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 low 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.
At six-thirty, Tehmina went to Najamai’s flat for ice. This was the hour of the most precious of all ice-cubes – she’d just poured herself two fingers of Scotch.
A red glow from the Ambica Saris neon display outside Firozsha Baag floated eerily over the compound wall. Though the street lamps had now come on, they hardly illuminated the hallway, and tonight’s full moon was no help either. Tehmina cursed the locks eluding her efforts. But as she continued the unequal struggle by twilight, her armpits soaked with sweat, she admitted that life before the fridge had been even tougher.
In those days she had to venture beyond the compound of Firozsha Baag and buy ice from the Irani Restaurant in Tar Gully. It was not the money she minded but the tedium of it all. Besides, the residents of Tar Gully amused themselves by spitting from their tenement windows on all comers who were better-heeled than they. In impoverished Tar Gully she was certainly considered better-heeled, and many well-aimed globs had found their mark. On such evenings Tehmina, in tears, would return to her flat and rush to take a bath, cursing those satanic animals and fiends of Tar Gully. Meanwhile, the ice she had purchased would sit melting to a sliver.
As the door finally unlocked, Tehmina spied a figure at the far end of the darkened hallway. Heart racing a little, she wondered who it might be, and called out as authoritatively as she could,
“Kaun hat?
What do you want?”
The answer came:
“Bai
, it’s only Francis.”
The familiar voice gave her courage. She prepared to scold him. “Did I not tell you this morning not to loiter here? Did I not say we would call if there was work? Did I not tell you that Najamai would be very late? Tell me then, you rascal, what are you doing here?”
Francis was hungry. He had not eaten for two whole days, and had been hoping to earn something for dinner tonight. Unable to tolerate Tehmina much longer, he replied sullenly, “I came to see if Najamai had arrived,” and turned to go.
But Tehmina suddenly changed her mind. “Wait here while I get my ice,” she said, realizing that she could use his help to lock the door.
Inside, she decided it was best not to push Francis too far. One never knew when this type of person would turn vicious. If he wanted to, he could knock her down right now, ransack Najamai’s flat and disappear completely. She shuddered at these thoughts, then composed herself.
From downstairs came the strains of “The Blue Danube.” Tehmina swayed absently. Strauss! The music reminded her of a time when the world was a simpler, better place to live in, when trips to Tar Gully did not involve the risk of spit globs. She reached into the freezer, and “The Blue Danube” concluded. Grudgingly, Tehmina allowed that there was one thing about the Boyces: they had good taste in music. Those senseless and monotonous Hindi film-songs never blared from their flat as they did sometimes from the other blocks of Firozsha Baag.
In control of herself now, she briskly stepped out. “Come on, Francis,” she said peremptorily, “help me lock this door. I will tell Najamai that you will be back tomorrow for her work.” She held out the ring of keys and Francis, not yet appeased by her half-hearted attempt at pacification, slowly and resentfully reached for them.
Tehmina was thankful at asking him to wait. “If it takes him so long, I could never do it in this darkness,” she thought, as he handed back the keys.
Silloo downstairs heard the door slam when Tehmina returned to her own flat. It was time to start dinner. She rose and went to the kitchen.
Najamai stepped off the train and gathered together her belongings: umbrella, purse, shopping-bag of leftovers, and cardigan. Sunday
night had descended in full upon the station, and the platforms and waiting-rooms were deserted. She debated whether to take the taxi waiting in the night or to walk. The station clock showed nine-thirty. Even if it took her forty minutes to walk instead of the usual twenty, it would still be early enough to stop at the Boyces’ before they went to bed. Besides, the walk would be healthy and help digest her sister’s
pupeta-noo-gose
and
dhandar-paatyo
. With any luck, tonight would be a night unencumbered by the pressure of gas upon her gut.
The moon was full, the night was cool, and Najamai enjoyed her little walk. She neared Firozsha Baag and glanced quickly at the menacing mouth of Tar Gully. In there, streetlights were few, and sections of it had no lights at all. Najamai wondered if she would be able to spot any of the pimps and prostitutes who were said to visit here after dark even though Tar Gully was not a red-light district. But it looked deserted.
She was glad when the walk was over. Breathing a little rapidly, she rang the Boyce doorbell.
“Hullo, hullo – just wanted to pick up today’s paper. Only if you’ve finished with it.”
“Oh yes,” said Silloo, “I made everyone read it early.”
“This is very sweet of you,” said Najamai, raising her arm so Silloo could tuck the paper under it. Then, as Silloo reached for the flashlight, she protested: “No no, the stairs won’t be dark, there’s a full moon.”
Lighting Najamai’s way up the stairs at night was one of the many things Silloo did for her neighbour. She knew that if Najamai ever stumbled in the dark and fell down the stairs, her broken bones would be a problem for the Boyces. It was simpler to shine the flashlight and see her safely to the landing.
“Good-night,” said Najamai and started up. Silloo waited. Like a spotlight in some grotesque cabaret, the torch picked up the arduous swaying of Najamai’s buttocks. She reached the top of the stairs, breathless, thanked Silloo and disappeared.
Silloo restored the flashlight to its niche by the door. The sounds of Najamai’s preparation for bed and sleep now started to drip downstairs, as relentlessly as a leaky tap. A cupboard slammed … the easy chair in the bedroom, next to the window by day, was dragged to the
bedside … footsteps led to the extremities of the flat … after a suitable interval, the flush … then the sound of water again, not torrential this time but steady, gentle, from a faucet … footsteps again …
The flow of familiar sounds was torn out of sequence by Najamai’s frantic cries.
“Help! Help! Oh quickly! Thief!”
Kersi and his mother were the first to reach the door. They were outside in time to see Francis disappear in the direction of Tar Gully. Najamai, puffing, stood at the top of the stairs. “He was hiding behind the kitchen door,” she gasped. “The front door – Tehmina as usual –”
Silloo was overcome by furious indignation. “I don’t know why, with her bad eyes, that woman must fumble and mess with your keys. What did he steal?”
“I must check my cupboards,” Najamai panted. “That rascal of a loafer will have run far already.”
Tehmina now shuffled out, still clad in the duster-coat, anxiously sucking cloves and looking very guilty. She had heard everything from behind her door but asked anyway, “What happened? Who was screaming?”
The senseless fluster irritated Kersi. He went indoors. Confused by what had happened, he sat on his bed and cracked the fingers of both hands. Each finger twice, expertly, once at the knuckle, then at the joint closest to the nail. He could also crack his toes – each toe just once, though – but he did not feel like it right now. Don’t crack your fingers, they used to tell him, your hands will become fat and ugly. For a while then he had cracked his knuckles more fervently than ever, hoping they would swell into fists the size of a face. Such fists would be useful to scare someone off in a fight. But the hands had remained quite normal.
Kersi picked up his bat. The cord had set firmly around the handle and the glue was dry; the rubber grip could go back on. There was a trick to fitting it right; if not done correctly, the grip would not cover the entire handle, but hang over the tip, like uncircumcised foreskin. He rolled down the cylindrical rubber tube onto itself, down to a rubber ring. Then he slipped the ring over the handle and unrolled it. A condom was probably put on the same way, he thought; someone had showed him those things at school, only this looked like one with
the tip lopped off. Just as in that joke about a book called
The Unwanted Child
by EL. Burst.
He posed before the mirror and flourished the bat. Satisfied with his repair work, he sat down again. He felt angry and betrayed at the thought of Francis vanishing into Tar Gully. His anger, coupled with the emptiness of this Sunday which, like a promise unfulfilled, had primed him many hours ago, now made him succumb to the flush of heroics starting to sweep through him. He glanced at himself in the mirror again and went outside with the bat.
A small crowd of C Block neighbours and their servants had gathered around Najamai, Silloo, and Tehmina. “I’m going to find him,” Kersi announced grimly to this group.
“What rubbish are you talking?” his mother exclaimed. “In Tar Gully, alone at night?”
“Oh what a brave boy!” cried Najamai. “But maybe we should call the police.”
Tehmina, by this time, was muttering
non sequiturs
about ice-cubes and Scotch and soda. Kersi repeated: “I’m going to find him.”
This time Silloo said, “Your brother must go with you. Alone you’ll be no match for that rascal. Percy! Bring the other bat and go with Kersi.”
Obediently, Percy joined his brother and they set off in the direction of Tar Gully. Their mother shouted instructions after them: “Be careful for God’s sake! Stay together and don’t go too far if you cannot find him.”
In Tar Gully the two drew a few curious glances as they strode along with cricket bats. But the hour was late and there were not many people around. Those who were, waited only for the final
Matka
draw to decide their financial destinies. Some of these men now hooted at Kersi and Percy. “Parsi
bawaji!
Cricket at night? Parsi
bawaji!
What will you hit, boundary or sixer?”
“Just ignore the bloody
ghatis?
said Percy softly. It was good advice; the two walked on as if it were a well-rehearsed plan, Percy dragging his bat behind him. Kersi carried his over the right shoulder to keep the puddles created by the overflowing gutters of Tar Gully from wetting it.