Grimulee is not a word? What kind of a language is this? What could it mean, you ask? Why, it is a verb that describes the act of grimuling. Grimuling? Simple. The act of reducing an opponent to abject terror at their impending loss in a board game. “This much English even Chetan Bhagat can write,” to quote a currently fashionable put down. I’m sure that the person whom New York Times once called “the biggest selling English language novelist in India’s history” is not going to insist on an apology.
“I will touch a hundred flowers and not pick one” –Edna St. Vincent Millay
“Flowers didn’t ask to be flowers” –Kurt Vonnegut
“I must have flowers, always, and always” –Claude Monet
“Who wants flowers when you’re dead?” –J.D. Salinger
In a normal year, by this time the season for sailing in Mumbai would be over. Although the warming oceans mean that the monsoon is unlikely to go back to its “normal” arrival time, tropical storms are brewing in the Bay of Bengal, and there is unsettled weather in the southern part of the Arabian Sea already. It felt nice to look back at old photos of a sail in Mumbai Harbour.
I’m not a sailor but I don’t turn down invitations for a quick sail around the three lighthouses. This was a lightning class sloop. I’m happy to sit close to the water, receiving instructions from the skipper to tighten a rope or duck my head as the boom swings around, feeling the little spray hit my face. The Family likes to take a position at the back where she can keep an eye on the boom and the sky. Her brother is our usual skipper, an experienced sailor in several waters.
It wasn’t a crowded day. Once we got clear of the main lanes leading from the Gateway to the the jetties on the main land, we passed a few moored boats, a few other lightning class boats out for a sail, and one deep sea fishing boat with a crew of five, strangely busy hauling nets at the edge of the harbour. Perhaps not so strange, on second thought. The name Apollo Bandar is supposed to be a corruption of the old Koli name, Palva Bandar, for the fish that was plentiful in the harbour as recently as five generations ago.
The sky was clear, flecked with wisps of clouds. The day was warm, but a nice steady breeze kept the sails half filled, and drove small waves on the sea. The sail was smooth, no need to tack constantly, or fiddle with the ropes. The boom swung around once as we rounded the yellow and red Prong’s lighthouse and headed back for a beer on the long verandah of the Yacht Club.