EVERY time I travel by air I wonder what happens to the toilet waste while the plane is airborne. Does all the waste and soiled toilet paper fall on the heads of people on land like bird-droppings? I know that cannot be as any opening in a pressurised aircraft would clause an immediate explosion. Nevertheless, toilets of huge planes carrying upwards of 400 passengers on non-stop flights of over 10 hours rarely have bad odours. I wanted to know but did not have the courage to ask. On my recent visit to Mumbai, I mustered up the courage to ask a comely airhostess to enlighten me on this odious subject. She explained that there is a septic tank under every toilet in which human waste is constantly recycled by chemically treated water — hence there is no smell. As soon as the plane lands the under-toilet tank is removed and its contents emptied out and another attached in its place.

With this additional piece of knowledge added to the bric-a-brac of useless information, I landed at Santa Cruz. I feared there would be a deluge: there was not a drop of water about. I feared Shiv Sainiks would be blocking traffic to protest against the impending arrest of their leader Bal Thackeray. Not one was to be seen. An hour later the air-conditioned Mercedes-Benz sent by the Taj purred into the portico of the hotel. They put me in the Sunrise suite, commanding a view of the Gateway of India and the restless muddy ocean as far as the eye could see.

My hosts were Popular Prakashan. They wanted me to be on the panel of speakers for the launch of Rafiq Zakaria’s book Discovery of God. The chief guests were the Governor of Maharashtra, P.C. Alexander, and his lady wife. Other speakers included M.J. Akbar (Editor, Asian Age) and M.V. Kamath who took over the editorship of Illustrated Weekly of India from me. Present in the audience were Fatima Zakaria and Bachi Karkaria who along with Akbar were my colleagues on the Weekly. Also several old friends: Dr Hiranandani, Bir and Trilochan Sahni, Lajja and Chunni Lal Savera and dozens of others. I was, as I described myself, a hungry cat in a pigeon loft, the only self-confessed agnostic among 850 believers — Muslims, Hindus, Parsis and Sikhs. Since I was the first speaker, I gave others much ammunition to fire at me. They did with great gusto. I was a little surprised that even Akbar (married to a Syrian Christian and Pinki (Aruna’s Story) Virani, a Muslim married to a Brahmin, were in the ranks of believers. I did not shake their faith, they did not shake my conviction that the quest for God was a futile pursuit.

I slept well. I was woken by the telephone operator’s wake-up call. I sat on the balcony, watching the muddy, turbulent sea, morning walkers going along the pavement to the Gateway, crows and pigeons looking for something to eat. A peaceful grey sea-scape with a cool breeze blowing inland. Suddenly peace was shattered by a loud bang followed by sounds of gunshots. Thousands of crows and pigeons flew up filling the sky like hornets when their nests are disturbed. I saw a lady in a flat below walking round the balcony with her mobile held against her ear. Had they arrested Bal Thackeray? Pinki Virani’s husband who works for India Today said the evening before there were rumours they would get him at night. Peace returned after five minutes. They were crackers, not gunshots. The Shiv Sena chief was still in his lair — growling as usual. He and his goons, like Dawood Ibrahim’s mafia gangs, have brought ruin on this once the most prosperous and peaceful metropolis of India. If you don’t believe me, read Pinki’s Once Was Bombay.

Firdaus Ali joins me for breakfast. He is a Kashmiri, based in London. He translates Hindi film dialogues into English for movies to be shown in England.He is very erudite, very garrulous, very generous. Every time he rings me up, his monologue is punctuated with full mouthed Punjabi abuses. He is great fun but for half an hour. That is enough to leave you exhausted.

I did stir out of the hotel; went down to the lobby to see the raunaq, browsed round R.V. Pandit’s bookstore, Ajanta, saw Zakaria’s new book displayed in the window, a few of mine on the shelves, had a cup of coffee with Malhotra, the jeweller next door. I wandered round the shopping arcade examining carpets, handicrafts, jewellery — much the most eye-catching and probably the oldest and the most expensive is Gazdar. I reminded myself of Zauq’s lines:Bazaar say guzra hoon, khareedar nahin hoon. I passed through the bazaar, had nothing to buy. And returned to my room to gaze at the sea of people strolling on the boulevard.

I missed lunch and tea to build up an appetite for dinner. The one thing I look forward to on my visits to Mumbai is eating out with Bir and Trilochan Sahni. They are connoisseurs of gourmet food and vintage wines. This time they booked a table in Golden Dragon in the Taj so that I would not have stay out too late at night. It was king-size prawns and crab cooked in garlic sauce and a bottle of chilled White French wine. A memorable feast followed with the ice-cream, Honey Dew, a speciality of the hotel. Its delicious taste remained in my mouth till I knocked off for the night.

Next week I’ll tell you of my rendezvous with Shekhar Suman of Movers and Shakers.

People who swim against the tide of norms accepted by society invariably bring trouble on their own heads. In the male-macho, Taliban-tinged Pakistani circles for a man to declare himself a non-Muslim, take on a Sikh-Hindu name and proclaim he is a gay is asking for serious trouble. Yet this is exactly what a handsome, young Kashmiri, now living in Islamabad, did. His Muslim name was Mehboob Ghani: he changed it to Preetam Giani. In the declaration forms he had to fill from time to time, against the column religion, he put down ‘Hindu’ which was accepted, then ‘no religion’ which was rejected, then ‘Pantheist’ which was also rejected and finally ‘non-Muslim’ which was accepted. He calls his mother Mata Hari. He was a bright student and got admission to Selwya

College, Cambridge. He was expelled for blatant expression of homosexuality. He took up a job in factory where he continued to be active in gay circles. He was fired from his job and his stay in England cut short. He returned to Pakistan, set up an art gallery in Islamabad and took up private tuitions in English: his English is flawless. He also writes poetry in

English and Urdu and has translated a lot of Ghalib’s poetry. He sent me a collection of his English poems. It began with an invocation to Goddess Saraswati. Among the deities he prays to every evening, is Lakshmi: he is chronically short of cash.

Preetam Giani wanted to visit Delhi. The Indian High Commission refused to grant him visa unless he provided an Indian reference to them. He wrote to me. Without ever having met him I furnished the required guarantee. He came to Delhi by train and put up in a seedy hotel in Ballimaran close to the haveli where Ghalib lived.

I offered to show Preetam and a friend who accompanied him, the sights of Delhi. Pritam was not interested in monuments. He did not bother to see the Red Fort nor enter Humayun’s tomb. He was not much interested in seeing the Qutab Minar but readily agreed to see Ghalib’s tomb in Nizamuddin. He presented some of his translations to the Ghalib Academy. While his friend recited the Fateh at the poet’s tomb, Preetam took photographs. He didn’t bother to pay homage to the graves of Hazrat Nizamuddin or Amir Khusro. "You should not use the word Auliya for him because it is the plural of Vali. So it should be Vali Nizamuddin", he admonished me.

At tea in the India International Centre, he read out a couplet of Ghalib and asked me to explain its meaning:

I thought it was simple enough: the poet did not want to be taken for granted as one forever at his beloved’s doorstep. Fie a life which is like a stone of an entrance gate.

Giani translated the lines as follows:

I am not bound to lie outside the door for ever

To hell with such a life, for I am not a stone.

Fair, enough, but not poetic enough. Can any reader do better?

Behind a truck in Punjabi:

I am a very frail young woman

Spare me from twists and turns

Sweetheart one thing you bear with me

If you are drunk, do not drive me.

(Contributed by Amarjit S. Deepak, Chandigarh.)