As Jehangir strode hurriedly to C Block, falsettos and piercing shrieks followed him in the darkness:
“Arré
Jehangoo!
Mua
Jehangoo! Bulsara Bookworm! Eight o’clock Jehangoo!” Shaking his head, Nariman went indoors to Hirabai.
Next evening, the story punctually resumed when Nariman took his place on the topmost step of A Block: “You remember that we left Sarosh on his way to see the Immigrant Aid Society’s doctor. Well, Dr. No-Ilaaz listened patiently to Sarosh’s concerns, then said, As a matter of fact, there is a remedy which is so new even the
IAS
does not know about it. Not even that Mrs. Maha-Lepate who knows it all,’ he added drolly, twirling his stethoscope like a stunted lasso. He slipped it on around his neck before continuing: ‘It involves a minor operation which was developed with financial assistance from the Multicultural Department. A small device,
Crappus Non Interruptus
, or
CNI
as we call it, is implanted in the bowel. The device is controlled by an external handheld transmitter similar to the ones used for automatic garage door-openers – you may have seen them in hardware stores.’ ”
Nariman noticed that most of the boys wore puzzled looks and realized he had to make some things clearer. “The Multicultural Department is a Canadian invention. It is supposed to ensure that ethnic cultures are able to flourish, so that Canadian society will consist of a mosaic of cultures – that’s their favourite word, mosaic – instead of one uniform mix, like the American melting pot. If you ask me, mosaic and melting pot are both nonsense, and ethnic is a polite way of saying bloody foreigner. But anyway, you understand Multicultural Department? Good. So Sarosh nodded, and Dr. No-Ilaaz went on: ‘You can encode the handheld transmitter with a personal ten-digit code. Then all you do is position yourself on the toilet seat and activate your transmitter. Just like a garage door, your bowel will open without pushing or grunting.’ ”
There was some snickering in the audience, and Nariman raised his eyebrows, whereupon they covered up their mouths with their hands. “The doctor asked Sarosh if he had any questions. Sarosh thought for a moment, then asked if it required any maintenance.
“Dr. No-Ilaaz replied: ‘
CNI
is semi-permanent and operates on solar energy. Which means you would have to make it a point to get
some sun periodically, or it would cease and lead to constipation. However, you don’t have to strip for a tan. Exposing ten percent of your skin surface once a week during summer will let the device store sufficient energy for year-round operation.’
“Sarosh’s next question was: ‘Is there any hope that someday the bowels can work on their own, without operating the device?’ at which Dr. No-Ilaaz grimly shook his head: ‘I’m afraid not. You must think very, very carefully before making a decision. Once
CNI
is implanted, you can never pass a motion in the natural way – neither sitting nor squatting.’
“He stopped to allow Sarosh time to think it over, then continued: ‘And you must understand what that means. You will never be able to live a normal life again. You will be permanently different from your family and friends because of this basic internal modification. In fact, in this country or that, it will set you apart from your fellow countrymen. So you must consider the whole thing most carefully.’
“Dr. No-Ilaaz paused, toyed with his stethoscope, shuffled some papers on his desk, then resumed: ‘There are other dangers you should know about. Just as a garage door can be accidentally opened by a neighbour’s transmitter on the same frequency,
CNI
can also be activated by someone with similar apparatus.’ To ease the tension he attempted a quick laugh and said, ‘Very embarrassing, eh, if it happened at the wrong place and time. Mind you, the risk is not so great at present, because the chances of finding yourself within a fifty-foot radius of another transmitter on the same frequency are infinitesimal. But what about the future? What if
CNI
becomes very popular? Sufficient permutations may not be available for transmitter frequencies and you could be sharing the code with others. Then the risk of accidents becomes greater.’ ”
Something landed with a loud thud in the yard behind A Block, making Nariman startle. Immediately, a yowling and screeching and caterwauling went up from the stray cats there, and the
kuchrawalli’s
dog started barking. Some of the boys went around the side of A Block to peer over the fence into the backyard. But the commotion soon died down of its own accord. The boys returned and, once again, Nariman’s voice was the only sound to be heard.
“By now, Sarosh was on the verge of deciding against the operation. Dr. No-Ilaaz observed this and was pleased. He took pride in being able to dissuade his patients from following the very remedies which he first so painstakingly described. True to his name, Dr. No-Ilaaz believed no remedy is the best remedy, rather than prescribing this-mycin and that-mycin for every little ailment. So he continued: ‘And what about our sons and daughters? And the quality of their lives? We still don’t know the long-term effects of
CNI
. Some researchers speculate that it could generate a genetic deficiency, that the offspring of a
CNI
parent would also require
CNI
. On the other hand, they could be perfectly healthy toilet seat-users, without any congenital defects. We just don’t know at this stage.’
“Sarosh rose from his chair. ‘Thank you very much for your time, Dr. No-Ilaaz. But I don’t think I want to take such a drastic step. As you suggest, I will think it over very carefully.’
“ ‘Good, good,’ said Dr. No-Ilaaz, ‘I was hoping you would say that. There is one more thing. The operation is extremely expensive, and is not covered by the province’s Health Insurance Plan. Many immigrant groups are lobbying to obtain coverage for special immigration-related health problems. If they succeed, then good for you.’
“Sarosh left Dr. No-Ilaaz’s office with his mind made up. Time was running out. There had been a time when it was perfectly natural to squat. Now it seemed a grotesquely aberrant thing to do. Wherever he went he was reminded of the ignominy of his way. If he could not be westernized in all respects, he was nothing but a failure in this land – a failure not just in the washrooms of the nation but everywhere. He knew what he must do if he was to be true to himself and to the decade-old commitment. So what do you think Sarosh did next?”
“What, Nariman Uncle?”
“He went to the travel agent specializing in tickets to India. He bought a fully refundable ticket to Bombay for the day when he would complete exactly ten immigrant years – if he succeeded even once before that day dawned, he would cancel the booking.
“The travel agent asked sympathetically, ‘Trouble at home?’ His name was Mr. Rawaana, and he was from Bombay too.
“ ‘No,’ said Sarosh, ‘trouble in Toronto.’
“ ‘That’s a shame,’ said Mr. Rawaana. ‘I don’t want to poke my nose into your business, but in my line of work I meet so many people who are going back to their homeland because of problems here. Sometimes I forget I’m a travel agent, that my interest is to convince them to travel. Instead, I tell them: don’t give up, God is great, stay and try again. It’s bad for my profits but gives me a different, a spiritual kind of satisfaction when I succeed. And I succeed about half the time. Which means,’ he added with a wry laugh, ‘I could double my profits if I minded my own business.’
“After the lengthy sessions with Mrs. Maha-Lepate and Dr. No-Ilaaz, Sarosh felt he had listened to enough advice and kind words. Much as he disliked doing it, he had to hurt Mr. Rawaana’s feelings and leave his predicament undiscussed: ‘I’m sorry, but I’m in a hurry. Will you be able to look after the booking?’
“ ‘Well, okay,’ said Mr. Rawaana, a trifle crestfallen; he did not relish the travel business as much as he did counselling immigrants. ‘Hope you solve your problem. I will be happy to refund your fare, believe me.’
“Sarosh hurried home. With only four weeks to departure, every spare minute, every possible method had to be concentrated on a final attempt at adaptation.
“He tried laxatives, crunching down the tablets with a prayer that these would assist the sitting position. Changing brands did not help, and neither did various types of suppositories. He spent long stretches on the toilet seat each morning. The supervisor continued to reprimand him for tardiness. To make matters worse, Sarosh left his desk every time he felt the slightest urge, hoping: maybe this time.
“The working hours expended in the washroom were noted with unflagging vigilance by the supervisor. More counselling sessions followed. Sarosh refused to extinguish his last hope, and the supervisor punctiliously recorded ‘No Improvement’ in his daily log. Finally, Sarosh was fired. It would soon have been time to resign in any case, and he could not care less.
“Now whole days went by seated on the toilet, and he stubbornly refused to relieve himself the other way. The doorbell would ring only to be ignored. The telephone went unanswered. Sometimes, he would
awake suddenly in the dark hours before dawn and rush to the washroom like a madman.”
Without warning, Rustomji flung open his door and stormed: “Ridiculous nonsense this is becoming! Two days in a row, whole Firozsha Baag gathers here! This is not Chaupatty beach, this is not a squatters’ colony, this is a building, people want to live here in peace and quiet!” Then just as suddenly, he stamped inside and slammed the door. Right on cue, Nariman continued, before the boys could say anything.
“Time for meals was the only time Sarosh allowed himself off the seat. Even in his desperation he remembered that if he did not eat well, he was doomed – the downward pressure on his gut was essential if there was to be any chance of success.
“But the ineluctable day of departure dawned, with grey skies and the scent of rain, while success remained out of sight. At the airport Sarosh checked in and went to the dreary lounge. Out of sheer habit he started towards the washroom. Then he realized the hopelessness of it and returned to the cold, clammy plastic of the lounge seats. Airport seats are the same almost anywhere in the world.
“The boarding announcement was made, and Sarosh was the first to step onto the plane. The skies were darker now. Out of the window he saw a flash of lightning fork through the clouds. For some reason, everything he’d learned years ago in St. Xavier’s about sheet lightning and forked lightning went through his mind. He wished it would change to sheet, there was something sinister and unpropitious about forked lightning.”
Kersi, absorbedly listening, began cracking his knuckles quite unconsciously. His childhood habit still persisted. Jehangir frowned at the disturbance, and Viraf nudged Kersi to stop it.
“Sarosh fastened his seat-belt and attempted to turn his thoughts towards the long journey home: to the questions he would be expected to answer, the sympathy and criticism that would be thrust upon him. But what remained uppermost in his mind was the present moment – him in the plane, dark skies lowering, lightning on the horizon – irrevocably spelling out: defeat.
“But wait. Something else was happening now. A tiny rumble.
Inside him. Or was it his imagination? Was it really thunder outside which, in his present disoriented state, he was internalizing. No, there it was again. He had to go.
“He reached the washroom, and almost immediately the sign flashed to ‘Please return to seat and fasten seat-belts.’ Sarosh debated whether to squat and finish the business quickly, abandoning the perfunctory seated attempt. But the plane started to move and that decided him; it would be difficult now to balance while squatting.
“He pushed. The plane continued to move. He pushed again, trembling with the effort. The seat-belt sign flashed quicker and brighter now. The plane moved faster and faster. And Sarosh pushed hard, harder than he had ever pushed before, harder than in all his ten years of trying in the new land. And the memories of Bombay, the immigration interview in New Delhi, the farewell party, his mother’s tattered prayer book, all these, of their own accord, emerged from beyond the region of the ten years to push with him and give him newfound strength.”
Nariman paused and cleared his throat. Dusk was falling, and the frequency of B.E.S.T. buses plying the main road outside Firozsha Baag had dropped. Bats began to fly madly from one end of the compound to the other, silent shadows engaged in endless laps over the buildings.
“With a thunderous clap the rain started to fall. Sarosh felt a splash under him. Could it really be? He glanced down to make certain. Yes, it was. He had succeeded!
“But was it already too late? The plane waited at its assigned position on the runway, jet engines at full thrust. Rain was falling in torrents and takeoff could be delayed. Perhaps even now they would allow him to cancel his flight, to disembark. He lurched out of the constricting cubicle.
“A stewardess hurried towards him: ‘Excuse me, sir, but you must return to your seat immediately and fasten your belt.’
‘“You don’t understand!’ Sarosh shouted excitedly. ‘I must get off the plane! Everything is all right, I don’t have to go any more …’
“ ‘That’s impossible, sir!’ said the stewardess, aghast. ‘No one can leave now. Takeoff procedures are in progress!’ The wild look in his
sleepless eyes, and the dark rings around them scared her. She beckoned for help.
“Sarosh continued to argue, and a steward and the chief stewardess hurried over: ‘What seems to be the problem, sir? You
must
resume your seat. We are authorized, if necessary, to forcibly restrain you, sir.’
“The plane began to move again, and suddenly Sarosh felt all the urgency leaving him. His feverish mind, the product of nightmarish days and torturous nights, was filled again with the calm which had fled a decade ago, and he spoke softly now: ‘That … that will not be necessary … it’s okay, I understand.’ He readily returned to his seat.
“As the aircraft sped down the runway, Sarosh’s first reaction was one of joy. The process of adaptation was complete. But later, he could not help wondering if success came before or after the ten-year limit had expired. And since he had already passed through the customs and security check, was he really an immigrant in every sense of the word at the moment of achievement?