblings - on and on, tragedy, pain, the whole darn thing.

I turned my head slowly in his direction.

‘That’s a very nice watch,’ I said carefully, ‘and a very nice mobile phone.’

He pressed a button and I heard the ring-tone. It was an electronic version of the Hendrix version of ‘Star Spangled Banner.’ I could see the gold glinting on his fingers.

‘Wow,’ I said, ‘great rings! Show me.’

He displayed them.

‘Is that gold too?’ I pointed to the chain around his neck.

He wiggled his head and smiled a very white, very broad smile.

I knew his name. It was Jimmy.

We’d had the invention. I guess we’ll have the enterprise next.

That mangy black dog has found his spot. I’ve been watching him. He’s in the dirt under a tree digging a hole with his front paws. He’s a lazy ‘ol fool dawg, he ain’t in no hurry. He scrapes away, turns round, sluggishly scratches again, hollowing out his bed.

‘Can you help me?’

Just sit and a Jimmy will come. I’m growing bored with Jimmy. He’ll never be bored with me. I meet multiples of Jimmy every day. This is the penance of the single male traveler, old or young, cashed-up, broke or back-packer. Men are men. Jimmy knows what they want.

Jimmy always comes from somewhere else. Bihar seems to produce more than its fair share of them, young men with no options and a head full of Bollywood dreams. Most settle in to a corner with their own kind, five, six of them in a room, struggling to get by - some slip through the cracks. These are the low-level Jimmies, the ones with stretched faces, haunted eyes. They always carry a portfolio – a desperate collection of photos, an identity card, as if they want to prove to both of us they really exist.

‘That’s my girlfriend,’ he said, pointing to the attractive lass leaning on his shoulder. They made a handsome couple.

‘How old are these pictures?’

‘One year.’

A lot had happened to Jimmy in the meantime. He was filthy, obviously sleeping rough, a shadow of the healthy, normal teenager in the pictures.

‘Oh, Jimmy,’ I thought, ‘oh, Jimmy.’

The fool dog stopped scratching and heaved himself into the dirt. He’d made his bed. Now he’d lie in it.

‘Uncle, can you give me something?’

I looked at his arms. They were covered in needle marks. I saw a dozen scars where he had slashed himself. He had amateur tattoos cascading from elbow to wrist. I could see just where any donation I might make would go.

Ahh-h-h-h said the fool dog and lay his head down on the earth.

‘No, I won’t.’

Tough love.

‘But I will give you some words from my heart.’

I stared deep into his eyes. He looked back. I held the pause.

‘I look at this...’ I said, pointing at the photos.

‘I look at this...’ pointing to the track marks on his arms.

‘I see that dog over there...’

The fool dog was sleeping, dancing in his dreams. He was chasing rabbits. ‘R-r-roof!’ he said in his sleep. His paws were twitching. Fool dog thought he was free. He was just a dog in the dirt.

I looked at Jimmy. He gasped.

‘Go home. This is a bad place for you. Go home.’

I'm addicted to your writing dogster. More adventures please.

Tomorrow I'll tell you about Bombay Bongo - and the HORRIBLE thing.

Sounds like the title of a Dr. Seuss book.

Yup, Marija, I agree, "Bombay Bongo - and the HORRIBLE Thing" by Dr. Suess. I'd buy it.

I'm reading too, and enjoying.

Dogster--I don't often sign on--but rest assured I am one of your avid readers.

Great stuff, Dog - another classic in the works...

How peculiar that on its website the Apollo lists "Mac Donalds" as a nearby attraction and fails to mention the Majestic Dining Hall.

When I saw the title of the latest of Dogster's chapters, I thought perhaps it related to Michael Jackson's performance at the Apollo Theater in Harlem with the Jackson Five. Here in America we are saturated -- supersaturated -- with MJ these days. Happily it is another chapter in the the Lives and Loves of Dogster in India --- escaped from the cruise ship -- oh happy day -- and doing fun things in India. Keep up the good work!

I thought it might refer to the vampire books/movie. I am enjoying these Colaba chronicles dogster ~ bracing for the HORRIBLE bit. . .

Morning guys - [well, a Dogster morning: 1.30 p.m.]

You'd think the Hotel Apollo would know a bona-fide wonder in their midst, Marija: but the Majestic Dining Hall is the LAST place anyone would expect to find a tourist. It's half a block away, directly across the Causeway from Shivaji Marg.

In all my Indian eating, I think it's the quintessential experience. I went there twice a day for a week.

Of course, I hadn't thought that my title might reflect on the recent demise of someone people call the King of Pop. I dealt with that topic, in my own sweet way, with a story called 'The Devil in Kolkata'.

But I am very taken with my accidental Dr. Seussism. Yup, Bombay Bongo and the HORRIBLE Thing DOES sound like a Dr. Seuss title. Well, he can't have it.

I, too, have to brace for the HORRIBLE bit, trav: however, as I think my horror will be for your enjoyment - [and MY eternal shame - lol] I'll not fuss too much. For it to work I'll have to bung it all in, in one go - so, I'm building up for my public humiliation.

First, I have to go over to www.cruisecritic.com and see what susiesan has done to me. She's posted a link to my cruising story in the Azamara section. Oh dear. I'd imagine there'll be abuse.

Hi Dogster, I'm just back and see I have lots of reading to catch up on - looking forward to a peaceful day or two to read up on your doggie tails before having to get back to some work. Hope I manage to pick up all the reports I've missed!

Heya Mary! Welcome home. Everybody here has missed you. I hope you and the roo-buster had a restful and relaxing time. Is it trip report material? Or just a big long relaxa-vac?

I think there's just the 'Wonders of Cruising' bit to read - but, like everybody else, I'm lost. Nobody will ever read any of this in sequence, anyway - except for my faithful Fodor's friends - of which, you are one.

I'm delaying putting the second half on this post in. It's SO humiliating. lol .

O.K. Here goes. Get under the blanket.

Northern hemisphere: I'm not sure this is ideal breakfast reading. Exercise caution.

Southern hemisphere: grab a bottle of your finest Dog-Slayer, you'll need it.

Settle back and witness Dogster's ruin.

Bombay Bongo and the HORRIBLE thing.

Bongo was having a baby in Bihar.

Frankly, he looked like it. His stomach bulged out of his singlet as he sat on the roof beside me, a melting Michelin Man splat fat on a mat. It was evident he hadn’t washed for a while. He leant over and rested his head on my shoulder.

‘I’m having a...’

He shuddered and started to sob.

‘Who-o-o who-o–o wargh-h-h...’

I wasn’t entirely sure what to do with this sudden emotion. I couldn’t give him a reassuring hug – he was far too huge for that and anyway, he was leaning on my arm. I didn’t want to encourage him at all, really - he was a bit pongy and quite unattractive, unshaven and turning rank. I decided on manly silence while he sobbed. Manly silence covers a multitude of sins. Mostly it means that a man doesn’t know what to do – but then, I think half of us already know that.

Bombay Bongo was one of the security guys at the Hotel Apollo. Quite how I’d ended up on the roof with him sobbing on my shoulder at midnight is just too complicated to explain. Who cares? I was there. We were both a long way from home.

‘Weugh-h-h,’ he wailed, ‘ba-a-a-a-b-e-e-e!’

I sat there stoically while he dripped on me. This was all going to take quite some time.

Bongo hailed from Bihar where he had a pretty wife. Well, he thought she was pretty – he’d hardly seen her; just long enough to marry and impregnate before he hurtled back to Mumbai. She sat gestating in the village in Bihar - he sat sweating on the roof of the Hotel Apollo, working triple shifts. Obviously, it was all getting a bit much for him.

‘I work, I work, I work,’ he sobbed, ‘I must make fifteen thousand this month, then I go to Bihar! I have baby. No village. We need Doctor, hospital – everything safe. We go Patna.’

More manly silence. I could see the domes of the Taj hotel just a block away, lit up, bruised and empty. Bongo really did need a wash.

He grunted and sat up. ‘O.K. Sorry. Finished now.’

‘Good man,’ I said solemnly. ‘Better?’

Two moist eyes shone in the dark. A row of teeth emerged from blackness.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said.

Everybody needs a friend. He was about to be a father. Dogster understood. Men are vulnerable, too.

I limped through the lobby, trying to be stoic. My leg hurt. This old Dog is wearing out.

Bongo looked concerned.

‘Ow-w-w.’ I pulled a face. ‘Ow-w-w. Leg.’

‘I get you massage man – tonight. Nine.’

‘Fine.’

There are five hundred massage men in Mumbai and Bongo was determined I try each and every one of them. I couldn’t stop him. Each night another youth would be delivered to my room to prod and pummel in the hope of a miracle cure. Each morning I’d come down and Bongo would leap to his feet.

‘Leg?’

‘Ow-w-w-w.’

‘Tonight. One more. Nine.’

‘Fine.’

The masseurs of Mumbai are quite a breed.

The first one was wee ferret of a man with the killer hands of a professional. I think he strangled chickens on the side. He pounced on my legs with a pincer grip of steel and didn’t let up till I cried. He was only twenty three but had a wife, two children, three girlfriends and could ejaculate five times a day, so he told me. I didn’t care.

The second flew straight from Heaven to be by my side. He was thin as a throttle but then, there aren’t many fat masseurs. Thin but very, very strong. He stared into my face the entire time. I think he was trying to hypnotize me. I closed my eyes. That fixed him.

But he didn’t fix me. The third massage man knew his stuff. He’d been trained by his Keralan grandmother. Thin again, with fingers that flew to the pressure points. He was little grubby and rather sky, a talented fawn who had found himself in the city with healer’s fingers and no rupees.

The fourth was a hearty lad with no skills at all. His winning smile wasn’t enough to stop him being thrown out after fifteen minutes. Life is short. He was replaced with a grease monkey who oiled me up so much it took a week to stop sliding out of bed.

After five of these gentlemen in a row I could barely walk.

‘Bongo. No more. No more massage man, O.K.? Ow-w-w-w.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Sure enough, that night at nine...

Like many a first-time father, Bongo needed some cash. Here I was. He just wanted to keep on providing services, as many as possible, because every time he provided a service he got a two-way cut; a percentage from the service then a juicy tip ‘for the baby’ from me for providing it. It was in his interests to keep me consuming.

‘Anything else you need?’

Big Bong became my Mumbai fixer and Deep Throat; he knew Colaba like the back of his hand; who sold what, where and how much it should cost - if somebody screwed me over he would kill them. He was worth every bit of his baby’s baksheesh. I felt obliged to consume as much of everything as I possibly could.

So Bongo delivered my beer, my take-away coffee from Baristas and my charas, a nightly surprise in the form of a mystery masseur, taxis and tourist tips with a friendly smile - he pressed the lift button for me, opened the door, collected my washing, shoo-ed staff from the computer when I needed it and made it known in the neighborhood that he was my guy.

Alas, Bongo didn’t know where to stop.

Nine o’clock. The phone rang.

‘S-s-s-s-Bong-a-a-a,’ the voice said. ‘S’Bonga.’

Bongo was so drunk he couldn’t even pronounce his own name. I didn’t know that at the time. I just thought it was a bad line.

‘Come down. I have a man for you.’

‘Is this another massage man? Can’t you just send him up?’

‘No, he’s different. Come down and meet him. See if you like him. He’s my friend.’

I was pretty relaxed, Bongo’s charas was hitting home. Why not? There was nothing else to do. I knew this was a mistake. It was. I went out anyway.

‘Gokul,’ Bongo slurred. ‘Meet me at Gokul. You and me and my friend, full enjoy.’

If ever you hear the words ‘full enjoy’ in India, be warned. If someone suggests a night at Gokul, be very, very scared. Gokul is a place where many a gentlemen go for a ‘full enjoy’. It’s the most notorious bar in Colaba.

Of course, I knew none of this. All I knew of Gokul was a doorway opposite my favorite shopkeeper, a glimpse of tables, a roar of Hindi, a line of motorbikes and handsome young men outside. I passed it ten times a day, to and from my barber, Leopold’s and the joys of Colaba. Everything is hidden in India – until you find it; then you realize it was there all along.

I think my baksheesh were being used for something other than Baby Booties. Bongo and his mate seemed to have drunk the last installment; they arrived in a very garrulous state. His friend had no English at all but a great deal of Hindi. He just stared at me silently with adoring doe eyes – I thought at the time he may have been slightly retarded, but he was just naturally stupid.

We slid into a cubicle deep inside Gokul’s. The seat was three feet wide. I was by the wall. Bongo’s friend squashed in beside me with a smile I could only interpret as predatory. Oh dear.

Bongo slid in opposite us and grinned. He ordered three beers. Of course, I was going to pay.

‘He’s a rich man,’ he said to his friend.

The friend nodded eagerly. He was twenty three, a young man with a hook nose and keen expression - rather like a slim Harpo Marx, an Indian Bruno sired by Borat. If he had a name I’ve blocked it out. We’ll call him Bingo.

There was something about Bingo that made my flesh crawl. He was a deeply unattractive man with a very large, moist mouth, dumb, carnivorous and slightly out of control. I suspected Bingo was a not-very gifted amateur roped in by our mutual friend; both were already crazed with the prospect of a kamikaze attack on my wallet. Bingo was even more crazed at the prospect of sex.

Young Indian men teeter endlessly at the edge of the sex cliff, always the bridesmaid, never the blushing bride. As we all know, the poor sods ejaculate within fifteen seconds anyway - God only knows when anybody had time to think up the Kama Sutra.

It’s taking me a while to realize they are both drunk. Bingo’s behavior is very strange, rather eager, over-excited and garrulous. As I’d never seen him sober, it was kinda hard to know when he was not. Bongo just cut to the point.

‘You like?’

Clearly, they had concocted a money-making plan.

‘Ohh-h, no-o-o-o, Bongo.’

‘He’s my best friend. Very good man.

‘Ohh-h, no-o-o-o, Bongo...’

‘One day off work to meet you tonight. Full night with you - full enjoy.’

How can I say this gently? He’s practically sitting on my lap. There must be things that arouse me less than Bingo but I can’t think of any right now - maybe sex with a squid. Really, all I had to do was get up and leave - but I was blockaded, both by Bingo and my own stupid breeding.

The beer arrived. The waiter looked at me with a very strange expression. I felt like an old prosciutto hung out to dry, trapped between a con, a cock and a concoction in Colaba.

‘He’s a very nice man but... no, Bongo. Please – no-o-o-o. This is not my thing...’

It was evident that Bingo and Bongo were only going to hear what they wanted to. Bongo only translated the ‘he’s a very nice man...’ part.

My neighbor beamed. One leg clamped against mine. A bony hand reached over under the table and grabbed my dick.

I’d imagine this was about as exciting as squeezing an uncooked sausage. He was very persistent, imagining that prolonged squeezing would bring life to the dead. He squeezed and squeezed. The sausage stayed rare. There would be no salami for Bingo tonight, no matter how hard he grabbed and grunted.

‘Stop squeezing my dick.’ I said.

I was very calm. Bongo translated. Bingo nodded urgently and changed tack. He stroked instead of squeezed.

It was evident that young Bingo studied at the Squash, Crash and Burn school of romance. The Saveloy D’Amour remained asleep.

‘Leave my dick alone.’

Bongo leant across the table.

‘He wants to kiss you.’

‘Wha-a-a...?’

The friend leant over, enclosing me in a tangle of limbs. It’s a car crash. Only scattered fragments of memory remain.

I recall a glimpse up one of his nostrils and then a giant pink clam yawned open inches from my face.

‘Wha-a-a...?’

The clam hurled itself against my mouth. Wet, runny and determined, the toothy void advanced. Poking out of the clam was a vast purple slug.

That’s all I remember. I think I fainted dead away. Plonk. In a Gokul’s booth in front of sixty other people - pressed against a wall, impaled by the tongue of death.

The sausage didn’t sizzle on that barbeque.

‘Argh-h-a-loof-a-rgh-h-no-o-o-o!’ I said.

Bloop-a-bloop-a-bloop went the tongue.

‘Argh-h-h-argh-h-h-a-larga-a-alerk,’ I said.

I’ve blanked out the rest of the conversation. Heads are turning. Mine is rotating. This frozen moment lasted for ever; I still think about it - smothered by that great pink clam; slow death by sea-slug.

Horrible.