The Borrowed Blazer and the Bombay Cabaret :A Students Night Out in 1964

 The Great Blazer Caper of 1964

It was during this year's Durga Puja in Delhi that Amu — my second brother and self-proclaimed "memory excavator" — and I sat reminiscing about our youth. The tea was hot, the samosas were crisp, and the stories, as always, got more colourful as the evening wore on.

Amu suddenly said, "Do you remember, I once borrowed Kutu's Delhi College blazer? The one with the crest? Oh, the swagger I had wearing that!"

That one comment sent me tumbling down memory lane straight to 1964 — the year of our epic study tour across Bombay, BHEL Bhopal, and Bhilai Steel Plant. Bombay, in particular, had left quite an imprint. Not because of the Gateway of India or Marine Drive — but because of *a blazer and a cabaret*.

 The Marine Engineering Connection

I was staying at the hostel of my late friend Adarsh Saxena, then a proud Marine Engineering student at Dufferin. Poor Adarsh — years later, duty would claim him in a tragic ship fire at some foreign dockyard. But in 1964, he was alive with mischief and stories.

That evening, over endless tea and stale samosas, we began recalling our childhood in Delhi's Chummeries — our old flats at 14 and 26 in Block 95, the endless cricket matches, and the mischief shared with Kutu,Saily, Subhash, Binder, Tej Bahadur, Sarupa, and Khokon.

"Remember how Kutu used to bowl those impossible spinners?" Adarsh chuckled.

"And you'd still manage to hit them for a six!" I replied. "My badminton skills were no match for your cricket wizardry."

Then Adarsh, his eyes twinkling with mischief, asked, "Ever been to a night club?"

I nearly choked on my tea. "Night club? Like... the ones in movies?"

He grinned. "Exactly. Like Howrah Bridge. Cabaret, music, dancing!"

"But don't they have dress codes? Suits and all that?"

"College blazers work perfectly," Adarsh said, producing a gleaming blazer like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. "Tonight, you're a college gentleman."

The Taxi Ride of Nerves

Our mutual friend Vikram — another Marine Engineering student — joined us as we hailed a taxi. The moment we settled into the black-and-yellow cab, my anxiety kicked in.

"Adarsh, what if they ask us questions? What if they know I'm not from Bombay?" I whispered.

The taxi driver, overhearing, turned around with a grin. "First time, sahib?"

Vikram burst out laughing. "Uncle, how did you know?"

"Arre, thirty years driving in Bombay. I can spot a nervous first-timer from Marine Lines to Colaba!"

Adarsh patted my shoulder. "Relax, yaar. Just sit back, sip your drink, and enjoy the show. Don't stare too much, don't talk too loud, and whatever you do, don't look shocked when the dancer comes near our table."

"What if she talks to me?"

"She won't," Vikram chimed in. "One look at our student faces and empty pockets, she'll know we're here for the 'cultural experience' only."

The taxi driver chuckled. "Sahib, which club are you going to?"

"The one near Churchgate," Adarsh replied casually.

"Ah, very good place. Music, dance, cold drinks. But sahib," he looked at me in the rearview mirror, "don't look like you're attending a wedding. Smile a little!"

I tried to smile but felt like I was grimacing.

"Beta," the driver continued, "I dropped many boys like you. First time is always nervous. But remember — you're paying customer, not criminal!"

As we neared the club, Adarsh turned serious. "Listen, the entry fee is steep. After that, we'll have just enough for cold drinks and maybe some snacks. No fancy dinner tonight."

"That's fine," I said, adjusting the borrowed blazer. "I'm too nervous to eat anyway."

 The Great Cabaret Experience

The doorman glanced at our blazers and waved us in, perhaps thinking we were future captains of industry. We found a table at the back, clutched our cold drinks like lifelines, and tried to act casually sophisticated.

The lights dimmed. Music swelled. And *she* appeared — the cabaret dancer in shimmering attire, swirling and spinning like a human kaleidoscope. I nearly dropped my glass.

"Close your mouth," Vikram hissed. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I've never seen anything like this," I whispered back.

Adarsh was thoroughly enjoying my bewilderment. "This is nothing. Wait until she starts the table rounds."

And sure enough, she began moving from table to table, smiling, tossing her hair, collecting tips as gracefully as Helen herself. When she approached the businessmen near us, they stuffed notes into her sequined belt with practiced ease.

"She's coming our way," I panicked.

"Smile and nod," Adarsh instructed. "Act like you belong here."

She glided past our table, gave us a professional smile, realized we were broke students, and moved on without missing a beat.

"Did she just... ignore us?" I asked, not sure whether to be relieved or insulted.

Vikram snorted. "Welcome to Bombay economics, my friend. No tips, no special attention."

 The Morning After - Return to Reality

The next morning, I made my way back to Victoria Terminus where my IIT Kharagpur friends were staying in a railway bogey on a siding — our budget accommodation for the study tour. The contrast couldn't have been starker: from the glittering cabaret to a railway siding that smelled of coal smoke and morning tea.

My friend Rajesh was brushing his teeth with a mug of water when I climbed into the bogey.

"Where were you last night? We waited for dinner!"

"I was... exploring Bombay culture," I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

Kumar looked up from his engineering textbooks. "Culture? In that borrowed blazer?"

"Wait, wait," said Prasad, sensing a story. "Sit down and tell us everything. And don't skip details."

So I sat on the wooden bench of our railway bogey and began my tale. "Well, you see, Adarsh suggested we visit a night club..."

"Night club!" Rajesh nearly choked on his toothpaste. "Our innocent badminton champion went to a night club?"

"There was a cabaret dancer," I continued, "and she was spinning around like in the movies..."

"Like Helen in Howrah Bridge?" Kumar asked, eyes wide.

"Exactly! But here's the thing — she completely ignored us because we looked like broke students."

Prasad was laughing so hard he had to hold his stomach. "So you paid all that money to be ignored by a dancer?"

"But the experience, yaar! The lights, the music, the... the glamour!"

"And here we were eating dal-chawal in a railway bogey while our friend was living it up in Bombay nightlife," Rajesh shook his head in mock disappointment.

 The Retelling at IIT Kharagpur

Weeks later, back at IIT Kharagpur, the story had gained legendary status in our hostel. During one of our evening adda sessions, someone inevitably brought it up.

"Tell them about the cabaret, yaar," Prasad would say, and I'd have to repeat the tale.

"The best part," I'd always conclude, "was the taxi driver. He said, 'First time is always nervous, but remember — you're paying customer, not criminal!' I think that was the wisest thing anyone said that entire evening."

My hostel mates would roar with laughter, especially when I described how the dancer gave us one look and decided we weren't worth her time.

"From cabaret in Bombay to coal smoke in railway bogey," Rajesh would summarize. "That's the true engineering student experience!"

Years later, standing in Paris at the famous Lido — all glitter and sophistication — I couldn't help but chuckle. "Ah," I thought, "this is grand, but my first cabaret in Bombay — with a borrowed blazer, a pounding heart, and friends who laughed at my expense — now *that* was an education."

The borrowed blazer had opened doors I never knew existed, and closed them just as quickly. But the memory? That was mine to keep forever.

The Song Before the Gunfire

A Song Before the Gunfire  

*A Cherished Unfinished Memory*  

Whenever I meet someone new, I prefer to watch from a distance before approaching. If the person seems easygoing—smiling, perhaps with a book in hand—I take it as a sign from fate that a good conversation awaits. For a storyteller, life is an infinite anthology, and strangers are just unwritten pages.  

I still remember my early days at the Gauhati Refinery of Indian Oil Corporation. Back then, there was no direct broad-gauge line to Gauhati. The route took you from Delhi to Barauni by broad gauge, and then onward by meter gauge to Gauhati. Today’s seamless rail connections are faster, but they lack the gentle rhythm of those journeys, the leisurely stations, and—most of all—the companionship of shared travel.  

In those first-class compartments, often two of the four berths were taken by army officers. It was 1965, and Assam, bordering East Pakistan, had a strong military presence. The Assam Mail seemed half train, half khaki-clad convoy—officers on transfer, soldiers returning from leave, and young recruits with duffel bags full of hope and apprehension.  

One journey stands out vividly. I was placed in a two-berth coupé alongside a young army officer, Lieutenant Anand. He was barely past twenty-three, bright-eyed, and brimming with mischief. Within minutes of settling in, he pulled from his wallet a well-handled photograph—a young woman smiling with both shyness and affection.  

“Her name’s Meera,” he said warmly. “She still calls me ‘Anu.’ Military enough for the kitchen, but not for the parade ground.”  

I smiled. “Nicknames are medals of the heart. Far more precious than the ones issued officially.”  

Over dinner—chicken, chapatis, and a pudding of uncertain color—Anand produced a bottle of Old Tavern rum. “Officer’s ration,” he announced with mock ceremony. “For high morale in low spirits.”  

He then spoke of Meera—how they met at Delhi University, how she loved romantic songs, especially the haunting melody Kishore Kumar had sung in *Mr. X in Bombay* the year before: *“Mere Mehboob Qayamat Hogi…”* He said it was “their” song, playful yet tinged with longing.  

As he spoke, a memory flitted across my mind—a story from the Delhi newspapers in 1964. An army officer had shot his girlfriend in a café after a breakup. The café’s jukebox had been playing *“Mere Mehboob Qayamat Hogi”* when it happened. That detail had haunted me ever since—the cruel dissonance between a song’s tender yearning and the violence that followed it.  

Listening to Anand, I found myself silently praying that his tale would not echo that tragedy. His laughter was bright, but that memory reminded me how easily love can turn fragile under the weight of absence and fear.  

“You’re thinking like a writer again, aren’t you?” he asked, noticing my quietness.  

“Perhaps,” I admitted. “Writers can’t help seeing storms in calm waters.”  

He lifted his glass with a grin. “Then let’s drink before the rain begins.”  

By morning, Gauhati appeared through mist and drizzle. On the platform, Anand adjusted his cap, shook my hand, and said, “If you ever write about me, make me sound brave—but human.”  

“That’s the only kind I know how to write,” I replied.  

We parted as travelers often do—with an unspoken promise and a friendship destined to live only between stations.  

When the War Came  

Later that year, war arrived.  

One evening at the refinery officers’ club, we were mid-game in badminton when the siren wailed. The shuttlecock froze midair as someone shouted, “Enemy aircraft!” The generators went off instantly, plunging the compound into darkness. Then the two anti-aircraft guns stationed on the hills beside the refinery roared to life.  

Tracer shells streaked upward, weaving fiery paths across the night sky. The air shuddered with sound and courage. We dropped flat on the court as our guns kept firing. Moments later, Indian fighter jets thundered overhead, streaking through the clouds in pursuit of the intruders.  

When silence finally returned, no one moved. The officers’ club lights stayed off, and the dark seemed to hum with memory. I lay staring at the stars, my mind turning to Lieutenant Anand—somewhere beyond those hills, perhaps crouched behind his own gun, maybe thinking of Meera and that photograph he carried.  

And faintly, from the corners of remembrance, I could almost hear Kishore Kumar’s voice echoing: *“Mere Mehboob Qayamat Hogi…”*  

War, I realized, doesn’t just destroy—it interrupts. It cuts short songs, conversations, dreams unfinished.  

That night, as tracer smoke faded into silence, I sent a quiet wish into the sky for him—that his story would not end in gunfire, but continue softly, like a song still playing long after the jukebox has stopped.  

And that is how I remember him—not just a soldier I once met on a train, but a note suspended between love and duty, somewhere in the melody of an unfinished memory.  

---  

Madame Mirza and the spirits of Muscat

Madame Mirza and the Spirits of Muscat  

It was the last thing I expected at a Durga Puja pandal in Pashchim Vihar,Delhi—a lady in one corner, draped in velvet, doing tarot readings between stalls selling bhog and jalebis. The sight jolted a memory loose, carrying me back to a faraway place: Muscat, Oman.  

Years ago, while working on a project at Hubara, my colleague Sethu—who had a mischievous streak wider than the Gulf itself—had insisted on showing me “a secret of Muscat.” We left the polished highways and malls and wandered into a narrow sunlit lane that smelled of cardamom, diesel, and old paper. Eventually, we arrived at a dimly lit room tucked behind a half-closed wooden door.  

Inside was a world far removed from Muscat’s shining exteriors. The chamber was lit by lanterns and candles, their shadows crawling on shelves stacked with strange objects: strings of beads, old maps, brass bowls, dried herbs. At the center sat a woman with sharp eyes and silver bangles that seemed to jingle in tune with her thoughts.  

The moment I stepped in, she tilted her head and said, “Bengali, right?”  

I froze. “Yes… how did—”  

Before I finished, Sethu gave me a villainous grin. “She knows everything. Next she will predict what you had for breakfast.”  

The woman smirked. “Banana skipped. Aloo paratha too oily.”  

My jaw nearly hit the floor. “WHAT?!”  

Sethu slapped his thigh and burst out laughing. “I told you, my friend—she is *dangerously accurate*.”  

I was trembling between awe and suspicion when Sethu whispered in my ear, “Don’t worry. She’s not actually a psychic. She’s a historian from Dhaka, married to a sheikh. Tarot is her… side hobby.”  

The woman leaned back, amused at my expression. “History, tarot, spirit world—what is the difference? Everything is about interpreting traces of the past.”  

She picked up a crystal ball, squinted into it with mock solemnity, and announced, “Sometimes I help people find lost things—keys, passports, goats…”  

“Goats?” I asked.  

“Yes,” she replied with grave seriousness. “Goats wander, souls wander—it’s the same business.”  

Sethu was shaking with laughter. “Last month she helped old Karim find his missing water pump!”  

The woman held up one finger. “Correction: an old spirit with bad knees told me the pump was behind the chicken coop.”  

I chuckled nervously. “That doesn’t sound like a ghost. That sounds like a nosy neighbor.”  

Her eyes glimmered. “Maybe there’s no difference between the two. Both gossip, both refuse to leave you in peace.”  

That line sent Sethu into such hysterics that tears rolled down his cheeks.  

Trying to compose myself, I leaned forward. “But tell me honestly, Madame Mirza. Do you actually believe in this… spirit communication?”  

She shrugged with the calm of someone ordering tea. “Belief is for priests and politicians. I only provide stories and comfort. Most people don’t want ‘truth.’ Truth is boring. They want mystery—and a little fun.”  

Sethu patted my shoulder, whispering theatrically, “See? She’s not a fortune-teller. She’s a philosopher disguised as a card-dealer.”  

The woman began shuffling her deck, casually flicking cards onto the table. “You, mister. You are a traveler. Not careful enough. You will one day leave your socks in a hotel bathroom. Spirits of lost laundry are vindictive—you will never find their pair.”  

Sethu nearly toppled from his chair clutching his stomach in laughter. I sat stunned, trying not to imagine vengeful poltergeists made of mismatched socks.  

The evening passed in riddles, jokes, half-truths, and laughter. When we finally stepped back into Muscat’s neon-lit streets, I couldn’t decide whether I’d met a scholar, a trickster, or a genuine mystic.  

Years later, watching the tarot reader at the pandal shuffle her glittering cards under Durga’s gaze, I had to smile. For a fleeting moment, I thought I saw Madame Mirza’s twinkling eyes again—half-mocking, half-wise—whispering that history, mystery, and humor are often all the same story.  

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