Chronicle of a Corpse Bearer (8 page)

When Rohinton and I tired of our idle diversions: gawking at the animals, teasing them or slyly feeding them when the park warden’s attention was elsewhere—trying, somehow or the other, to hold the animals’ capricious gaze for as long as possible—we played nine tiles, or tried our hand at an abridged version of the game of cricket (all the rage then, what with a largely Parsi cricket team having just returned victorious from the MCC, and Nariman himself, after a business trip to England, bringing home a fine, willow bat for Rohinton; pads, gloves, stumps, a full line of accessories as well). But the absence of playmates shrank our engagements to skeletal proportions—it was always just Rohinton and me, although the hounds were always eager to join in—and even cricket is no fun on such a diminished scale. Finally, tiring of our feeble distractions, we would venture outside, taking long exploratory rambles through the dock areas of Mazagaon.

The pier was so vast and busy no one ever took a second look at what we were about. Usually, we had nothing to do anyway, but lose ourselves in the crowd, look around, wonder, fantasize. Coolies, labourers, mechanics, unemployed layabouts, people waiting to sign up for a job, or a passage—or so we imagined—were everywhere, as were bales of hemp or cotton, great coils of rope, loosely folded sheets of sail-cloth and canvas, barrels, and all kinds of paraphernalia connected with the small and big trawlers and barges that had dropped anchor there, or the merchandise and men they were carrying.

Just to see the small murky cove off Mazagaon, widening into the vast expanse of sea—only partly visible from the pier, yet stimulating enough to my mind’s eye, which didn’t hesitate to fill in every imagined detail. Tall masts with unfurled sails rising above cavernous hulls, the fo’c’sle, or forecastle, where the wild crew bunked—the bo’sun, the coxswain and quartermaster, and other mariners who kept afloat every shape and size of vessel— skiffs, barques, steamers, freighters, trows, and once, we even saw a military frigate. Rohinton had picked up seafarer’s slang from dipping into his father’s paperback collection of adventure tales of the sea, and took vicarious pleasure in awakening in me a great yearning for the sailor’s life. I marvelled often at the putative pleasures of this solitary calling, and wondered if I shouldn’t run away to sea, escaping forever the narrow, claustral world of the fire temple in which I languished.

A hot, hazy day. Perched atop a large heap of crudely chopped logs, casually observing the hustle and bustle of the dockyard, we became aware of an odd-looking man standing some distance away, staring. In fact, you could say he was
frowning
at us. . .who
was
he? Did he recognize me, perhaps, or both of us? Was he a friend of my father’s, by any chance? Had I ever seen this man among the dozens who visited the temple every day?

Short and fat, he was dressed in an oversized brown suit. When he started walking towards us, we noticed he had a curious start-and-stop gait, punctuated by an imperceptible limp. Rivulets of sweat streaked down his brown face, and lost themselves in overgrown, salt-and-pepper stubble. But the most menacing aspect of the man was, by far, his bulging eyes: bloodshot and popping out of their sockets as though in consequence of some extreme outrage inflicted on him, or of the terribly severe and vengeful moral outlook this had engendered. For one foolish instant, the thought crossed my mind that I should leap off the heap of timber and run as fast as I could, before the fat man got anywhere closer to us. But I didn’t move, and neither did Rohinton. We returned his stare stonily, and waited for him to approach.

‘
Bas
. . .?’

He gestured quizzically, when he was finally standing in front of us: but for a minute or so after that, kept silent, only regarding us in turn with those truculent eyes, as though wishing to examine us from every possible angle.

‘Well. . .? No work-business? No lesson-paani? What do you have to say for yourselves, you loafers?’

The rhetorical intent behind this gruff questioning was evident to us, and we didn’t attempt any reply. His voice was hoarse and he spoke inarticulately, as though with a swollen tongue.

‘It’s obvious that you boys have little, oh-
so-little
interest in studying, focusing. . .’ he said, looking terribly aggrieved, as if wounded by some wanton act of negligence on our part. We continued to gawp dumbly at this stranger; and he in turn to goggle at us with those angry, protuberant eyes.

‘In my time, too, there were many like you at school. . .loafers and layabouts, truants and shirkers. Absconders! And I can tell you from my many years of experience and observation—all of them, every single one, came to nought!’

The fat man continued to drip perspiration from his forehead, speaking in a furious manner, stumbling over his words, spraying spittle as he spoke. As though his thoughts were racing faster than his tongue could move, as though the pressure of all he had to say rendered his speech breathless and blurred.

‘I know. . . I know people,’ he said, ‘I have tonnes of experience. I tell you, I can read people like a book, inside out. . . Now you, for instance,’ he pointed a crooked index finger at Rohinton, ‘I can tell just by looking at you, you hate studying. . . You’ve never read a book in your life, and won’t, if you can help it.’

It made me squirm to listen to this assessment of Rohinton which seemed so much more applicable to me.

‘Well, it takes all kinds. . .’ he continued, at the same breakneck speed. The fat man was unstoppable. ‘This boy, now. . .’ he was pointing his stubby, crooked finger at me, ‘now this boy’s different: he’s thoughtful, hard-working, persevering. But of what use are all these virtues, if he keeps bad company? Your “friends” will be the ruination of you. I know what happened in my own case.’

What happened in your case? I’m sure both Rohinton and I would have given a great deal to know the answer. But before our curiosity could be satisfied, suddenly this strange fat man was shouting at us in an intemperately loud voice:

‘Why are you not at school? Tell me. What are you doing out here, loafing about the docks? Answer me! Where is your school? Tell me, at once.’

‘We are quite finished with school, sir. Waiting to go into college.’

Actually, in Rohinton’s own case this was perfectly true. He was to leave for England next month. His father had arranged for him to join a finishing school at a place called Bath, before he was old enough to attend college in Cambridge.

‘Don’t you lie to me!’ the fat man became threateningly aggressive. ‘We spoke the same lies when we were dodging school. I’ll teach you a thing or two about telling lies. So what, you boys attend college in your school uniform, do you?’

In fact, Rohinton was in casual home wear. Only, his light brown shirt more or less matched the shade of our beige school shirt; as for me, that’s what I slipped into every morning, and the dark brown trousers of my school uniform, when it was time to leave home (supposedly to attend my extra coaching classes). And here I was actually cutting classes, I thought to myself guiltily—the fat man’s apprehensions were not entirely misplaced.

‘I never lie, sir,’ Rohinton insisted, with a hint of loftiness. ‘My friend here is yet to finish his final year of school, that’s why he’s in his school uniform. As for me—’

But the fat man wasn’t listening. He had bent down and picked up a heavy piece of wood, which he was brandishing ominously.

‘I don’t want to hear any more lies, I’m warning you,’ he spluttered in uncontrolled rage. ‘What you boys need is a good whacking. A whacking you won’t forget for the rest of your lives. And later, you’ll thank me for it, too. Indeed, you will. If anyone had given me a good thrashing when I was playing truant from school, I might well have been someone else today. . .’

But this moment of reflective respite was overtaken by renewed rage. He began swinging the piece of wood wildly in the air, flailing it about him like a madman, seemingly intent on carrying out his threat. When he took small but purposeful steps in our direction, I was scared. It was too late for us to start running now.

Unexpectedly, as if out of nowhere, another man, a rather lean, clean-shaven man, appeared from behind the fat man and said something softly in his ear. I can’t be sure I heard him right, but this is what it sounded like:

‘Dhunjibhai wants to see you in his office. . .’

This innocuous message, whatever it meant, had a devastating effect on the fat man. He seemed to crumble, deflate. . .his anger and his bullying left him in an instant, and he became as frightened as any schoolboy who has been summoned to the principal’s office.

‘Oh, no. . .I’ve done nothing wrong, I swear. But why, why does he want me? No, please. . .please no, sir.’

The other man seemed familiar with the situation, and firmly but soothingly placated him.

‘Come. Don’t be afraid. Dhunjibhai will take care of everything. . .’

So saying, he led the fat man away, holding him rather firmly by the arm. Meanwhile, the fat man seemed to have forgotten our existence, for he turned meekly, and left without even a glance in our direction. Such was our incredulity at this strange encounter, and our sense of relief at how it ended, that we burst out laughing.

When they were out of sight, Rohinton denied that he had been afraid.

‘I was sure all along he wouldn’t touch us. He daren’t. Why, if I had only mentioned my father’s name, he would have started sweating some more!’

‘But he might not have believed you,’ I pointed out.

‘How not? How dare he not believe me? I would have given him my father’s phone number.’

Not too many people had telephones in those days, except the most important.

‘I would have taken him home, shown him my park. If he still didn’t believe me, I would have set my dogs on him.’

And he went on in that vein, blustering rather like the fat man who had just been taken away. Not for the first time in the course of our friendship I noticed how much store Rohinton set by status, how much pride and importance he attached to family wealth and background. I was beginning to tire of him. The truth is, after that day, I gradually distanced myself from Rohinton, and met him only once more before he left for England.

Just as well. Thrown on my own resources, I learned to live with myself, exploring areas of Bombay that I had never seen before.

Everywhere, the hum of activity: buildings were coming up, traffic circles were being laid out, provincial-type bazaars replaced by structured marketplaces, itinerant hawkers provided permanent stalls, trading of every kind was rampant and thriving. I travelled to every nook and corner of town on every tramway route available. Buses were more expensive, so I avoided those. And if I found I had not enough tram fare, I walked. Actually, this was by far the most exciting means of getting around, for I could stop wherever I chose, and stare all I wanted; nobody cared. Silently, I absorbed into myself all the throbbing nervous energy of a young, vernal city taking shape all around me. It made my skin tingle.

The fat man at the docks who had challenged us—who was he? I never did find out. I presumed he was more of a loiterer than Rohinton and me put together; and perhaps not quite right in the head. But as day after day passed during those fateful eight months, I was even more surprised that I had managed to get away with my duplicity, my sham of preparing for the exams—for so many weeks and months! It was amazing that during all these days of my peregrinations about town, I was never once spotted by some distant relation or family friend and my truancy reported to my parents.

Through most of those months—a period which I had promised my father I would devote to making my second assault on the citadel of school-leaving exams—I lived deceitfully. And all the while, don’t forget, Father was waking up half an hour earlier than usual, to recite those special prayers for my success in the approaching exams.

Did I know what I was doing? I think I did: the task of preparing for the exams—let alone competing, or qualifying in them—seemed so completely insuperable I felt it pointless to even attempt. It was beyond me. After all, I was the acknowledged duffer of the family; besides, it was now obvious to me, dishonest and without an ounce of conscience. Here I was, cleverly weaving this web of lies to put my parents off the scent of my trickery—for their own peace of mind, too—or so I would have myself believe.