“It’s my father-in-law – he’s staying with us for the time being. He talks and shouts in his sleep.”
Yezad paused, then decided to keep going, to use this opportunity for prompting Mr. Kapur, as Vilas had called it. “Worrying about Shiv Sena also keeps me awake.”
“Relax, Yezad, worrying won’t help. Last night I had a brainwave. I’ve reconsidered the situation.”
Yezad’s heart leapt. Might the actors’ effort still bear fruit?
“I have come to an important conclusion,” began Mr. Kapur. “That Bombay is much more than a city. Bombay is a religion.”
“Is this a promotion for the city? You used to say it was a beautiful woman.”
Mr. Kapur laughed and cleared a corner on Yezad’s desk to sit. “She is, Yezad. But now she has aged. And if she can accept her wrinkles with poise and dignity, so must I. For there is beauty too in such acceptance. This is going to be my holistic approach.”
More like a hole-in-the-head approach, thought Yezad. “You won’t do anything about the problems?”
“No. All her blemishes, her slums, her broken sewers, her corrupt and criminal politicians, her —”
“Hang on, Mr. Kapur. I don’t think crime or corruption can be called a blemish. More a cancerous tumour. When a person has cancer in their body, they should bloody well fight it.”
“Not in the holistic approach. Hating the cancer, attacking it with aggressive methods is futile. Holistically, you have to convince your tumour, with love and kindness, to change its malign nature to a benign one.”
“And if the cancer won’t listen?” said Yezad somewhat viciously. “She will die, won’t she?”
“Now you mustn’t be too literal with my beautiful-woman metaphor,” chided Mr. Kapur.
“Am I? I was just applying it consistently. The young Bombay in your photographs, then the aging, the cancer —”
“Okay, forget the beautiful woman,” said Mr. Kapur with a trace of irritation. “Remember I said Bombay is like a religion? Well, it’s like Hinduism. I think.”
“And how did you manage to work that out?”
“Hinduism has an all-accepting nature, agreed? I’m not talking about the fundamentalist, mosque-destroying fanatics, but the real Hinduism that has nurtured this country for thousands of years, welcoming all creeds and beliefs and dogmas and theologies, making them feel at home. Sometimes, when they are not looking, it absorbs them within itself. Even false gods are accommodated, and turned into true ones, adding a few more deities to its existing millions.
“The same way, Bombay makes room for everybody. Migrants, businessmen, perverts, politicians, holy men, gamblers, beggars, wherever they come from, whatever caste or class, the city welcomes them and turns them into Bombayites. So who am I to say these people belong here and those don’t? Janata Party okay, Shiv Sena not okay, secular good, communal bad, BJP unacceptable, Congress lesser of evils?
“No, it’s not up to us. Bombay opens her arms to everyone. What we think of as decay is really her maturity, and her constancy to her essential complex nature. How dare I dispute her Zeitgeist? If this is Bombay’s Age of Chaos, how can I demand a Golden Age of Harmony? How can there be rule of law and democracy if this is the hour of a million mutinies?”
Yezad nodded, feeling his head would burst into a million pieces under Mr. Kapur’s wild and unwieldy analogies.
Just then, Husain returned with the sweets, which made Mr. Kapur abandon the subject. He began examining the six large packages to make sure that everything he had ordered was there. Yezad remarked that judging by the quantity, the sweets must have cost a lot.
“I don’t mind,” said Mr. Kapur. “It’s for a good occasion. If the Shiv Sena crooks can get thousands from us, why not some gifts for the children in our neighbourhood? Besides, they will learn about other communities and religions, about tolerance, no? They hear enough from Shiv Sena about intolerance.”
And what about gifts for my children, thought Yezad bitterly, as they carried the packets into Mr. Kapur’s office. Never mind gifts, what about necessities for my family?
“Which reminds me, Yezad. Have those crooks got their filthy hands on our money?”
“Not yet.” He cursed the reminder – hardly an hour passed without his thinking about that wretched envelope. How long would it plague him in his desk? Till Mr. Kapur decided Shiv Sena weren’t coming for it, and returned it to the suitcase. The end of a useless drama. Unless …
“Take a look at this, Yezad,” said Mr. Kapur. It was a handwritten cardboard sign he’d made to hang outside. The letters were six inches high, green and red: COME, CHILDREN, MEET SANTA CLAUS! and below it, a Hindi version: AO, BACHCHAY, SANTA CLAUS KO MILO! Santa’s hours were listed: 2 P.M. to 7 P.M. on December 24, and 10 A.M. to 1 P.M. on December 25.
“You’re staying open on Christmas Day as well?”
“Not for business – for peace and goodwill. But you don’t have to come, just enjoy the holiday. You too, Husain.”
“Sahab, I want to come. Humko bhi mazaa ayega.”
“Sure. Chalo, sign ko string lagaake fix karo.”
Husain got the stepladder from the storeroom and tied the cardboard square to the bracket under the Bombay Sporting neon display. “Okay, sahab?”
“First class, we’re all set.”
Mr. Kapur played around for the rest of the afternoon, too excited to do any work, keeping on his costume while complaining that it was hot inside it. When he took it off at closing time, it was soaked with sweat.
“Hard work, being Santa,” he joked, spreading the red jacket and trousers to dry on the counter. “I need a good rest tonight.”
They locked up, and Husain escorted Mr. Kapur to the kerb, waiting with him till he got into a taxi. He seemed happy that his kind sahab had emerged unchanged from inside the hairy-faced red monster.
Yezad said good night and walked down the footpath, jostled by the crowds of workers hurrying home. He yearned for the peace of the fire-temple. How fortunate that in the harsh desert this city had become, his oasis was so close by.
And today, he had brought his own prayer cap. He put his hand in his pocket and felt its reassuring velvet presence. Long unused, it was still soft against his fingers.
Eyes closed, Yezad sat by the sanctum, a prayer book open in his lap. The boi had been rung, the bell hung still, and the exuberant fire in the afargaan was starting to subside. The room returned to its comforting half-gloom.
He shut the prayer book and replaced it on the shelf. At the sanctum’s marble threshold he bowed. His fingers took a generous pinch of ash to smear on his forehead and throat. Walking in reverse, he moved slowly away from the fire, out of the room.
On the veranda the white-bearded dustoorji was deep in conversation with another priest. Yezad imagined they were debating some profound matter – perhaps a problem of Gathic interpretation? How he would love to acquire that kind of knowledge. Would it be of help in making sense of this world, his world? Until he tried, he wouldn’t know.
At the gate he slipped off his prayer cap and returned it to his pocket, then wiped off the ash. He made his way to Marine Lines station.
A few steps later he stopped, turned around, and strode briskly towards Bombay Sporting, taking a detour to avoid Vilas in case he was still writing letters outside the Book Mart. The keys were ready in his hand as he approached the shop. The door was opened swiftly – it was a smooth latch – and shut behind him.
He went inside without turning on the lights, able to see all that he needed to see. He passed the Santa costume draped over the counter, waiting for tomorrow. Selecting the right key by touch, he unlocked his desk, pulled out the drawer, removed the manila envelope, put it in his briefcase. He locked his desk, locked the door, and went home.
He said not a word to Roxana. He couldn’t, not till his confusion cleared. The carefully considered act had only created more turmoil. And there was a tightness round his heart.
All evening, whil
e Yezad grappled with the disarray in his mind, Murad and Jehangir eyed him with concern, keeping their distance. And Roxana, fearing a quarrel, wondered what was wrong again, after the calm she hoped had returned to bless their house.
Well before two o’clock the following afternoon, Mr. Kapur, reincarnated as Santa Claus, paced restlessly between the counters of Bombay Sporting. Now and again he startled Husain with an ebullient ho-ho-ho, or practised his wave, trying different styles to see which produced the most chimes. Just inside the door, where he would receive his visitors, the flashing bulb gave his chair an eerie red wash.
At last it was the appointed hour, and he sat with the sack full of sweets by his side. “Don’t look so worried, Yezad, people will come.”
“Oh yes, they’ll come.” Guilt must look like worry, he thought, trying to compose himself. The tightness in his chest from last night had troubled him all day, and he wondered if he should see a doctor.
After half an hour Mr. Kapur began pacing again. “Why is no one coming? Yesterday when I passed Akbarally’s, it was packed with children. Look at me, Yezad. Am I inferior to the Akbarally’s Santa?”
“You look wonderful. Problem is, they have a mailing list, and special invitations. My Jehangir also got one last week.”
“Did you take him?”
“Of course not, he’s too old for that. And if he wanted to meet Santa, I’d bring him here.”
The response pleased Mr. Kapur. He tried to spot in the crowds rushing past a young child to whom he might wave, who might then ask to come inside.
Another half-hour passed, and the only sweets consumed were the ones eaten by Yezad. He kept unwrapping them, one after another, and crunching them down. As he fumbled with the wrappers, he realized his fingers were as unsteady as a chain-smoker’s.
“No one wants my treats,” said Mr. Kapur mournfully. “You might as well have them all. You and Husain take them home.”
“Maybe the cardboard sign is the problem,” said Yezad, putting back the sweet in his hand. “I wonder if people can read the message.”
Mr. Kapur jumped at the excuse. “Of course. Why didn’t I think of that? Husain can stand outside and direct people’s attention to it.”
The peon took his new assignment seriously. When a woman and her son paused to look in the window, he approached them with such alacrity, they shied away in alarm.
“Walk faster, baba, it’s a crazy fellow,” she said, looking around fearfully.
Wounded by the comment but undaunted, Husain selected another recipient for Kapur sahab’s benefaction. A man and a little girl, probably his daughter, were stopping to examine shop displays. The child asked for something; the man smiled and shook his head, patting her cheek to console her.
They neared, and Husain got ready. He seemed determined that his quarry would not escape this time – a child would be provided for Kapur sahab. And when they passed, he pounced.
Grabbing the little girl’s arm, he began supplicating the father. “Please come inside, bhai sahab! Free sweets milayga, your bachchi will enjoy!”
Perhaps the father thought it was an abduction attempt, or was annoyed at the aggressive solicitation. “Hai, sala!” he yelled. “Haath mut lagao!”
But Husain held on.
“Let us go or I’ll break your head!”
As he made to strike Husain, Mr. Kapur decided it was time to rescue his peon. “Excuse me, sir!” he called from the entrance, preempting the blow. “Sorry for the inconvenience! We’re just offering free sweets for Christmas.”
Yezad went to the door too, ready to intervene if needed. But Mr. Kapur’s words had reassured the parent. The child, however, looked at the red apparition and burst into tears. People were stopping to watch, unwilling to walk past what could be a unique altercation: Santa Claus versus the public.
“Rona nahi, my child,” said Mr. Kapur, holding out a hand from which she flinched. “You understand English?”
“My daughter is in standard one, English medium,” said the father haughtily, insulted by the question.
“Excellent,” said Mr. Kapur. “So why are you crying, my little girl? You’ve never seen Santa Claus?”
The father said frostily, “We follow the Jain religion.”
“That’s good,” said Mr. Kapur. “Myself, I am Hindu. But no harm in a bit of Christmas fun. And modern Santa Claus is secular, anyway.”
Dragging his child who was now as fascinated as she was terrified, the man walked off while Mr. Kapur expounded on the virtues of a cosmopolitan society and the advantage of celebrating festivals of all faiths and religions. The crowd on the pavement heard him out, several people clapping in agreement. He gave them a wave, startling himself with the chimes, and returned inside, somewhat deflated.
“Oollu kay patthay!” he scolded Husain. “I said to inform people about Santa Claus. Not ghubrao them by snatching their children. Smile at them, be nice. As though you are inviting friends into your home. Jao, try again.”
Husain returned to the pavement, worried about Kapur sahab’s anger. Was the fierce-looking costume and beard changing his sweet nature?
Meanwhile, Yezad felt he needed to commiserate with Mr. Kapur: “New things take time to work.”
“Santa Claus is not new,” he said gloomily. “He is hundreds of years old.”
They watched Husain have another go at enticing visitors. He grinned and bowed, indicated the sign, pointed at the man in red inside the shop. He mastered the art of communicating without intimidating, and they were rewarded with their first guests.
The boy was familiar with Santa etiquette. He went up to shake Mr. Kapur’s hand and wordlessly endured the hug. The fond parents answered in an eager affirmative when their son was asked if he had been good this year.
Beaming, Mr. Kapur reached into his red sack and tried to engage the taciturn boy in conversation. In a burst of generosity he gave handfuls of sweets to the parents too.
A baffled Husain observed the ritual at the centre of his employer’s elaborate preparations. His expression seemed to say it made no sense – sahab was giving away sweets to strangers who weren’t interested in buying anything from the shop.
“Ho-ho-ho!” laughed Santa once more for the departing guests. “Merry Christmas, and see you next year!”
“Say thank you, Santa,” instructed the parents. The boy ignored them, engrossed in his sweets as he skipped down the steps.
“That went well,” said Mr. Kapur.
“Perfect,” said Yezad from behind him, wishing the evening would come to an end. He wiped the sweat from his upper lip, dried the finger on his shirt sleeve, and reached into the sack for one more sweet.
“I think now it will get very busy,” declared Mr. Kapur. “I feel it in my bones. Chalo, Husain, why are you staring at me like a buddhoo? Go outside, send in more bachchay with their ma-baap.”
Though Mr. Kapur’s bones were far from right, there was a trickle steady enough to warm his heart with a variety of experiences. Children who were seeing their first Santa gazed in fascination or turned away in horror. Others marched in and out like well-behaved robots. Those too old for Santa came for the free sweets with a mocking, jeering attitude. One boy kept repeating joyfully, “Father Christmas has bugs in his beard!”
The embarrassed mother explained: her son was mixing up Santa Claus with family jokes about a white-bearded priest whose facial hair was reputed to harbour insects.
The window lights were switched off at seven; Husain was told to stop recruiting visitors. In his office Mr. Kapur pried the beard and moustache from his face, wincing as the skin pulled. The reassuring clank of the steel shutters was heard outside. He sat to remove his gumboots, but his feet, encased in the hot rubber, had swollen. He managed to tug one boot off after a struggle.
While he wrestled with the other, Husain came in. “Ah, miyan bhai, can you help me? Bahut tight hai.”
The peon knelt and grasped the boot’s heel and toe as Mr. Kapur braced himself in
the chair. The gumboot came off with a whoosh. He flexed his ankles, wiggled his toes, and slipped the aching feet into his comfortable Italian loafers. “Ready to leave, Yezad?”
They stepped outside, and while Yezad locked the shop, Mr. Kapur pointed to the signboard: “Look at that.”
Rubbing a hand over his chest where the tightness persisted, Yezad stared at the sign. The neon lights said BOMBAY SPORTING GODS EMPORIUM – an o had blown. There was an o in each word, he thought uneasily, and yet this was the one that had gone dark.
“The electrician will be closed tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll have it checked day after.”
“Absolutely. Spend the holiday with your family.”
“Thanks, Mr. Kapur.”
“Merry Christmas, Yezad.”
AFTER MIDNIGHT, Yezad felt the tightness in his chest getting worse, and his forehead was dripping sweat. He rose cautiously, but the bed creaked and Roxana turned over.
“What’s wrong, Yezdaa?”
“Nothing, just gas, I think. I’m going to drink ginger.”
He left the kitchen dark and opened the refrigerator. Its light made him squint. There was one bottle of ginger on the door – he touched it: barely chilled.
His fingers made spoons clatter in the drawer before closing around the opener. He snapped the cap off, trying to catch it as it fell and rolled away under the table, then emptied the fizzing drink into a glass. Fresh bottle, he thought, and took a few sips. The effervescence continued to hiss in the dark.
His ginger burp was prompt in arriving, but he knew the relief he sought wasn’t in this drink: it was not gas but the envelope – from the minute he’d brought it home it had turned into his biggest burden, squeezing the breath out of him. What had possessed him? Desperation, he knew. And he was still desperate, nothing had changed in twenty-four hours, the chief was still suffering, Roxana still driving herself to exhaustion, there wasn’t enough to eat, and here was money to ease all the difficulties, if he would only open the envelope, start spending …