The collapsed mouth and flapping lips appeased everyone. A general tittering spread through the assembly. Rustomji the clown was triumphant. He had restored to himself the harmlessness of the original entertaining spectacle, pheytoe back on head, teeth back in mouth.
Then, under the amused gaze of the crowd, Rustomji undid the bows of the dugli and removed it. Going to the fire-temple was out of the question. Tears of shame and rage welled in his eyes, and through the mist he saw the blood-red blotch. With the dugli off he still felt a little damp on the back – the juice had penetrated his shirt and sudra as well. For the second time that day he had been soiled in a most repulsive way.
Someone handed him a newspaper to wrap the dugli in; another picked up the packet of sandalwood he had dropped. At that moment, when Rustomji looked most helpless, a bus arrived and the crowd departed.
He was left alone, holding the newspapered dugli and the sandalwood in brown paper. The angle of his pheytoe had shifted, and he no longer looked or felt unassailable. Feebly, he hailed a taxi. It was a small Morris, and he had to stoop low to get in, to keep the pheytoe from being knocked off his head.
The horror of what Mehroo had found out at the fire-temple abated on the way home. Her thoughts turned to Rustomji; surely he should have finished his bath and arrived at the fire-temple, she had waited there for over two hours, first outside the gates, then inside. Maybe Rustomji has already found out, she hoped, maybe he knows the prayers were cancelled.
She turned the latchkey and entered the flat. Rustomji lay sprawled on the easy chair. Thrown on the teapoy beside him was his dugli, the blood-red paan stain prominent.
He was surprised to see her back so soon, looking so distressed. Mehroo always came from the fire-temple with something resembling beatitude shining on her face. Today she looked as though she had seen sataan himself inside the fire-temple, thought Rustomji.
She moved closer to the teapoy, and the light caught the dugli. She shrieked in terror: “Dustoor Dhunjisha’s dugli! But … but … how did you –?”
“What rubbish are you talking again? Some swine spat paan on my dugli.” He decided not to mention his narrow escape. “Why would I have that fat rascal Dhunjisha’s dugli?”
Mehroo sat down weakly. “God forgive you your words, you do not know Dustoor Dhunjisha was murdered!”
“What! In the fire-temple? But who would –?”
“I will tell you everything if you wait for one minute. First I need a drink of water, I feel so tired.”
Rustomji’s stolidity was pierced through. He hurried to the kitchen for a glass of water. Mehroo then told how Dhunjisha had been stabbed by a chasniwalla employed at the fire-temple. The chasniwalla had confessed. He was trying to steal some silver trays from the fire-temple when Dhunjisha had unwittingly wandered into the room; the chasniwalla panicked and killed him. Then, to be rid of the corpse, he threw it in the sacred fire-temple well.
“They found the body this morning,” continued Mehroo. “I was let inside later on, and the police were examining the body, nothing had been removed, he was still wearing his dugli, it looked exactly like…” She motioned towards Rustomji’s on the teapoy, shuddered, and fell silent.
She began to busy herself. She carried her glass back to the kitchen along with Rustomji’s teacup from earlier that morning, and lit the stove to get lunch ready. She came back, examined the blot of paan on his dugli and wondered aloud about the best way to remove the stain, then was silent again.
Rustomji heaved a sigh. “What is happening in the world I don’t know. Parsi killing Parsi … chasniwalla and dustoor…”
He, too, fell silent, slowly shaking his head. He gazed pensively at the walls and ceiling, where bits of paint and plaster were waiting to peel, waiting to fall into their pots and pans, their vessels of water, their lives. Tomorrow, Gajra would come and sweep away the flakes of white from the floor; she would clean out the pots and pans, and fill fresh water into the vessels. The Times of India would arrive, he would read it as he sipped his tea, and see Nariman Hansotia drive past in his 1932 Mercedes-Benz to the Cawasji Framji Memorial Library to read the daily papers from around the world. Mehroo would wipe away with water the coloured chalk designs at the front entrance and take down the tohrun from over the doorways – the flowers would be dry shrunken scraps by morning.
Mehroo looked at Rustomji musing on the easy chair, and felt inside herself the melancholy of his troubled, distant gaze. This rare glimpse of the softness underneath his tough exterior touched her. She slipped away quietly to the bedroom, to change her sari.
The unravelled yards of crumpled fabric, unredeemed by sandalwood fragrance, were deposited on the bed. There was no point in folding and hanging up the sari beside the bed, it could go straight for washing. She regarded it with something close to despair and noticed, on the wall beside the bed, marks left by trickling water from last year’s rains.
This year’s monsoons were due soon; they would wash clean the narrow streets she had passed through that morning on her way to the fire-temple. And in the flat the rain would send new beads of moisture, to replace last year’s marks with new imprints.
The aroma of dhandar-paatyo, wafting from the kitchen, gently penetrated her meditation. It reminded her that Behram roje was not over yet. But she returned to the kitchen and put off the stove – it would still be a while to lunch, she knew. Instead, she prepared two cups of tea. Between ten A.M. and four P.M. she never drank tea, it was one of her strictest rules. Today, for Rustomji’s sake, she would make an exception.
She went back to him, asked if he was ready for lunch and, receiving the anticipated refusal, smiled to herself with a tender satisfaction – how well she knew her Rustomji. She felt very close to him at this moment.
He shook his head slowly from side to side, gazing pensively into the distance. “Stomach is still heavy. Must be constipated.”
“And the WC?”
“Still leaking.”
She re-emerged with the two cups she had left ready in the kitchen: “Another cup of tea then?”
Rustomji nodded gratefully.
One Sunday
Najamai was getting ready to lock up her flat in Firozsha Baag and take the train to spend the day with her sister’s family in Bandra.
She bustled her bulk around, turning the keys in the padlocks of her seventeen cupboards, then tugged at each to ensure the levers had tumbled properly. Soon, she was breathless with excitement and exertion.
Her breathlessness reminded her of the operation she had had three years ago to remove fat tissue from the abdomen and breasts. The specialist had told her, “You will not notice any great difference in the mirror. But you will appreciate the results when you are over sixty. It will keep you from sagging.”
Here she was at fifty-five, and would soon know the truth of his words if merciful God kept her alive for five more years. Najamai did not question the ways of merciful God, even though her Soli was taken away the very year after first Dolly and then Vera went abroad for higher studies.
Today would be the first Sunday that the flat would be empty for the whole day. “In a way it is good,” she reflected, “that Tehmina next door and the Boyces downstairs use my fridge as much as they do. Anyone who has evil intentions about my empty flat will think twice when he sees the coming-going of neighbours.”
Temporarily reconciled towards the neighbours whom she otherwise regarded as nuisances, Najamai set off. She nodded at the boys playing in the compound. Outside, it did not feel as hot, for there was a gentle breeze. She felt at peace with the world. It was a twenty-minute walk, and there would be plenty of time to catch the ten-fifteen express. She would arrive at her sister’s well before lunch-time.
At eleven-thirty Tehmina cautiously opened her door and peered out. She made certain that the hallway was free of the risk of any confrontation with a Boyce on the way to Najamai’s fridge. “It is shameful the way those people misuse the poor lady’s goodness,” thought Tehm
ina. “All Najamai said when she bought the fridge was to please feel free to use it. It was only out of courtesy. Now those Boyces behave as if they have a share in the ownership of the fridge.”
She shuffled out in slippers and duster-coat, clutching one empty glass and the keys to Najamai’s flat. She reeked of cloves, lodged in her mouth for two reasons: it kept away her attacks of nausea and alleviated her chronic toothaches.
Cursing the poor visibility in the hallway, Tehmina, circumspect, moved on. Even on the sunniest of days, the hallway persisted in a state of half-light. She fumbled with the locks, wishing her cataracts would hurry and ripen for removal.
Inside at last, she swung open the fridge door to luxuriate in the delicious rush of cold air. A curious-looking package wrapped in plastic caught her eye; she squeezed it, sniffed at it, decided against undoing it. The freezer section was almost bare; the Boyces’ weekly packets of beef had not yet arrived.
Tehmina placed two ice-cubes in the empty glass she had brought along – the midday drink of chilled lemonade was as dear to her as the evening Scotch and soda – and proceeded to lock up the place. But she was startled in her battle with Najamai’s locks and bolts by footsteps behind her.
“Francis!”
Francis did odd jobs. Not just for Tehmina and Najamai in C Block, but for anyone in Firozsha Baag who required his services. This was his sole means of livelihood ever since he had been laid off or dismissed, it was never certain which, from the furniture store across the road where he used to be a delivery boy. The awning of that store still provided the only roof he had ever known. Strangely, the store owner did not mind, and it was a convenient location – all that Tehmina or Najamai or any of the other neighbours had to do was lean out of their verandas and wave or clap hands and he would come.
Grinning away as usual, Francis approached Tehmina.
“Stop staring, you idiot,” started Tehmina, “and check if this door is properly locked.”
“Yes, bai. But when will Najamai return? She said she would give me some work today.”
“Never. Could not be for today. She won’t be back till very late. You must have made a mistake.” With a loud suck she moved the cloves to the other cheek and continued, “So many times I’ve told you to open your ears and listen properly when people tell you things. But no. You never listen.”
Francis grinned again and shrugged his shoulders. In order to humour Tehmina he replied, “Sorry bai, it is my mistake!” He stood only about five feet two but possessed strength which was out of all proportion to his light build. Once, in Tehmina’s kitchen during a cleaning spree he had picked up the stone slab used for grinding spices. It weighed at least fifty pounds, and it was the way in which he lifted it, between thumb and fingertips, that amazed Tehmina. Later, she had reported the incident to Najamai. The two women had marvelled at his strength, giggling at Tehmina’s speculation that he must be built like a bull.
As humbly as possible Francis now asked, “Do you have any work for me today?”
“No. And I do not like it, you skulking here in the hallway. When there is work we will call you. Now go away.”
Francis left. Tehmina could be offensive, but he needed the few paise the neighbours graciously let him earn and the leftovers Najamai allowed him whenever there were any. So he returned to the shade of the furniture store awning.
While Tehmina was chilling her lemonade with Najamai’s ice, downstairs, Silloo Boyce cleaned and portioned the beef into seven equal packets. She disliked being obligated to Najamai for the fridge, though it was a great convenience. “Besides,” she argued with herself, “we do enough to pay her back, every night she borrows the newspaper. And every morning I receive her milk and bread so she does not have to wake up early. Madam will not even come down, my sons must carry it upstairs.” Thus she mused and reasoned each Sunday, as she readied the meat in plastic bags which her son Kersi later stacked in Najamai’s freezer.
Right now, Kersi was busy repairing his cricket bat. The cord around the handle had come unwound and had gathered in a black cluster at its base, leaving more than half the length of the handle naked. It looked like a clump of pubic hair, Kersi thought, as he untangled the cord and began gluing it back around the handle.
The bat was a size four, much too small for him, and he did not play a lot of cricket any more. But for some reason he continued to care for it. The willow still possessed spring enough to send a ball to the boundary line, in glaring contrast to his brother Percy’s bat. The latter was in sad shape. The blade was dry and cracked in places; the handle, its rubber grip and cord having come off long ago, had split; and the joint where the blade met the handle was undone. But Percy did not care. He never had really cared for cricket, except during that one year when the Australian team was visiting, when he had spent whole days glued to the radio, listening to the commentary. Now it was aeroplanes all the time, model kits over which he spent hours, and Biggies books in which he buried himself.
But Kersi had wanted to play serious cricket ever since primary school. In the fifth standard he was finally chosen for the class team. On the eve of the match, however, the captain contracted mumps, and the vice-captain took over, promptly relegating Kersi to the extras and moving up his own crony. That was the end of serious cricket for Kersi. For a short while, his father used to take him and his Firozsha Baag friends to play at the Marine Drive maidaan on Sunday mornings. And nowadays, they played a little in the compound. But it was not the same. Besides, they were interrupted all the time by people like that mean old Rustomji in A Block. Of all the neighbours who yelled and scolded, Rustomji-the-curmudgeon did the loudest and the most. He always threatened to confiscate their bat and ball if they didn’t stop immediately.
Kersi now used his bat mainly for killing rats. Rat poison and a variety of traps were also employed with unflagging vigilance. But most of the rat population, with some rodent sixth sense, circumnavigated the traps. Kersi’s bat remained indispensable.
His mother was quite proud of his skill, and once she had bragged about it to Najamai upstairs: “So young, and yet so brave, the way he runs after the ugly things. And he never misses.” This was a mistake, because Kersi was promptly summoned the next time Najamai spied a rat in her flat. It had fled into the daughters’ room and Kersi rushed in after it. Vera had just finished her bath and was not dressed. She screamed, first when she saw the rat, and again, when Kersi entered after it. He found it hard to keep his eyes on the rat – it escaped easily. Soon after, Vera had gone abroad for higher studies, following her sister Dolly’s example.
The first time that Kersi successfully used his bat against a rat, it had been quite messy. Perhaps it was the thrill of the chase, or his rage against the invader, or just an ignorance about the fragility of that creature of fur and bone. The bat had come down with such vehemence that the rat was badly squashed. A dark red stain had oozed across the floor, almost making him sick. He discovered how sticky that red smear was only when he tried to wipe it off with an old newspaper.
The beef was now ready for the freezer. With seven packets of meat, and Najamai’s latchkeys in his pocket, Kersi plodded upstairs.
When Najamai’s daughters had gone abroad, they took with them the youthful sensuality that once filled the flat, and which could drive Kersi giddy with excitement on a day like this, with no one home, and all before him the prospect of exploring Vera and Dolly’s bedroom, examining their undies that invariably lay scattered around, running his hands through lacy frilly things, rubbing himself with these and, on one occasion, barely rescuing them from a sticky end. Now, exploration would yield nothing but Najamai’s huge underclothes. Kersi could not think of them as bras and panties – their vastness forfeited the right to these dainty names.
Feeling sadness, loss, betrayal, he descended the stairs lifelessly. Each wooden step, with the passage of years and the weight of tenants, was worn to concavity, and he felt just as worn. Not so long ago, he was able to counter spells of l
ow spirits and gloominess by turning to his Enid Blyton books. A few minutes was all it took before he was sharing the adventures of the Famous Five or the Secret Seven, an idyllic existence in a small English village, where he would play with dogs, ride horses in the meadows, climb hills, hike through the countryside, or, if the season was right, build a snowman and have a snowball fight.
But lately, this had refused to work, and he got rid of the books. Percy had made fun of him for clinging to such silly and childish fantasy, inviting him to share, instead, the experience of aerial warfare with Biggies and his men in the RAF.
Everything in Firozsha Baag was so dull since Pesi paadmaroo had been sent away to boarding school. And all because of that sissy Jehangir, the Bulsara Bookworm.
Francis was back in the hallway, and was disappointed when Kersi did not notice him. Kersi usually stopped to chat; he got on well with all the servants in the building, especially Francis. Kersi’s father had taught him to play cricket but Francis had instructed him in kite-flying. With a kite and string bought with fifty paise earned for carrying Najamai’s quota of rice and sugar from the rationing depot, and with the air of a mentor, he had taught Kersi everything he knew about kites.
But the time they spent together was anathema to Kersi’s parents. They looked distastefully on the growing friendship, and all the neighbours agreed it was not proper for a Parsi boy to consort in this way with a man who was really no better than a homeless beggar, who would starve were it not for their thoughtfulness in providing him with odd jobs. No good would come of it, they said.
Much to their chagrin, however, when the kite-flying season of high winds had passed, Kersi and Francis started spinning tops and shooting marbles. These, too, were activities considered inappropriate for a Parsi boy.