Tales From Firozsha Baag (11 page)

“Did he suffer much before the end? I heard from Ruby – you know Ruby, sister of Eruch Uncle’s son-in-law Shapur, she was at the funeral – that poor Minocher was in great pain the last few days.”

Daulat reached in her mind for the start switch of the cassette player. But Moti was not yet ready: “Couldn’t the doctors do something? From what we hear these days, they can cure almost anything.”

“Well,” said Daulat, “our doctor was very helpful, but it was a hopeless case, he told me, we were just prolonging the agony.”

“You know, I was reading in the
Indian Express
last week that doctors in China were able to make” – here, Moti lowered her voice in case the grandsons were listening, shielded her mouth with one hand, and pointed to her lap with the other – “a man’s Part. His girlfriend ran off with another man and he was very upset. So he chopped off” – in a whisper – “his own Part, in frustration, and flushed it down the toilet. Later, in hospital, he regretted doing it, and God knows how, but the doctors made for him” – in a whisper again
– “a New Part, out of his own skin and all. They say it works and everything. Isn’t that amazing?”

“Yes, very interesting,” said Daulat, relieved that Moti had, at least temporarily, forsaken the prescribed condolence visit questioning.

The doorbell again. Must be the young man for the pugree this time.

But in stepped ever-solicitous Najamai. “Sorry, sorry. Very sorry, didn’t know you had company. Just wanted to see if you were okay, and let you know I was back. In case you need anything.” Then leaning closer conspiratorially, rancid-fat-
dhansaak-masala
odours overwhelming Daulat, she whispered, “Good thing, no, I brought the extra chairs.”

Daulat calculated quickly. If Najamai stayed, as indeed she was eager to, Moti would drift even further from the purpose of her visit. So she invited her in. “Please come and sit, meet my second cousin Moti. And these are her grandsons. Moti was just now telling me a very interesting case about doctors in China who made” – copying Moti’s whisper – “a New Part for a man.”

“A new part? But that’s nothing new. They do it here also now, putting artificial arms-legs and little things inside hearts to make blood pump properly.”

“No no,” said Moti. “Not a new part. This was” – in a whisper, dramatically pointing again to her lap for Najamai’s benefit – “a New Part! And he can do everything with it. It works. Chinese doctors made it.”

“Oh!” said Najamai, now understanding. “A New Part!”

Daulat left the two women to ponder the miracle, and went to the kitchen. There was a bottle of Goldspot in the icebox for the children. The kettle was ready and she poured three cups of tea. The doorbell rang for the third time while she arranged the tray. She was about to abandon it and go to the door but Najamai called out, “It’s all right, I’ll open it, don’t worry, finish what you are doing.”

Najamai said: “Yes?” to the young man standing outside.

“Are you Mrs. Mirza?”

“No no, but come in. Daulat! There’s a young man asking for you.”

Daulat settled the tray on the teapoy before the sofa and went to the door. “You’re here to see the pugree. Please come in and sit.” He took one of Najamai’s loaned chairs.

Najamai and Moti exchanged glances. Come for the pugree? What was going on?

The young man noticed the exchange and felt obliged to say something. “Mrs. Mirza is selling Mr. Mirza’s pugree to me. You see, my fiancée and I, we decided to do everything, all the ceremonies, the proper traditional way at our wedding. In correct Parsi dress and all.”

Daulat heard him explain in the next room and felt relieved. It was going to be all right, parting with the pugree would not be difficult. The young man’s reasons would have made Minocher exceedingly happy.

But Najamai and Moti were aghast. Minocher’s pugree being sold and the man barely digested by vultures at the Towers Of Silence! Najamai decided she had to take charge. She took a deep breath and tilted her chin pugnaciously. “Look here,
bawa
, it’s very nice to hear you want to do it the proper Parsi way. So many young men are doing it in suits and ties these days. Why, one wedding I went to, the boy was wearing a shiny black suit with lacy, frilly-frilly shirt and bow tie. Exactly like Dhobitalao Goan wedding of a Catholic it was looking! So believe me when I say that we are very happy about yours.”

She paused, took another deep breath, and prepared for a fortissimo finale. “But this poor woman who is giving you the pugree, her beloved husband’s funeral was only ten days ago. Yesterday was
dusmoo
, and her tears are barely dry! And today you are taking away his pugree. It is not correct! You must come back later!” Then Najamai went after Daulat, and Moti followed.

The young man could see them go into a huddle from where he sat, and could hear them as well. Moti was saying, “Your neighbour is right, this is not proper. Wait for a few days.”

And Najamai was emboldened to the point of presenting one of her theories. “You see, with help of prayers, the soul usually crosses over after four days. But sometimes the soul is very attached to this world and takes longer to make the crossing. And as long as the soul is here, everything such as clothes, cup-saucer, brush-comb, all must be kept
same way they were, exactly same. Or the soul becomes very unhappy.”

The young man was feeling extremely uncomfortable. He, of course, had not known that Daulat had been widowed as recently as ten days ago. Once again he felt obliged to say something. He cleared his throat: “Excuse me.” But it was washed away in the downpour of Najamai’s words.

He tried again, louder this time: “Excuse me, please!”

Najamai and Moti turned around sharply and delivered a challenging “Yes?”

“Excuse me, but maybe I should come back later for the pugree, the wedding is three months away.”

“Yes! Yes!” said Moti and Najamai in unison. The latter continued: “I don’t want you thinking I’m stirring my ladle in your pot, but that would be much better. Come back next month, after
maasiso
. You can try it on today if you like, see if it fits. In that there is no harm. Just don’t take it away from the place where the soul expects it to be.”

“I don’t want to give any trouble,” said the young man. “It’s all right, I can try it later, the wedding is three months away. I’m sure it will fit.”

Daulat, with the pugree in her hands, approached the young man. “If you think it is bad luck to wear a recently dead man’s pugree and you are changing your mind, that’s okay with me.” The young man vigorously shook his head from side to side, protesting, as Daulat continued: “But let me tell you, my Minocher would be happy to give it to you if he were here. He would rejoice to see someone get married in his pugree. So if you want it, take it today.”

The young man looked at Moti and Najamai’s flabbergasted countenances, then at Daulat waiting calmly for his decision. The tableau of four persisted: two women slack-jawed with disbelief; another holding a handsome black pugree; and in the middle an embarrassed young man pulled two ways, like Minocher Mirza’s soul, in a tug-of-war between two worlds.

The young man broke the spell. He reached out for the pugree and gently took it from Daulat’s hands.

“Come,” she smiled, and walked towards the bedroom, to the dressing-table.

“Excuse me,” he said to Najamai and Moti, who were glaring resentfully, and followed. He placed the pugree on his head and looked in the mirror.

“See, it fits perfectly,” said Daulat.

“Yes,” he answered, “it does fit perfectly.” He took it off, caressed it for a moment, then asked hesitantly, “How much …?”

Daulat held up her hand; she had prepared for this moment. Though she had dismissed very quickly the thought of selling it, she had considered asking for its return after the wedding. Now, however, she shook her head and took the pugree from the young man. Carefully, she placed it in the glass case and handed it back to him.

“It is yours, wear it in good health. And take good care of it for my Minocher.”

“I will, oh thank you,” said the young man. “Thank you very much.” He waited for a moment, then softly, shyly added, “And God bless you.”

Daulat smiled. “If you have a son, maybe he will wear it, too, on his wedding.” The young man nodded, smiling back.

She saw him to the door and returned to the living-room. Moti and Najamai were sipping half-heartedly at their tea, looking somewhat injured. The children had finished their cold drink. They were swishing the shrunken ice-cubes around in the forbidden final quarter inch of liquid, left in their glasses as they’d been warned to, to attest to their good breeding. An irretrievably mixed up and confusing bit of testimony.

A beggar was crying outside, “Firstfloorwalla
bail
Take pity on the poor! Secondfloorwalla
bail
Help the hungry!”

Presently, Najamai rose. “Have to leave now, Ramchandra must be ready with dinner.”

Moti took the opportunity to depart as well, offering the fidgetiness of the two little boys for an excuse.

Daulat was alone once more. Leaving the cups and glasses where they stood with their dregs of tea and Goldspot, she went into Minocher’s room. It was dark except for the glow of the oil lamp. The oil was low again and she reached for the bottle, then changed her mind.

From under one of the cups in the living-room she retrieved a saucer and returned to his room. She stood before the lamp for a moment, looking deep into the flame, then slid the saucer over the glass. She covered it up completely, the way his face had been covered with a white sheet ten days ago.

In a few seconds the lamp was doused, snuffed out. The afterglow of the wick persisted; then it, too, was gone. The room was in full darkness.

Daulat sat in the armchair. The first round, at least, was definitely hers.

W
hen Dr. Burjor Mody was transferred from Mysore to assume the principalship of the Bombay Veterinary College, he moved into Firozsha Baag with his wife and son Pesi. They occupied the vacant flat on the third floor of C Block, next to the Bulsara family.

Dr. Mody did not know it then, but he would be seeing a lot of Jehangir, the Bulsara boy; the boy who sat silent and brooding, every evening, watching the others at play, and called
chaarikhao
by them – quite unfairly, since he never tattled or told tales – (Dr. Mody would call him, affectionately, the observer of C Block). And Dr. Mody did not know this, either, at the time of moving, that Jehangir Bulsara’s visits at ten
A.M
. every Sunday would become a source of profound joy for himself. Or that just when he would think he had found someone to share his hobby with, someone to mitigate the perpetual disappointment about his son Pesi, he would lose his precious Spanish dancing-lady stamp and renounce Jehangir’s friendship, both in quick succession. And then two years later, he himself would – but
that
is never knowable.

Soon after moving in, Dr. Burjor Mody became the pride of the Parsis in C Block. C Block, like the rest of Firozsha Baag, had a surfeit of low-paid bank clerks and bookkeepers, and the arrival of Dr. Mody
permitted them to feel a little better about themselves. More importantly, in A Block lived a prominent priest, and B Block boasted a chartered accountant. Now C Block had a voice in Baag matters as important as the others did.

While C Block went about its routine business, confirming and authenticating the sturdiness of the object of their pride, the doctor’s big-boned son Pesi established himself as leader of the rowdier elements among the Baag’s ten-to-sixteen population. For Pesi, too, it was routine business; he was following a course he had mapped out for himself ever since the family began moving from city to city on the whims and megrims of his father’s employer, the government.

To account for Pesi’s success was the fact of his brutish strength. But he was also the practitioner of a number of minor talents which appealed to the crowd where he would be leader. The one no doubt complemented the other, the talents serving to dissemble the brutish qualifier of strength, and the brutish strength encouraging the crowd to perceive the appeal of his talents.

Hawking, for instance, was one of them. Pesi could summon up prodigious quantities of phlegm at will, accompanied by sounds such as the boys had seldom heard except in accomplished adults: deep, throaty, rasping, resonating rolls which culminated in a pthoo, with the impressive trophy landing in the dust at their feet, its size leaving them all slightly envious. Pesi could also break wind that sounded like questions, exclamations, fragments of the chromatic scale, and clarion calls, while the others sniffed and discussed the merits of pungency versus tonality. This ability earned him the appellation of Pesi
paadmaroo
, and he wore the sobriquet with pride.

Perhaps his single most important talent was his ability to improvise. The peculiarities of a locale were the raw material for his inventions. In Firozsha Baag, behind the three buildings, or blocks, as they were called, were spacious yards shared by all three blocks. These yards planted in Pesi’s fecund mind the seed from which grew a new game: stoning-the-cats.