Chronicle of a Corpse Bearer (12 page)

It wasn’t until one night, two weeks later, while fiddling with the dial on his radio that Temoo accidentally tuned in to a woman’s voice (was it the same woman Bujji saw hoisting the flag at Gowalia Tank?) and we heard Gandhi’s own words—what he would have wanted to say to the people on that day when he gave the call to ‘Quit India’, if they hadn’t slammed him behind bars:

‘. . .The mantra we have to adopt is Do or Die. We shall either free India or die in the attempt. We shall not live to see the perpetuation of our slavery.’

That was all we heard, before the voice was drowned out by disturbance and static.

The British completely overreacted to this open challenge. Thousands of Congress party leaders and workers were jailed. In the days to come, news of mass arrests incensed people all over the country. Telephone and telegraph wires were cut, railway stations attacked, bridges blown up, police stations burned to the ground. In a few corners of the country, the administration was paralysed, and parallel governments set up. But within two months or so the disturbances died down, and the rule of law was restored.

But I’m getting ahead of myself here. It shouldn’t have surprised anyone, I suppose, that we hadn’t heard the last of the corpse that
had
toppled.

Only a week later, one afternoon I was once again on Rustom’s terrace keeping him and Boman company, when we saw a dishevelled Edulji, with an office folder clutched tightly under his arm, shuffling up the slope one step at a time.

‘
Aavo
, Edulji,
aavo
,’ said Rusi to the old man who had just climbed onto the porch. ‘And to what do we owe this gracious visit?’

‘Look, I want to tell all of you right away: I had nothing to do with this,’ stuttered Edulji, facial muscles twitching. The browbeaten old man worked under Buchia, as his secretary, dogsbody and whipping boy. Just on that account we felt sorry for him, though not a lot. We had to be careful, always, as to what was said in his presence; the cur was known to carry tales back to his master.

For a moment, in my mind’s eye I saw a picture of Seppy’s fey, pliable face doing a perfect imitation of Edul’s twitch: nose puckering up in the same instant as his lips shot to one side, in a sort of ludicrous smirk—like the anticipation of an elusive sneeze—and I had to suppress a giggle. But Edulji heard it and stared blankly at me, while twitching even more furiously.

‘I’m just the postman, you could say. Even these letters,
I
didn’t type them.’

‘What letters, Edulji?’ asked Rustom.

‘Well, see for yourselves. There’s one for each of you. Direct from head office.’

Edul wiped perspiration off his face with his hand and began handing over our letters.

‘Rustom Anklesaria. . .Boman Khambatta. There’s one for Farokh Chinoy, another for Fali Bamboat. . . Where’s Fali?’

‘Fali isn’t here. I think he’s on evening.’

‘And Jungoo Driver. . .he’s not here either, I suppose,’ said Edul. Finally, ‘Phiroze Elchidana. . .’ he said, and handed me mine. ‘Excuse me, I have to go look for Fali. Any idea if he’s up in his quarters?’

Nobody answered Edulji. Limping, slowly, he was already halfway down the path muttering to himself before any of us could tear our eyes off our letters. Nevertheless, he couldn’t have got far enough to not hear the torrent of swear words and abuse that issued from Rusi’s veranda a few moments later.

Apart from me, the others couldn’t read English fluently, but somehow, both Rusi and Bomi had grasped the gist of the letter. Poor Aimai, who had come out when she heard Edul’s voice, became particularly fretful, poring anxiously over her son’s shoulder.

‘Phiroze,’ she said, ‘you read yours aloud for all of us.’

I had run through my letter silently, once. It was enough to make one furious. Mine, at least, said that I had been suspended pending an inquiry into the ‘disgraceful’ incident during which a corpse was allowed to tumble off a bier and onto the road, causing a public outcry, and shaming the Zoroastrian community of the city. An inquiry was to be held on Saturday, at 10 a.m., and all concerned pall-bearers were expected to be present. It turned out that all three of us had received more or less identical letters. But there had been one for Jungoo, too, whom Edulji had gone looking for. And Jungoo only came along to help clear the way; he wasn’t even shouldering the bier.

‘What are they trying to do?’ asked Aimai querulously, in a frightened voice.

‘Give us a scare, no doubt,’ said Rusi, in his guttural bass. ‘Let’s see how far they’ll go. . .’

‘Well, for one thing, they won’t pay us for all the days we stand suspended,’ said Boman, worried. Most corpse bearers lived from hand to mouth, from week to week, even day to day. Many had large families to support. ‘How can they do this to us?’ he exclaimed angrily. ‘They don’t give us time to eat nor drink, make us work like donkeys! And if one of us faints in the midday sun, all five are made to pay the price! Is that justice?’

‘Does it matter who actually passed out?’ asked Rusi. ‘Tomorrow it could be you or me. Don’t worry, Elchi, we’re behind you. Every one of us is in the same rotten eggshell, trying to stay afloat.’

‘They can’t do this to us,’ said Bomi again, shaking his head. ‘It’s absurd. . .’

‘And at a time of epidemic?’ exclaimed Rusi. ‘The trustees must have taken leave of their senses!’

Our brigade of corpse carriers, in the employ of the Punchayet, consisted of only thirteen men. Plus two nussesalars. And as yet only one hearse driver, not to mention a defunct hearse. With five of us under suspension, were the others going to be made to work double and triple shifts? It was ridiculous—this ‘disciplinary’ measure
now
? When they should have been hiring more workers to help us cope with the pestilence. There was no sense to it. It was clearly a ploy of some sort, a pressure tactic. But to what end?

‘Since the last three days, some sort of normalcy has returned,’ pointed out Bomi. ‘Maybe there’s no epidemic, after all.’

‘Too early for anyone to say,’ insisted Rusi reasonably. ‘There could yet be another spate of deaths. Wait another week, and we’ll know.’

At the end of a half-hour’s desultory discussion, the anxiety and alarm that had gripped us initially was more or less dissipated; all present, I think, felt more upbeat. We may have received suspension orders, but it was only a feint by the management, of that there was no doubt. If anything, somehow we suspected it was we who had the upper hand.

This happened on a Wednesday; still two days to go before the inquiry, which was on a Saturday. If, under duress, I was being offered two whole days of restful repose, what was there to quibble about? I could use them to sleep longer hours, spend more time with my daughter.

When I reached home, there she was seated in Temoo’s lap on the veranda.

‘Daddy, daddy!’ she called out in her shrill voice, stretching her arms and her entire body at me. ‘You’re home?’

I picked her up and hugged her tightly.

‘All day, sweetheart, I’m here.’

Temoo seemed puzzled by my response. But I didn’t feel it necessary to explain, and he didn’t ask.

The inquiry was to be held in the boardroom of the Parsi Punchayet’s office at Hornby Road. Washed and soberly attired—only Farokh was decked out in an outrageously jazzy shirt which none of us had seen on him before; Bomi told us he had borrowed it from his brother, Sola, for the occasion—all five of us met early and caught a BEST double-decker tram at Gowalia Tank, that took us rather swiftly through Girgaum, Cheera Bazaar, Dhobhi Talao and on to our destination, the sumptuously arcaded Hornby Road.

As soon as we had climbed up the stairs to the third-floor office which was located in a splendid stone mansion (none of us had had reason to visit it before today), it became evident we were expected. There was an elevator, but the uniformed liftman in charge of it, after a couple of terse questions, seemed to guess who we were, and asked us to take the stairs. Fali was inclined to start an argument with him.

‘Arrey,’ he grumbled aloud, ‘we are here on official work. Who the hell is he to—’ but Farokh put an arm around his shoulder and led him up.

‘It’s only two floors. . .’

‘Three, I say, not two! And I’d like to take—I never get a chance to. . .’ By then we were already climbing up.

On the landing of the third floor, we were met by a grumpy, middle-aged clerk with an enormous, bald head, whose almost total loss of hair was further underscored by two longish grey tufts protruding from behind each ear.

‘
Chaalo ni, chaalo ni
,’ he urged us as soon as he saw us lumbering up the stairs, pointing at the wall clock in the lobby. ‘You are ten minutes late. Can’t keep
them
waiting like this, you understand? They’re our guardians, our providers. No, no, no. . .
now
don’t be in such a rush! Just wait a few minutes, please, while I explain all the rules before you enter.’

He told us that he would be showing us through the main office to the trustees’ boardroom, which was a rather grand and important place. But first we must take off our footwear and leave it outside the office.

‘Walk in quietly, please. Don’t fidget, or touch anything along the way.’

We were led through a large room clustered with wooden desks whose tops were fitted with green rexine, and behind which sat the office staff—mostly men—already engaged in examining documents, or typing them. A few visibly indigent Parsis waited in queue for an interview with an officer. As we trooped in silently, barefoot, the office staff couldn’t resist glancing at us, though only for the briefest instant, before averting their eyes.

Not out of diligence or mindful application to their work but rather, as it were, nervous apprehension: as though afraid that even a slightly prolonged gaze might tarnish their spiritual well-being. That fleeting peek they gave us was probably resentment as well, disapproval of their superiors’ wisdom in inviting a bunch of raffish outcasts to their well-appointed workplace. How did they know who we were? Is there something about corpse bearers that makes us identifiably different from average visitors to the Punchayet offices?

The bald clerk, our chaperone, was impatient and rude. However, he showed us in gingerly, not saying much along the way, holding his breath almost, as if fearful of breathing the same air as us, into what was obviously a dark storage room. He switched on a naked electric bulb. Cobwebbed and dusty, cramped with cupboards, shelves, and volumes of obsolescent, mildewed paper, there was a wooden bench in the centre of the small room that had probably been placed there just for us. We were asked to be seated, and wait.

‘Don’t go anywhere,’ he instructed us. ‘Just sit here. No making any noise, please.’

Initially we spoke only in whispers and remained seated, as we had been instructed to. This being our very first visit to the august offices of the Parsi Punchayet, we
were
a little overawed. But we had a long wait, and gradually, we were back to our normal selves. After a while Rustom stood up and started pacing. He muttered loudly:

‘Saala, they ask us to be here at ten sharp: it’s a quarter to eleven already. I’m feeling so damn hungry. Left without breakfast, just to be on time.’

‘Forget it, Rustom,’ ribbed Fali. ‘You have no rights, certainly no right to feel hungry. You’re suspended, remember?’

‘Breakfast?’ added Farokh, not to be left out. ‘But that’s what you’re here for! Breakfast with the trustees.’

After a while, he said, ‘Oh, don’t look so sad, Rusi. In fact, it’s quite possible, isn’t it? Since we’re suspended, maybe none of us actually exists? How could you possibly be hungry if you’re not there? Think of that. . .pinch him, Bomi, pinch and see if he squeals.’

‘Oh, I get you. . .’ said Rustom, quickly catching the bug of waggish frivolity. ‘But if that’s the way it is, they may as well string us up at the end of a rope,’ he grinned, wickedly. ‘Then we’d really be suspended.’

But Fali was not about to let him score that point; immediately, he exclaimed with mock vehemence:

‘Oh come off it, Russ-ba, don’t try to play the martyr. Speak the truth and shame the Devil for once. Tell us: aren’t you suspended often enough as it is?’