But in the meantime he spent his days exhausting the list of possible witnesses in the Baag. When he began making petitions to those who were as good as strangers, he realized he was reaching the end of hope. The one man who would have helped him, as surely as there was earth beneath and sky above, who had been worth more than all of B Block put together, and who had more goodness in his dried scabs of psoriasis than in the hearts of all these others, was long dead: the kind and noble Dr. Mody. And Mrs. Mody now lived a cloistered life, spending her days in prayer and seclusion. He had gone to see her a few times, but on each occasion she came to the door with her prayer book in her hands and beckoned him away, making vague sounds from behind tightly shut lips: parting them for profane speech would have rendered everything prayed up to that point useless.
There was someone who would be willing to speak in court, Boman knew: the Muslim who lived in the next flat. But desperate as Boman was, he would not stoop to that, to ask him to testify against a fellow Parsi.
The time for Kashmira’s confinement came. She checked into the Awabai Petit Lying-in Hospital. Khorshedbai continued with her eleven o’clock routine, dancing her dance of disorder to the tinkling of bangles. Now Boman would clean up each night after visiting Kashmira at the hospital, and to see him crouching with broom and dustpan made Khorshedbai wild with delight. She could not hold still at the crack of her door, and kept dragging Ardesar up to make him look, against his will, at how low the mighty had to bend despite tie and jacket.
Poor Ardesar cowered inside, ashamed, and worried for her soul. His happiest moments came when he fed the pigeons at Chaupatty beach. He spent a lot of time there these days, alone: now Khotty refused to go. They waddled around his feet as he moved into their midst. He stopped every now and then, standing perfectly still, to let them pick playfully at his shoelaces. It made him sigh contentedly to see the way their throats trembled when they made their soft cooing sounds. The pigeons were the best part of living in this flat near Chaupatty beach. In the end, the neighbours were willing to testify against the paying guests. There were so many volunteers that Boman could have picked and chosen. Even Mrs. Karani assured him that she would make Mr. Karani be a witness, whether he wanted to or not, three monkeys or no three monkeys, so outraged was she about what had happened.
But as it turned out, there was no need. The paying guests went quietly: Khorshedbai first, by ambulance, everyone knew where; then Ardesar, no one knew where, by taxi.
It happened soon after Kashmira returned from her confinement, determined not to spend her days behind locked doors with the new baby. Parturition had endowed her with fresh courage and strength. So she strolled out on the veranda whenever her legs felt like stretching or her lungs longed for fresh air. Even at eleven o’clock she emerged undaunted.
Khorshedbai was not impressed by this new show of defiance. She continued to scatter and toss and sprinkle; the veranda, after all, was for common use as per the sub-tenancy agreement. But she was careful to skirt Kashmira’s immediate vicinity.
One morning, after Boman had left for work, Kashmira heard the soft, single flap of envelopes alighting on the veranda. The postman. She went to pick up the letters and stood scanning them: the ones for the paying guests landed back on the floor.
Then Najamai passed by in the compound and beckoned her out.
It was this gesture of Najamai’s, innocent and friendly, that was responsible for changing the tide of the neighbours’ apathy. Hers was the credit for the events now to follow, which would make them all eager to bear witness, but for which there would be no need because that single beckon in itself would get rid of the paying guests.
The gesture, potent as it turned out to be, would have been useless if Kashmira had elected not to go outside. Or if she had gone outside but returned quickly. Or if she had gone outside with the baby. Fortunately, none of these things happened.
Was there any little item, Najamai asked, that she could get for her while she was out shopping? Kashmira said thanks, but Boman usually got all they needed on his way home from work in the evening. What a good husband, said Najamai, then inquired about the new baby, and if there was any change in the madwoman’s behaviour because of the baby. None, said Kashmira, and she would rather die than let the lunatic’s shadow even fall upon the little one.
They stood by the steps of B Block, talking thus for some minutes: the precise number of minutes, as it turned out, that were required for the events (triggered by the beckoning arm) to gather momentum.
When Kashmira returned inside, the first thing she saw was the baby’s cot: empty. A vague fear of this sort of thing always used to lurk inside her. But she had managed to keep it bottled away under control in a remote part of her mind.
Now it escaped its bounds and pounded in her head, pumped through her veins and arteries, filled her lungs and the pit of her stomach. It felt ice-cold as it made its way. Call Boman, call the police, call for help, the fear screamed inside her, while the place where it used to be bottled up said stay calm, think clearly, take a deep breath. She rushed out to the veranda, willing to consider absurd possibilities: maybe the baby was precocious, already knew how to crawl, had crawled away, swaddling clothes and all, and was hiding somewhere.
While she dashed from room to veranda and veranda to room, a soft whimpering penetrated her panic. It came from Khorshedbai’s quarters. The door was ajar, and she peered inside. Uncertain of what she was seeing, she opened the door to let in more light from the veranda, then screamed, just once: a loud piercing scream. Behind it was gathered the combined force of the ice-cold fear and the place where the fear used to be bottled up.
Unaware of what her beckoning arm had precipitated, Najamai was almost at the end of the compound. She heard the scream and retrieved her steps. By then, Kashmira was yelling for assistance to any kind soul who could hear to come and save her child. Najamai repeated the cry for help outside C Block as she hurried towards B.
And help arrived within seconds. Later, Najamai would go over the list with Kashmira; from this day forward, in Najamai’s eyes the Baag had only two kinds of Parsis: the ones who had been shameless enough to ignore the call for help and the ones who had responded. Among the latter were retired Nariman Hansotia who was just stepping out to drive to the library, his wife Hirabai, Mrs. Karani from upstairs with Jaakaylee in tow, Mrs. Bulsara wearing her mathoobanoo, Mrs. Boyce, the spinster Tehmina in slippers and duster-coat, the watchman from his post at the compound gate – Najamai would remember them all, what they said, how they behaved, what they were wearing.
The hastily marshalled column entered the veranda with Najamai at its head, and stopped at the paying guests’ door. The screaming had emptied Kashmira of all words. She pointed within, propping herself up against the doorjamb.
Inside, Khorshedbai was leaning over the locked parrot cage. She seemed to have noticed no part of the commotion. The neighbours looked with curiosity that turned to horror as soon as their eyes adjusted to Khorshedbai’s dim room. There was a lull in the noise and confusion, a stunned silence for moments, during which the bangles on Khorshedbai’s wrists could be heard tinkling.
Ardesar sat on a chair with his face hidden in his hands. He was shaking visibly. The baby, liberated from the swaddling clothes, was inside the cage. Intermittent whistling came from Khorshedbai, mixed with soft kissing sounds or a series of rapid little clicks with tongue against palate. From her fingers she teasingly dangled two green peppers, long and thin, over the baby’s face.
Squatter
Whenever Nariman Hansotia returned in the evening from the Cawasji Framji Memorial Library in a good mood the signs were plainly evident.
First, he parked his 1932 Mercedes-Benz (he called it the apple of his eye) outside A Block, directly in front of his ground-floor veranda window, and beeped the horn three long times. It annoyed Rustomji who also had a ground-floor flat in A Block. Ever since he had defied Nariman in the matter of painting the exterior of the building
, Rustomji was convinced that nothing the old coot did was untainted by the thought of vengeance and harassment, his retirement pastime.
But the beeping was merely Nariman’s signal to let Hirabai inside know that though he was back he would not step indoors for a while. Then he raised the hood, whistling “Rose Marie,” and leaned his tall frame over the engine. He checked the oil, wiped here and there with a rag, tightened the radiator cap, and lowered the hood. Finally, he polished the Mercedes star and let the whistling modulate into the march from The Bridge On The River Kwai. The boys playing in the compound knew that Nariman was ready now to tell a story. They started to gather round.
“Sahibji, Nariman Uncle,” someone said tentatively and Nariman nodded, careful not to lose his whistle, his bulbous nose flaring slightly. The pursed lips had temporarily raised and reshaped his Clark Gable moustache. More boys walked up. One called out, “How about a story, Nariman Uncle?” at which point Nariman’s eyes began to twinkle, and he imparted increased energy to the polishing. The cry was taken up by others, “Yes, yes, Nariman Uncle, a story!” He swung into a final verse of the march. Then the lips relinquished the whistle, the Clark Gable moustache descended. The rag was put away, and he began.
“You boys know the great cricketers: Contractor, Polly Umrigar, and recently, the young chap, Farokh Engineer. Cricket aficionados, that’s what you all are.” Nariman liked to use new words, especially big ones, in the stories he told, believing it was his duty to expose young minds to as shimmering and varied a vocabulary as possible; if they could not spend their days at the Cawasji Framji Memorial Library then he, at least, could carry bits of the library out to them.
The boys nodded; the names of the cricketers were familiar.
“But does anyone know about Savukshaw, the greatest of them all?” They shook their heads in unison.
“This, then, is the story about Savukshaw, how he saved the Indian team from a humiliating defeat when they were touring in England.” Nariman sat on the steps of A Block. The few diehards who had continued with their games could not resist any longer when they saw the gathering circle, and ran up to listen. They asked their neighbours in whispers what the story was about, and were told: Savukshaw the greatest cricketer. The whispering died down and Nariman began.
“The Indian team was to play the indomitable MCC as part of its tour of England. Contractor was our captain. Now the MCC being the strongest team they had to face, Contractor was almost certain of defeat. To add to Contractor’s troubles, one of his star batsmen, Nadkarni, had caught influenza early in the tour, and would definitely not be well enough to play against the MCC. By the way, does anyone know what those letters stand for? You, Kersi, you wanted to be a cricketer once.”
Kersi shook his head. None of the boys knew, even though they had heard the MCC mentioned in radio commentaries, because the full name was hardly ever used.
Then Jehangir Bulsara spoke up, or Bulsara Bookworm, as the boys called him. The name given by Pesi paadmaroo had stuck even though it was now more than four years since Pesi had been sent away to boarding-school, and over two years since the death of Dr. Mody. Jehangir was still unliked by the boys in the Baag, though they had come to accept his aloofness and respect his knowledge and intellect. They were not surprised that he knew the answer to Nariman’s question: “Marylebone Cricket Club.”
“Absolutely correct,” said Nariman, and continued with the story. “The MCC won the toss and elected to bat. They scored four hundred and ninety-seven runs in the first inning before our spinners could get them out. Early in the second day’s play our team was dismissed for one hundred and nine runs, and the extra who had taken Nadkarni’s place was injured by a vicious bumper that opened a gash on his forehead.” Nariman indicated the spot and the length of the gash on his furrowed brow. “Contractor’s worst fears were coming true. The MCC waived their own second inning and gave the Indian team a follow-on, wanting to inflict an inning’s defeat. And this time he had to use the second extra. The second extra was a certain Savukshaw.”
The younger boys listened attentively; some of them, like the two sons of the chartered accountant in B Block, had only recently been deemed old enough by their parents to come out and play in the compound, and had not received any exposure to Nariman’s stories. But the others like Jehangir, Kersi, and Viraf were familiar with Nariman’s technique.
Once, Jehangir had overheard them discussing Nariman’s stories, and he could not help expressing his opinion: that unpredictability was the brush he used to paint his tales with, and ambiguity the palette he mixed his colours in. The others looked at him with admiration. Then Viraf asked what exactly he meant by that. Jehangir said that Nariman sometimes told a funny incident in a very serious way, or expressed a significant matter in a light and playful manner. And these were only two rough divisions, in between were lots of subtle gradations of tone and texture. Which, then, was the funny story and which the serious? Their opinions were divided, but ultimately, said Jehangir, it was up to the listener to decide.
“So,” continued Nariman, “Contractor first sent out his two regular openers, convinced that it was all hopeless. But after five wickets were lost for just another thirty-eight runs, out came Savukshaw the extra. Nothing mattered any more.”
The street lights outside the compound came on, illuminating the iron gate where the watchman stood. It was a load off the watchman’s mind when Nariman told a story. It meant an early end to the hectic vigil during which he had to ensure that none of the children ran out on the main road, or tried to jump over the wall. For although keeping out riff-raff was his duty, keeping in the boys was as important if he wanted to retain the job.
“The first ball Savukshaw faced was wide outside the off stump. He just lifted his bat and ignored it. But with what style! What panache! As if to say, come on, you blighters, play some polished cricket. The next ball was also wide, but not as much as the first. It missed the off stump narrowly. Again Savukshaw lifted his bat, boredom written all over him. Everyone was now watching closely. The bowler was annoyed by Savukshaw’s arrogance, and the third delivery was a vicious fast pitch, right down on the middle stump.
“Savukshaw was ready, quick as lightning. No one even saw the stroke of his bat, but the ball went like a bullet towards square leg.
“Fielding at square leg was a giant of a fellow, about six feet seven, weighing two hundred and fifty pounds, a veritable Brobdingnagian, with arms like branches and hands like a pair of huge sapaat, the kind that Dr. Mody used to wear, you remember what big feet Dr. Mody had.” Jehangir was the only one who did; he nodded. “Just to see him standing there was scary. Not one ball had got past him, and he had taken some great catches. Savukshaw purposely aimed his shot right at him. But he was as quick as Savukshaw, and stuck out his huge sapaat of a hand to stop the ball. What do you think happened then, boys?”
The older boys knew what Nariman wanted to hear at this point. They asked, “What happened, Nariman Uncle, what happened?” Satisfied, Nariman continued.
“A howl is what happened. A howl from the giant fielder, a howl that rang through the entire stadium, that soared like the cry of a banshee right up to the cheapest seats in the furthest, highest corners, a howl that echoed from the scoreboard and into the pavilion, into the kitchen, startling the chap inside who was preparing tea and scones for after the match, who spilled boiling water all over himself and was severely hurt. But not nearly as bad as the giant fielder at square leg. Never at any English stadium was a howl heard like that one, not in the whole history of cricket. And why do you think he was howling, boys?”
The chorus asked, “Why, Nariman Uncle, why?”
“Because of Savukshaw’s bullet-like shot, of course. The hand he had reached out to stop it, he now held up for all to see, and dhur-dhur, dhur-dhur the blood was gushing like a fountain in an Italian piazza, like a burst water-main from the Vihar-Powai reservoir, dripping onto his shirt and his white pants, and sprinkling the green grass
, and only because he was such a giant of a fellow could he suffer so much blood loss and not faint. But even he could not last forever; eventually, he felt dizzy, and was helped off the field. And where do you think the ball was, boys, that Savukshaw had smacked so hard?”
And the chorus rang out again on the now dark steps of A Block: “Where, Nariman Uncle, where?”
“Past the boundary line, of course. Lying near the fence. Rent asunder. Into two perfect leather hemispheres. All the stitches had ripped, and some of the insides had spilled out. So the umpires sent for a new one, and the game resumed. Now none of the fielders dared to touch any ball that Savukshaw hit. Every shot went to the boundary, all the way for four runs. Single-handedly, Savukshaw wiped out the deficit, and had it not been for loss of time due to rain, he would have taken the Indian team to a thumping victory against the MCC. AS it was, the match ended in a draw.”
Nariman was pleased with the awed faces of the youngest ones around him. Kersi and Viraf were grinning away and whispering something. From one of the flats the smell of frying fish swam out to explore the night air, and tickled Nariman’s nostrils. He sniffed appreciatively, aware that it was in his good wife Hirabai’s pan that the frying was taking place. This morning, he had seen the pomfret she had purchased at the door, waiting to be cleaned, its mouth open and eyes wide, like the eyes of some of these youngsters. It was time to wind up the story.
“The MCC will not forget the number of new balls they had to produce that day because of Savukshaw’s deadly strokes. Their annual ball budget was thrown badly out of balance. Any other bat would have cracked under the strain, but Savukshaw’s was seasoned with a special combination of oils, a secret formula given to him by a sadhu who had seen him one day playing cricket when he was a small boy. But Savukshaw used to say his real secret was practice, lots of practice, that was the advice he gave to any young lad who wanted to play cricket.”