“Helping people is good, my darling, but not for money.”
Murad was right, she wanted to cheat him, make him work for free. “Thank you, Aunty,” he muttered, and left.
Stupid Villie Aunty. And stupid Enid Blyton too. From now on, he wasn’t going to believe a word in her books. And those silly Famous Five – he didn’t need them for inspiration. He knew what to do, he’d make things better for Mummy and Daddy, all by himself. But he still preferred the sound of John Chenoy.
Towards closing time Mr. Kapur invited Yezad into his tiny office where the air-conditioner was at full blast, its roar blanketing them from the city outside. Must be how it feels in a jet plane, thought Yezad – removed from everything, far from the real world.
On the desk were three photographs in cellophane sleeves. Mr. Kapur turned them face down as Yezad entered. “I’ve a surprise for you.”
“Those?” He reached for the black-and-white pictures.
“Hang on, you must see them in the right order. This one first.”
Yezad broke into a grin. “Hey, it’s a shot of Hughes Road. Where I grew up.”
“Why do you think I brought it? And for your info, the name was changed to Sitaram Patkar Marg years ago.”
“It’ll always be Hughes Road for me.”
Mr. Kapur smiled approvingly, and Yezad continued, “I can describe every detail here. This building – it’s Jehangir Mansion, my parents moved there when they got married. I bet you the photo was taken from Sandhurst Bridge, from the roof of Dadajee Dhackjee. And opposite Jehangir Mansion is Sukh Sagar. Look, the Bush Radio signboard is also visible.”
He paused. “Can’t be a very old photo – looks the same as today.”
“It’s recent,” said Mr. Kapur. “About 1990. Important for my collection, though, in the context of the other two.”
He waited for him to hand it back so they could proceed to the next one. But Yezad continued to drink it all in. “Amazing, how a photo shows you things your eyes forgot to see.”
“Especially in a familiar place,” said Mr. Kapur. “The lens is our third eye.”
The photograph, conjuring up the street for Yezad, let him hear the traffic, smell the meaty smoke that always hung outside the Sizzler, taste the bhel-puri. He could feel the tension in the picture’s monsoon sky, the grey clouds reminding him of the many times he would get caught without a raincoat while coming back from college (only sissies wore raincoats, was the wisdom then), stepping off the number 83 bus outside Sukh Sagar, running across the road, home to Jehangir Mansion, soaked to the skin in less than a minute, and his mother scolding him for leaving behind the raincoat she had folded and placed with his books …
“Look at this one now,” said Mr. Kapur.
Yezad let the first picture go. And a lump filled his throat as soon as he laid eyes on the next one. It was still Hughes Road, but pristine, from a simpler time. The photographer must have stood at the other end of Jehangir Mansion, outside Madon Chemists; the intersection of Hughes Road and Sandhurst Bridge was now the focal point. The light suggested early morning. Not a car in sight, the road deserted except for a handcart. Three lone figures stood on the footpath, mysterious, like seers or soothsayers prophesying the explosion of population in Bombay’s future.
He swallowed to clear his throat. “When I was very small, this is how quiet the street was.” He coughed. “What year is it?”
“From the Buick sign outside Metro Motors, I’d guess late 1940s,” said Mr. Kapur. “Maybe five years before you were born?”
“That’s around the time my parents got married,” said Yezad. “So this is the street they saw after their wedding.”
In the dawn light, the buildings and trees waited like childhood friends to whisk him back. And the old street lamps, strung over the centre of the road. He’d forgotten how charming they were, almost ornamental, unlike the towering steel of the new lights. He kept gazing into the photograph, and a little boy appeared with his father outside Madon Chemists … and when the school bus rolled into view his father gave him a final hug before parting for the day … Then it was late afternoon, the bus brought him back hungry for his tea, eager to play in the compound before homework time commenced … and there was his mother at the bus stop, to take his hand, take him safely across the road where half-a-dozen cars might pass every so often …
He ran his fingers over his eyes, and the ghosts receded. “It’s like magic, this picture. Capturing time …”
“Last one,” said Mr. Kapur, passing it across the desk.
Yezad was almost afraid to take it. But he looked, and was relieved – just some scenery. He wondered why Mr. Kapur was showing him a photo of coconut trees growing alongside a road. Then he saw the cast-iron railing, and his eyes widened.
He recognized the intricate railing that hugged the curve of Sandhurst Bridge where Hughes Road joined it. But there was no Jehangir Mansion, no Sukh Sagar, no Metro Motors. Where these buildings would later stand, there were coconut palms, some arching over the road, some growing straight to the sky. And beyond them, the sea.
He shivered, unable to understand his emotions – the picture, empty of his beloved landmarks, should have meant nothing more than a scenic postcard.
“You’re feeling cold,” said Mr. Kapur, and went around his desk to the air-conditioner. There was a click; the roar disappeared. The silence seemed eternal in its suddenness, vast, empty as space.
Yezad asked softly what year it was in this picture.
Turning from the control panel, Mr. Kapur put his hand on his shoulder. “It’s 1908. The year Hughes Road was constructed.”
Yezad nodded, not trusting his voice. He tried to blink the blurring image into focus.
“This is terrible,” said Mr. Kapur. “I brought the photos to cheer you up because you’ve been looking depressed lately.” He threatened to take them away if they were upsetting him.
“I’m not upset, they’re amazing pictures, it’s just that …”
“I know, I’m only joking.” He patted Yezad’s shoulder and returned to his chair.
“This railing,” said Yezad, “it’s not very clear in the photo.”
Mr. Kapur took a magnifying glass out of his drawer. “A beautiful example of cast-iron workmanship. Very ornate. I like the standards rising like minarets at each span.”
Yezad pored over the prints through the lens, crossing the breadth of Jehangir Mansion, stone by stone, pointing out details for Mr. Kapur. “Before the road-widening, this wall used to be much farther away from the building. So we had a nice big Compound.”
And the boys who lived in the building were the kings of the compound, driving the ground-floor tenants to despair with their games and noise. Usually it was cricket, which reached a frenzy when England or Australia were visiting for a Test series. But in 1960, during the Rome Olympics, they had abandoned cricket for a while and all of them pretended to be Milkha Singh running the four hundred metres. They’d measured the compound to calculate the number of laps required, and wished they had long hair like the Sikh’s, which they could tie in a topknot, and a beard whose wisps could flutter as they blazed around the track like the Flying Sardar.
Mr. Kapur laughed to hear how some of them had tried, without much success, to simulate Milkha Singh’s topknot: stuffing kerchiefs with paper and fixing them with rubber bands to their heads. But the bands kept snapping off when they ran.
Yezad began to indicate the various flats, who lived where, then stopped. “I’m boring you with all this stuff.”
“On the contrary,” said Mr. Kapur, who seemed to be relishing the flood of memories released by his photographs. “It sounds like Jehangir Mansion was a Parsi Baag.”
“It wasn’t. This ground-floor flat had a Muslim family. Shahrukh’s family. His father drove a taxi, and sometimes he would pack six or seven of us in his Hillman and take us to school.”
“And Shahrukh was also part of your crowd?”
“Oh yes, absolutely. But,” he admitt
ed after a pause, “you know how boys fight. And if sometimes there was an argument – whether someone was l.b.w., for example – when Shahrukh disagreed, we used to say to him, go to Pakistan if you don’t like it. And we teased him about his circumcision, calling him an ABC, you know, Adha Boolla Catayla.”
Yezad shook his head with remorse. “When I dream about my childhood, I wake up wishing I could find Shahrukh, tell him I’m sorry. The sad part was, later the family did go away, to Pakistan, where they had relatives. We all felt guilty afterwards.”
He put down the photograph and picked up the earliest one again, when the street was only palm trees. “You said this was 19-what?”
“1908.”
“It’s like seeing the first morning of Hughes Road,” he said reverently. “And this perfect railing – it fascinated me. How I loved to touch its circles, its volutes and spheres. Whenever I was out with my father, he let me climb on the parapet where the railing was bolted. I loved to swing along hugging the railing, and he kept his arm ready near my waist, just in case, till we came to the end where I jumped down to the footpath. We did the same on the way home. To see the railing was to know you were home. From Opera House, nearing the corner, there it was to greet you as the bridge was crested.”
“Why was the railing so important?”
“I don’t know,” said Yezad. “Maybe it was the only thing of beauty in our lives. I remember, on some nights, we’d be awakened by clinking noises, a thief trying to steal a piece of it, to sell for scrap metal. All over the building lights would go on, heads would lean out of windows, shouting and screaming. The poor thief would run like hell to commit an easier robbery.”
The clanking sound of descending steel shutters reached the office. Husain was getting ready to shut the shop.
Yezad put the prints on the desk and returned the magnifying glass. “You know, in these pictures you’ve shown me my loss.”
“I’m sorry, Yezad, I —”
“No, I’m grateful.” The photographs had made him aware how much the street and the buildings meant to him. Like an extended family that he’d taken for granted and ignored, assuming it would always be there. But buildings and roads and spaces were as fragile as human beings, you had to cherish them while you had them.
“Do you realize,” said Mr. Kapur, “in the fifteen years I’ve known you, this is the first time you’ve talked about your life, your childhood?”
“Oh, I’ve been going on and on,” said Yezad, embarrassed.
“Only fair. Otherwise it’s always me and my family history.”
“But yours is more interesting.”
“Everyone underestimates their own life. Funny thing is, in the end, all our stories – your life, my life, old Husain’s life, they’re the same. In fact, no matter where you go in the world, there is only one important story: of youth, and loss, and yearning for redemption. So we tell the same story, over and over. Just the details are different.”
He reached for the air-conditioner. “Very warm again in here, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but you should cut back. The electricity bill is getting bigger each month.”
Mr. Kapur chuckled and moved away from the panel. “That’s what I like about you, Yezad – you’re careful with my money.”
He lifted his hands over his head and swung them forward, sinking an invisible basketball. He put away the photographs after checking that the cellophane sleeves were sealed. “From three pictures, so many memories. And this can happen with every single photo – each one conceals volumes. All you need is the right pair of eyes,” he made the gesture of turning a key, “to unlock the magic.”
They left the cubicle and came into the half-darkened shop where Husain waited by the door. The steel shutters were padlocked. Ram, Sita, and the recumbent Ravan looked forlorn in the unlit store window.
“I’m convinced of one thing now,” said Mr. Kapur. “You love this city as much as I do. If not more. I hope you understand why I want to run in the upcoming municipal election.”
Yezad nodded. “So you’re going ahead?”
“Absolutely. I’ve made pukka plans. Soon I’ll be organizing full-time, plotting strategy. All my most influential friends are supporting me. And I’ve drafted a sort of manifesto – I’ll e-mail it to you. I need your opinion.”
“I don’t have a computer.”
“No? I’ll print it out for you. And I’ve got lots of ideas for the actual campaign.”
He described one of them: instead of the banal exercise of handing out pamphlets, he would take along a team of helpers in a van equipped with tea and snacks – a tea-stall on wheels, complete with folding chairs and stools. In each block, they would set up in entranceways, courtyards, compounds, under staircases, wherever there was space. Then he would invite residents to chat with him while taking refreshments.
“It will be neighbour meeting neighbour over a cup of tea, the community rediscovering human bonds, participating in a healthy airing of ideas and dreams and visions.”
“Sounds great,” said Yezad. “And as far as Bombay Sporting is concerned, you can rely on me.”
“I intend to. Let’s discuss that soon – your new responsibilities and the remuneration to match.” He added conspiratorially, “Don’t forget my special suitcase, that will also be in your charge. It must finance my campaign.”
They laughed, and Husain smiled as he locked the door, as though it made him happy just to be close to their mirth. With a salaam he handed over the keys, and they said good night.
Yezad felt at peace with the world, more calm than he had been in weeks. Strange, that the photographs that had agitated him so much should have this effect. Perhaps it had been a positive sort of agitation, as with medicine bottles that needed shaking.
At the station he let the clutch of sweaty humanity bear him on its tide into the train. Gripping the overhead bar, he thought of Jehangir Mansion and Hughes Road. How dear were the memories now, of his childhood home. The place had not been much in his mind; by the time the family had left for good the building was so run down, the foundation turned by rats into a labyrinth of burrows, they were glad to see the last of it. And yet, it must have had a hold on him all along.
He pictured Mr. Kapur’s photos of the building, the street, the railing. He liked him more than ever; understood him better, for sure. His election run would work out well for both of them.
Lost in a cloud of optimism, he almost missed his station, jumping off as the train began to pull out. He started whistling.
Roxana hurried from the kitchen to shush him, Pappa had had a terrible day, mustn’t have slept last night, had been in and out of slumber all morning and afternoon, muttering things to himself.
While they waited by the door, Nariman began to murmur, “Lucy, my love, my sweet clarinet, I’ll play sweet music upon you …”
Roxana raised her brows and put a hand over her mouth, deciding she needed to get the boys out of hearing. Strange that Pappa’s hands were still, but his mind was not. Murad could remain on the balcony; Jehangir would have to leave the dining table with his books and sit in the back room.
“There is more space here,” said Jehangir, intent on listening to every word of Grandpa’s, puzzling to make sense.
“Do what I say,” whispered his mother. “We need the table for dinner.” She shut the adjoining door and he sulked at being cut off from Grandpa’s secrets.
“Come live with me and be my love,” said Nariman. “And we will all the pleasures prove …”
She brought the plates to the table and asked, “Pappa? Will you eat dinner?”
He groaned, and Yezad said not to bother him if he was feeling a bit off today, better to let him rest, keep his stomach light.
She nodded. “By the way, Yezdaa, the clock needs winding.”
On the balcony, Murad heard his mother’s words. He came inside feigning nonchalance, walked past his parents, and sneaked into the kitchen where he put a stool near the wall and climbe
d up. He opened the clock’s glass door. His fingers groped in the place under the pendulum for the shining chrome key, and inserted it.
The creak of the winding spring reached Yezad’s ears as he was going by on his way to the wc. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“The clock had stopped,” said Murad.
Without a word he lifted his son off the stool and dragged him to Roxana in the back room.
“I’m going to kill him,” he said quietly. “Right here, in front of you, I’m going to kill him.”
“Stay calm, Yezdaa!” she pleaded. “Tell me what he did.”
“He was winding the clock.”
She flinched; it would be difficult to save Murad from a thrashing if that was his crime. “Let’s ask him why he did it when he knows he shouldn’t. Tell us, Murad.”
Murad kept a defiant silence. Jehangir watched from the desk in the corner, petrified.
Roxana tried again: “You know that clock is very special for Daddy. Why did you do it? Please tell me.”
Murad hesitated. “I wanted to help Daddy. He’s always tired in the evening.”
“Clever excuse,” said Yezad. “But it won’t do. Of the dozens of things he can help with, he picks the one thing he shouldn’t.”
Roxana preferred to accept the reason at face value if the punishment could be averted. “That’s nice of you, Murad. Say sorry to Daddy anyway, you did something wrong. You know how precious the clock is, you’ve heard the story.”
“Which one is that?” asked Jehangir.
“Don’t try your tricks, Jehangla.”
“No, really, Daddy, I don’t remember it.”
“It’s possible,” said Roxana. “He was very young when you told it.” She knew the story would be a good way to calm Yezad.
“I’ve forgotten it completely,” said Jehangir, even more earnest.
“The clock used to hang in Daddy’s home in Jehangir Mansion,” began Roxana. “In the kitchen. It was a gift to his father from his bank chairman, for his bravery.”
Yezad corrected her: “The engraving says, ‘In gratitude for an exemplary display of courage and honesty in the course of duty.’ ” Then he took over the story, as she hoped he would.