As Nariman had got ready to run to the terrace, Yasmin asked him to think twice before starting another nonsensical drama with this woman. Mr. Arjani should deal with it, if he insisted on keeping her as his ayah – it was not her husband’s responsibility.
“But I do feel responsible,” he said – for the past, for the eleven years he had gone out with her, but also for driving her, in part, to this act of desperation. “Wouldn’t it have been better if you’d just let me keep walking to school with her?”
“And for how long? Till the Arjani brats graduate? You should have put a stop to it months ago, when she first came here, staring at our window! But you indulged her, so she went further! And now this!”
Jal and Coomy, at the other end of the drawing-room, were watching him resentfully from the corners of their eyes. He knew what they were thinking – here he was, being mean to their mother again, making her cry. They had grown used to their parents’ fights, he thought sadly. Grown used to seeing their mother’s anger, and what they probably thought of as their stepfather’s callous goading of her. He wished he could explain that he meant her no unhappiness. That he felt as helpless in all this as they did.
Suddenly, Coomy screamed, “Stop it, Pappa! You can’t go to the terrace!” Her mother hushed her, gave her a kiss, then sent her and Jal to their rooms to do their school work.
“This is not the time to debate and regurgitate the past,” he pleaded with Yasmin. “The situation is too precarious.”
“If it’s precarious, there’s nothing you can do. The woman requires professional help in a mental hospital.”
“Maybe you’re right. But before they can take her there, she needs to come down.”
“She will when she’s tired. How long can she stand on the ledge and sing?”
“Or she might tire, get dizzy, and fall. Do you want an unhappy woman’s death on our conscience?”
Yasmin agreed reluctantly to let him go.
On the stairs that led to the roof, he could hear Lucy’s voice. He reached the terrace and saw her on the parapet. Her hair was loose over her shoulders, the way she used to wear it before. She looked slender in the evening light, young again. She seemed happy again, silhouetted against the grey sky, swaying in waltz tempo.
Then he shuddered; his step on the wet flagstones reminded him the ledge she was standing on would be just as slick. There was no time to waste.
His father’s old foe was hiding with his son behind the large water tank. They beckoned him over. Mr. Arjani indicated with broad gestures the need to avoid any sudden sound. He whispered that they had tried to reason with her, but their attempts had only appeared to annoy her, and they had retreated.
“We must hurry – God forbid if her foot slips and she plummets to the ground. Poor woman doesn’t deserve that. And can you imagine the aggravation of a police case?”
Nariman swallowed his disgust and ignored the remark. He looked cautiously around the water tank.
“How do you think we should tackle this?” asked the old man’s son.
“Best if you both left the terrace,” said Nariman.
They were glad to tiptoe away. Mr. Arjani whispered his gratitude to him before going, something about forgiving and forgetting.
Once he was alone with Lucy, he joined in the singing, “ ‘When songs of spring were sung —’ ”
She heard his voice, and hers fell silent. She turned around on the ledge, away from the street, and scanned the terrace. She spotted him by the water tank. “Hello, Nari.”
Her smile, softly reproaching, stabbed his heart. “How are you, Lucy?”
“I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too.”
A thin sheet of rainwater near the ledge held her image within its mirror. Then the reflection moved, as she took a step to one side. He skipped a breath.
“I no longer see you in the morning, Nari, when I take the children to school. Or in the afternoon.”
“Because I go to work.”
A slight breeze passed over the terrace, skimming the rainwater. Lucy shimmered in the ruffled mirror. She began singing again. He remained silent.
“Why don’t you sing with me? Is something wrong with me?”
“Oh, Lucy, you’re still as gorgeous as Miliza Korjus.”
A radiant smile lit her face. “It’s been so long, Nari, since we went to the cinema.”
“Come down, Lucy, and we’ll sing together, I promise.”
She sang on.
“Please, Lucy, that’s not a good place to sing. Step down, my love, stand beside me.”
Abruptly she held out her hand, and he helped her off the parapet. Her palm felt rough against his; he cursed her employer for what he had done to her. Then he led her down the stairs from the terrace into the building, and she sang all the way to the ground floor.
At the door of the Arjani flat she turned and waved to him, as though he was just seeing her home after an evening out. Before the door could shut, she gave him a flying kiss. To soothe the twinge in his heart, he quickly returned it.
The Arjanis hailed him as a hero, but he brushed aside the profusion of thanks. They assured him they would get in touch with her family, take appropriate steps to help her. He was relieved the incident had ended safely.
A few days passed. He rang the ground-floor doorbell to inquire what progress they had made.
Mr. Arjani welcomed him in and renewed his thanks. “You will be pleased to know Lucy is absolutely normal again.”
“That’s good,” said Nariman. “But what she did that day was not normal, she needs a doctor.”
“Oh, come on, Nari, everyone is allowed one mistake.” It wouldn’t be fair, said Mr. Arjani, to lock her up in a lunatic asylum for her silly drama – after all, most women did strange, inexplicable things at some point in their lives, didn’t they, what with their complicated periods and menopauses, and all those types of female problems. Why, his own lady wife, God bless her, after fifty-two happy years of marriage, sometimes behaved in ways that left him baffled. Besides, there were no complaints about Lucy’s work, she looked after his grandchildren lovingly, cooked and cleaned. If they were to take her to a doctor and reveal what she’d done, he was almost certain to have her committed. “As far as I’m concerned,” said Mr. Arjani, “that would be an abuse of power.”
There were times when Nariman felt like seizing the initiative and getting medical attention for Lucy. But it was hard to predict the outcome. He was well aware of the inhuman conditions in government hospitals, the cagelike rooms where mental patients were locked up. Unless there was a family on the outside, looking after the patient’s interest, it was a life sentence. How could he deliver Lucy to such a fate?
But he kept reminding Mr. Arjani of his responsibility. His words grew sharper, till Mr. Arjani told him he had no business interfering in someone else’s household.
“I am compelled to,” said Nariman. “Your conscience is calloused enough to feel nothing.”
“Look who’s talking about conscience! Mr. Model Husband himself.”
Yezad tried for a while to follow the train of Nariman’s murmurs, then turned upon his side towards Roxana and remarked that it had been good to see Jal this evening, to see he’d found a bit of backbone at last. “I only wish it had been sooner. Maybe then the chief might not have been thrown out of his own house.”
“Who knows,” said Roxana. “Some things only happen when they are ready.”
“No, it’s up to us to make happen what we want.”
He put his arm over her, deciding the time had come to follow his own advice.
The street was yet to brew its morning congestion of traffic and fumes as Yezad arrived outside Jai Hind Book Mart. He felt a change was in the air, perhaps cooler December weather, at last on its way to relieve the heat.
A client who was leaving with a freshly written letter bent to touch Vilas’s feet in gratitude: money alone was inadequate, said the man, for the precious serv
ice. Vilas shooed him off. “If you do that I’ll never write for you again.”
“Sorry, Raneji, very sorry,” the man said, hands joined and raised to his forehead.
Vilas sent him on with a forgiving wave, and gave Yezad the gist of the matter: a family was selling one of their daughters. Aged fourteen, she was to wed a sixty-year-old widower. “Says he wants a wife, but the whole village knows he’s buying a slave. And the family is doing it for the usual reason – can’t afford to feed everyone. The fellow who was here, the girl’s older brother, wants his parents to wait, he’ll send more money soon.”
Bleary-eyed, Yezad listened impatiently, worn out by Vilas’s accounts of his clients’ wretched lives. He felt he had no more stamina for grief or misery. “Look, I’ve found a solution,” he broke into Vilas’s story, and described his plan for motivating Mr. Kapur.
“Now this is where you come in. Go to your local Shiv Sena shakha and make a complaint about these Santa Clauses taking over Marine Lines and Dhobi Talao. Tell them about this foreign invasion, instigate them to take action.” He glanced sideways at Vilas doodling on his writing pad. “Why are you shaking your head?”
“I don’t have any influence at the shakha.”
“You can complain as a loyal Maharashtrian, a patriotic Indian, a faithful Hindu.”
“I am none of these.”
“You could pretend.”
“Okay, let’s say I do. The shakha pramukh still wouldn’t start a riot. That only happens under direct orders from the top.”
“You could at least suggest it.”
“You’re not thinking straight,” sighed Vilas.
“What do you mean? You were the one who said Mr. Kapur needed motivation.”
“Not like this. Never disturb the sleeping snake, nor tease the crouching tiger.”
“I can do without your proverbs.”
They sat in silence for a while, watching the traffic, the vendors, the schoolchildren hurrying by with satchels and water bottles.
“I used to enjoy Christmas in the old days,” said Yezad. “But just look at those asinine windows. Leaving aside my personal problem, Shiv Sena would be doing us a favour. Killing two birds with one stone.”
Vilas sighed again. “When Shiv Sena comes, it will bring more than one stone. It will spread such terror, we’ll all be trembling like your father-in-law.”
“I wish you’d stop exaggerating,” snapped Yezad. He rose, dusted off his pant seat, and descended the steps.
“Won’t you hear a suggestion from me before you go?” Vilas patted the place beside him and Yezad sat again. “Your plan, in principle, is quite good. The only problem is involvement of Shiv Sena. We need to replace that hazardous element with something benign.”
“Meaning?”
“You remember my two friends you met a couple of months ago? Gautam and Bhaskar, the actors?”
“Yes.”
“I can ask them to act as Shiv Sainiks. They’ll be thrilled to do it, they’re always looking for new projects.”
“That’s your suggestion? A riot consisting of two actors?”
“Have patience, let me explain.” Meanwhile, another client arrived and greeted Vilas with a namaskaar. He asked the man to wait, then lowered his voice to describe what he had in mind.
Yezad was sceptical.
“It will work, believe me,” persisted Vilas. “We’ll succeed with the power of words. Gautam and Bhaskar are excellent actors.”
“How can they be more effective than the real Shiv Sena?”
“With real Shiv Sena, you’ll have people rampaging like wild animals, glass shattering, smell of smoke and fire, goondas with sticks and bricks. Forget it, Yezad, it’s too dangerous. In any case, Mr. Kapur is the type of person better swayed by words, not a display of brute force – don’t you think?”
Yezad had to get back to Bombay Sporting, so they agreed to meet in the evening, discuss the plan, put something down on paper. Yezad vacated the step for Vilas’s next customer.
Two days later, Mr. Kapur went for his scheduled blood pressure check-up after lunchtime. Then a few minutes later Husain left on his errands. Good, thought Yezad, the afternoon was unfolding as they had planned.
Pacing the length of the store, he once again reviewed in his mind what he would say on Mr. Kapur’s return. His eye caught the flash of the annoying red bulb; he switched off the motor.
He walked himself through the scene, practising, improvising, running over the description of the imaginary visitors, their mannerisms. Mustn’t be too exact, Vilas and he had discussed that. People taken by surprise, scared, usually had trouble recollecting accurately, they said things like: Oh, he was wearing a green shirt … no, maybe grey … or greyish green … They rambled, they speculated, and he needed to remember that in his performance.
So he spent an hour in rehearsal till Mr. Kapur entered the shop with a ho-ho-ho, as he had been doing for the last few days. He inquired about the stationary Santa Claus.
“Stuck again. I turned it off.”
Mr. Kapur went into the window, flipped the switch, and saw the bat through half-a-dozen repetitions. “Works okay now.”
Questioned about his blood pressure, he said the doctor wanted him to continue the same pills and avoid getting agitated. He pottered about the window, moving the fielders into new positions. Passersby stopped to look, and he smiled and nodded genially at them. “I guess nothing exciting, in my absence?”
Yezad raised a tense face. “Someone paid us a visit,” he said softly, and swallowed.
“Yes?”
“Two men. From Shiv Sena.”
“Hah.” Mr. Kapur waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, keeping an eye on the rising and falling bat. “I hope you threw their pamphlets or whatever in the dustbin.”
“They weren’t distributing pamphlets.”
Mr. Kapur turned his back on the window and paid more attention. “What did they want?”
“They said they were from the tax department.”
Mr. Kapur frowned. “But you said Shiv Sena.”
“They didn’t mention it at first.”
“So the buggers were rude to you, hanh?”
Yezad shook his head. “They wished me good afternoon, called me sir. Made it scarier, actually, when I knew who it was. I said the shop hadn’t received any tax notification. With a big smile they told me they were not government people, but special Shiv Sena tax department. And they wanted to discuss a small problem.”
“Hah.”
Yezad paused; his voice, uttering the words he’d practised, sounded strange to his ears. Was it convincing Mr. Kapur? Under cover of the desk, he wiped his palms against his trousered knees and continued, “They were informing all shops, hotels, any business with Bombay in its name, that they had to change it to Mumbai within thirty days. Or pay a fine.”
“What did you say?”
“I asked if the government had passed a law about this. They said no need for a law, it was new Shiv Sena policy.”
“The swine. And?”
“I said I was just an employee, the proprietor was out. Now one of them got angry: First you say you are in charge, suddenly you are just employee – giving us double talk?
“I thought he was going to hit me. But I kept calm. If you were sales tax or income tax inspectors, I could help you, I said, but this is a special matter.”
“What did they look like? Goondas? Muscleman types?”
“Ordinary Maharashtrians, clerks. Skinny, with oily hair. And one had a thin moustache. Or did they both? – Can’t remember.”
Mr. Kapur nodded. “I can imagine them exactly.”
The comment made Yezad more confident. The deeper he went into the story, the more his characters acquired the solidity of flesh and blood. He recognized their potential instinctively, letting them grow was easy. A little supervision was all that was needed, like a parent or puppeteer.
“Funny thing is, even though they looked harmless, they intimida
ted me. Their tone, their voices clearly said they had the power. They knew I was scared of them.”
The slightly amused expression receded from Mr. Kapur’s face. He had accepted the gravity of the situation, thought Yezad.
“Did they give you their names?”
“Yes. Balaji something … Deshpande, I think. And Gopinath Sawant. Wait a sec – maybe Balaji Sawant and Gopinath Deshpande? Anyway, they said the change was easy, they had forms I should sign. I said I couldn’t.”
“That must have made them extremely happy.”
“Balaji began shouting. I said how can I do a name change without the owner’s permission, a name is very significant, success or failure depends on it. Gopinath whispered in Balaji’s ear and he said we understand your problem, we can issue a special exemption. Requires down payment of thirty thousand rupees, plus five thousand every month for as long as you want to keep Bombay.”
“Bastards! Extortion!”
“Or we must change to Mumbai Sporting Goods Emporium.”
“No!” Mr. Kapur banged his hand on the glass counter.
The genuine anger produced by his fabricated story startled and pleased Yezad. “Take it easy, Mr. Kapur. They are supposed to smash your glass, you don’t have to do it yourself.”
“Sorry, Yezad,” he smiled feebly. “You handled them well. By the way, was Husain here when they came?”
“No, he’d already left on deliveries.”
“Good. Don’t mention Shiv Sena, poor chap will panic. Once he returns, we’ll lock up.”
“Why do that? They’ll think we are frightened of them.”
Mr. Kapur turned fiercely. “The man isn’t born who can frighten me. My mood is ruined, that’s all.” He sat behind his desk and continued, “If I’d been present, I could have settled those low-lifes.” He raised a fist. “Told them where to go. When are they coming back?”
“They wouldn’t make an appointment. I said you were usually here in the morning.”
Mr. Kapur frowned, and agreed to let the shop stay open. He spent the afternoon fulminating, cursing the Shiv Sena and the blight it had brought upon the city. There was a venom and bitterness Yezad had not seen before, and he felt hopeful – the strategy seemed to be working.