The year is 1998. Or is it 1999? I am recently wed and settled in Pune, but having found one large whale of a client in Mumbai (Colaba, to be precise) in the name of Pheroze Engineer of Ceasefire (my stories with and about him would fill an independent book altogether, so, I’ll leave them out), I am mostly stationed in Mumbai, at Yari Road, Versova, at my parents’ home.
The Mumbai of the 1990s is another city altogether. Internet has just arrived in India, the city has chosen the militant Shiv Sena to represent it (which has promptly gone and renamed it Mumbai from Bombay), the ‘Spirit of Bombay’ has made an appearance during the bomb blasts and riots, the police are running the mafia out, SRK and Aamir are rising, Urmila is our crush, JVPD is still a chill place, NMIMS is known for its cute girls, the traffic hasn’t yet come to a standstill, and Versova beach and Madh Island are still exotic places where the cigar-chomping villain welcomes boats laden with smuggled gold.
I have my father’s car (a dark blue Esteem VX) and driver (Somnath), driving from Versova to Colaba and back on most days, and taking my 1969 Jawa on some.
I remember it being a drizzly day, and slow-moving traffic has caused some delays on the turn at the end of Marine Drive turning right towards Walkeshwar, which prompts me to wheel my BattleCat leftward to Malabar Hill, past Hanging Gardens, the famed (and now, unfortunately, erstwhile) Naaz, down the slope (where I had sung a song and proposed to my first wife not very long back), to reach under Kemps Corner, when the rain really starts to come down. Ducking into a small building, I park and run into a small shop, only to be stopped dead in my tracks by something in a glass case in the centre of the establishment: A Breitling B-1, shimmering in a crystal case and steel links, looking like something you’d need to seek permission to even look at. Ethereal! I am in love.
I come back again after a few days. And keep coming back. Just to look. The watch seems even more attractive every time I see it. And even more out of reach for a peasant like me, a 20-something-year-old with prospects, for sure, but no liquid in his pocket. I am content to stare, sigh, turn around, mount my bike, and ride back, dreaming about how it would look on my wrist, which in those days, if I remember correctly, was adorned with a Casio digital watch presented by my father, a watch-lover himself. Until one day, I hear a soft bell-like tinkling of a voice from across the shop, ‘Would you like to try it on, Sir?’ Startled, I run, not to return to the scene of the crime for a couple of weeks.
When I do go back, she is still there. I shall not name the lady, but I did meet her later, back in the early 2010s in Europe (that is another story!), and she remained, after all these years, as sweet, and as tinkly-voiced as back at the beginning of this century, so let us just call her Shana. Like a kind animal-lover who patiently wins over a stray dog distrustful of humans, she keeps at it until one day, I say yes and, as she takes it out and hands it to me, gingerly put it on, as if I am afraid it might mock and reject me in front of this elegant, silver-haired lady. But all that is forgotten the moment I snap the links shut. As I feel the cold steel on my warm, hairy right wrist (yes, I picked up the habit of wearing my watch on my right from Baba, who was my idol in everything I have ever done or aspired to), I am transported to heaven! ‘This is what it feels like,’ I think, giddy-headed. And then, very, very carefully, I remove it and hand it back to Shana, who (wearing white gloves all the time she handles it) puts it back in the display case under the lights. I think I hear a ‘Phew‘ from the watch, relieved, no doubt, to be no longer touching my poor, broke-ass skin.
‘So, what do you think?’
‘What do I think? It is beautiful. Thank you for letting me try it on.’
‘Wouldn’t you want to know the price?’
‘Absolutely not. I am sure it is more than I think because I am limited by my imagination, while Swiss watchmakers are limited by theirs, which is, to put it bluntly, beyond the imagination of my imagination.’
‘So, not buying it then?’
‘Surely, you are joking, right?’
‘Why would I? I am here to sell it.’
‘I am sorry to waste your time. I won’t come so often.’
‘No, no. You are welcome. But you did not answer my question.’
‘What question?’
‘Would you like to buy the watch?’
‘Like to buy? Yes. Can I? No.’
‘How much money do you have in your wallet right now?’
‘Huh?’
‘How much cash do you have on you?’
‘I don’t know. Why?’
‘Pull your wallet out and tell me.’
[fumbling with my wallet in my hip pocket and counting] ‘Uh, Rs.589 and 50 paise’
[smiling] ‘Give me Rs.500, and I’ll put it down as an advance.’
‘—-‘
[beatific smile still there]
‘You sure?’
‘I told you. I’m here to sell. You want to buy. Let’s cut to the chase.’
‘OK’
‘Come back whenever you have more money.’
‘What happens if you get someone who comes in with the money to buy it immediately?’
‘No one will.’
‘How are you sure? You are here to sell, right? And you run a luxury goods shop. So, odds are the watch will be sold before I come back the next time. Don’t tell me you won’t sell it if you get a customer.’
‘I will. If I get a customer. Which I know I won’t.’
‘You are rather confident about me.’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘Haha. Yes. Sure.’
‘Bye. Come back with more money.’
And I go back. Again and again. With Rs.200, Rs.500, Rs.1,000, sometimes with more, sometimes with less. Shana always smiles, takes my money, and notes it in a book. I remind her that she’ll get a ready customer, and the watch will be sold before my payments are complete. She smiles. It becomes a running joke. I just know that it’ll happen, that one day, I’d reach her shop and find the watch gone, sold to some rich man who understands beauty and precision and puts his money where his wrists are. She disagrees. She seems to have far more faith in me and her God, than I have in my luck.
And so, I am not surprised when, on 29 November 2003, I stride in and find the case empty, the light shining on it seeming much dimmer for the lack of the piece of art & precision engineering it illuminated, and which, in turn, illuminated the entire shop. Shana is at the counter. Looking up at me, she smiles brightly, as usual. I smile wryly and shrug my shoulders, pointing to the empty case.
‘Sold, I suppose.’
‘Yes. The B-1 is gone.’
‘Guess I’ll get my money back now, because I don’t want any other watch.’
‘No can do. No money shall be refunded.’
‘WHAT???’
‘Because’ [pulling out a beautiful bright yellow ceramic Breitling case from under the counter and placing it on the glass top] ‘goods once sold will not be taken back.’
‘—–‘
‘Stop staring. And open the box. You are the proud owner of a Breitling B-1. Congratulations. May I offer you coffee?’
‘—-‘
‘—-‘
‘May I hug you?’
Since that day, I have never taken off this watch if I could help it. It is waterproof, scratch-resistant, and shatter-proof, built like a solid Sikh kada, and makes me feel as powerful as one!
Well, the story does not end here.
Last year, it stopped working. Usually, I would take it to the showroom in Dubai, and they’d do their magic, cleaning and servicing the piece, replacing what needed to be replaced, setting what needed setting, and polishing what needed polishing, with my valet going to the store to drop it off and then pick it up a couple of days later.
Cut to 10 years later, and a bankrupt, valet-less me with a trip to Dubai being way over my pay grade finds that the would-be heirloom needs its decadal overhauling. So, the services of a dear friend are recruited. She lives in Dubai! Perfect. The watch travels to the famed Xanadu in the desert, all the way to the showroom, gets its spa treatment, and then waits for about a year before, slowly, via various hands, making its way back to me in Pune.
That was last night. Welcome back, B-1. I missed you.
