Dreams of Bombay:
A Teleprinter’s Tale
My soul yearned for the adventure of foreign shores in a land far from my own, which I imagined as a jewel among nations. Thus, I embarked on a journey to Bombay, known for its vibrant heart and cinematic dreams.
My reverence for the gallant city of Bombay was not misplaced.
As a youth of average means, my connection to this distant metropolis was through the enchanting voices on All India Radio, their lovely accent, the vibrant scenes of Bollywood films, and the melodies that lingered long after the credits rolled. I fancied myself a Bombay lad, adorning outfits inspired by the silver screen and devouring every issue of Filmfare, Star and Style, Stardust, and Screen from cover to cover. I borrowed Illustrated Weekly from India from elders and read it, too. absorbed the unique cadence of Indian journalism, a stark contrast to the Lankan English I knew. I aped Indian styles from advertisements from brands like Raymond and Gwalior suiting, household brand names in India.
As part of my apprenticeship, I found myself on the Colombo-Bombay circuit, and excitement surged. During lulls in communication (it was not a busy circuit, though), I’d eagerly engage with the distant operators of Bombay. I inquired about their names, about film stars, the films they fancied, and the proximity of their homes to the star-studded enclave of Bandra and the famed film academy of Pune. I imagined sitting next to the Zeenat Amans, Parveen Babis and Neetu Singhs. Everything about Bollywood was bigger than life for me.
Each day, I peppered the operator with my naive inquiries, tapping away on the teleprinter that hummed at a modest pace — a snail’s pace compared to the digital dialogues of today. There was no video, messages akin to SMS today, but in short form. No visuals accompanied our exchanges, just the dance of words across the wires. Every word was shortened to save precious time. Data and bandwidth were precious commodities. Unknowingly, I had learned the art of concise messaging in the mid-seventies, long before the rest of the world was introduced to mobile messaging through the internet.
I conducted these clandestine conversations out of sight, for the supervisors frowned upon the frivolous use of resources like paper and the potential wear on the teleprinter equipment. Fortunately, the Bombay-Colombo circuit was the farthest away from the supervisor’s desk, so I could indulge in my fancies without being noticed. My fingers flew across the keys, typing at my best speed, 80 words per minute, allowing me to ask any whimsical question that crossed my mind. There I was, an 18-year-old who dreamt he was part of Bombay’s tapestry, adopting the lexicon of an Indian, with all the words but without the accent.
My life is like a picture; India’s colours are painted all over it, but I’ve never been there. Bombay, now called Mumbai, always seems to call out to me, even though I’ve never seen it.
India holds a special place in my heart, filled with memories and dreams that have become a part of who I am. The moment I departed from Sri Lanka, India had indelibly imprinted itself on my heart.
My journey took me to Dubai, where friendships blossomed, particularly with people hailing from India. My closest companion was from New Delhi; everyone thought I was his elder brother. Together with his family, we delved into the world of Bollywood cinema on weekends and ate at Indian restaurants.
I recall the thrill of watching a Bollywood film in a grand Dubai theatre on my first day in the city. Bollywood had captured my imagination before anything else. This young lad knew what his priorities were: Bollywood movies first, and everything else, like work, would follow.
This deep affection for Indian films isn’t surprising. They are a bridge to India — a place that resonates with me as home, despite the physical distance and the fact that I have yet to set foot there.
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