Tales From Firozsha Baag (6 page)

“It’s funny,” he thought, “just this morning I did not see any gutter spilling over when I went to the
bunya
for salt.” Now they were all in full spate. The gutters of Tar Gully were notorious for their erratic habits and their stench, although the latter was never noticed by the denizens.

The
bunya’s
shop was closed for regular business but a small window was still open. The
bunya
, in his nocturnal role of bookie, was accepting last-minute
Matka
bets. Midnight was the deadline, when the winning numbers would be drawn from the earthen vessel that gave the game its name.

There was still no sign of Francis. Kersi and Percy approached the first of the tenements, with the familiar cow tethered out in front – it was the only one in this neighbourhood. Each morning, accompanied by the owner’s comely daughter and a basket of cut green grass, it made the round of these streets. People would reverently feed the cow, buying grass at twenty-five paise a mouthful. When the basket was empty the cow would be led back to Tar Gully.

Kersi remembered one early morning when the daughter was milking the cow and a young man was standing behind her seated figure. He was bending over the girl, squeezing her breasts with both hands, while she did her best to work the cow’s swollen udder. Neither of them had noticed Kersi as he’d hurried past. Now, as Kersi recalled the scene, he thought of Najamai’s daughters, the rat in the bedroom, Vera’s near-nude body, his dispossessed fantasy, and once again felt cheated, betrayed.

It was Percy who first spotted Francis and pointed him out to Kersi. It was also Percy who yelled
“Chor! Chor!
Stop him!” and galvanized the waiting
Matka
patrons into action.

Francis never had a chance. Three men in the distance heard the uproar and tripped him as he ran past. Without delay they started to punch him. One tried out a clumsy version of a dropkick but it did not work so well, and he diligently resumed with his fists. Then the others arrived and joined in the pounding.

The ritualistic cry of
“Chor! Chor!”
had rendered Francis into fair game in Tar Gully. But Kersi was horrified. This was not the way he had wanted it to end when he’d emerged with his bat. He watched in
terror as Francis was slapped and kicked, had his arms twisted and his hair pulled, and was abused and spat upon. He looked away when their eyes met.

Then Percy shouted: “Stop! No more beating! We must take the thief back to the
bat
from whom he stole. She will decide!”

The notion of delivering the criminal to the scene of his crime and to his victim, like something out of a Hindi movie, appealed to this crowd. Kersi managed to shake off his numbness. Following Percy’s example, he grabbed Francis by the arm and collar, signifying that this was their captive, no longer to be bashed around.

In this manner they led Francis back to Firozsha Baag – past the tethered cow, past the
bunya’s
shop, past the overflowing gutters of Tar Gully. Every once in a while someone would punch Francis in the small of his back or on his head. But Percy would remind the crowd of the
bat
who had been robbed, whereupon the procession would resume in an orderly way.

A crowd was waiting outside C Block. More neighbours had gathered, including the solitary Muslim tenant in Firozsha Baag, from the ground floor of B Block, and his Muslim servant. Both had a longstanding grudge against Francis over some incident with a prostitute, and were pleased at his predicament.

Francis was brought before Najamai. He was in tears and his knees kept buckling. “Why, Francis?” asked Najamai. “Why?”

Suddenly, a neighbour stepped out of the crowd and slapped him hard across the face: “You
budmaash!
You have no shame? Eating her food, earning money from her, then stealing from her, you rascal?”

At the slap, the gathering started to move in for a fresh round of thrashing. But Najamai screamed and the crowd froze. Francis threw himself at her feet, weeping. “Bai,” he begged, “you hit me, you kick me, do whatever you want to me. But please don’t let them, please!”

While he knelt before her, the Muslim servant saw his chance and moved swiftly. He swung his leg and kicked Francis powerfully in the ribs before the others could pull him away. Francis yelped like a dog and keeled over.
Najamai was formally expressing her gratitude to Silloo. “How brave your two sons are. If they had not gone after that rogue I would never have seen my eighty rupees again. Say thanks to Percy and Kersi, God bless them, such fine boys.” Both of them pointedly ignored Tehmina who, by this time, had been established as the minor villain in the piece, for putting temptation in Francis’s path.

Meanwhile, the crowd had dispersed. Tehmina was chatting with the Muslim neighbour. Having few friends in this building, he was endeavouring to ingratiate himself with her while she was still vulnerable, and before she recovered from C Block’s excommunication. By the light of the full moon he sympathized with her version of the episode.

“Najamai knows my eyes are useless till these cataracts are removed. Yet she wants me to keep her keys, look after her flat.” The cloves ventured to her lips, agitated, but she expertly sucked them back to the safety of her cheeks. “How was I to know what Francis would do? If only I could have seen his eyes. It is always so dark in that hallway.” And the Muslim neighbour shook his head slowly, making clucking sounds with his tongue to show he understood perfectly.

Back in her flat, Najamai chuckled as she pictured the two boys returning with Francis. “How silly they looked. Going after poor Francis with their big bats! As if he would ever have hurt them. Wonder what the police will do to him now.” She went into the kitchen, sniffing. A smell of ammonia was in the air and a pool of yellowish liquid stood where Francis had been hiding behind the kitchen door. She bent down, puzzled, and sniffed again, then realized he must have lost control of his bladder when she screamed.

She mopped and cleaned up, planning to tell Silloo tomorrow of her discovery. She would also have to ask her to find someone to bring the rations next week. Maybe it was time to overcome her aversion to full-time servants and hire one who would live here, and cook and clean, and look after the flat. Someone who would also provide company for her, sometimes it felt so lonely being alone in the flat.

Najamai finished in the kitchen. She went to the bedroom, lowered her weight into the easy chair and picked up the Boyces’ Sunday paper.

Kersi was in the bathroom. He felt like throwing up, but returned to the bedroom after retching without success. He sat on the bed and picked up his bat. He ripped off the rubber grip and slowly, meditatively, started to tear the freshly glued cord from around the handle, bit by bit, circle by circle.

Soon, the cord lay on the floor in a black tangled heap, and the handle looked bald, exposed, defenceless. Never before had Kersi seen his cricket bat in this flayed and naked state. He stood up, grasped the handle with both hands, rested the blade at an angle to the floor, then smashed his foot down upon it. There was a loud crack as the handle snapped.

I
always believed in ghosts. When I was little I saw them in my father’s small field in Goa. That was very long ago, before I came to Bombay to work as ayah.

Father also saw them, mostly by the well, drawing water. He would come in and tell us, the
bhoot
is thirsty again. But it never scared us. Most people in our village had seen ghosts. Everyone believed in them.

Not like in Firozsha Baag. First time I saw a ghost here and people found out, how much fun they made of me. Calling me crazy, saying it is time for old ayah to go back to Goa, back to her
muluk
, she is seeing things.

Two years ago on Christmas Eve I first saw the
bhoot
. No, it was really Christmas Day. At ten o’clock on Christmas Eve I went to Cooperage Stadium for midnight mass. Every year all of us Catholic ayahs from Firozsha Baag go for mass. But this time I came home alone, the others went somewhere with their boyfriends. Must have been two o’clock in the morning. Lift in B Block was out of order, so I started up slowly. Thinking how easy to climb three floors when I was younger, even with a full bazaar-bag.

After reaching first floor I stopped to rest. My breath was coming fast-fast. Fast-fast, like it does nowadays when I grind curry
masala
on
the stone. Jaakaylee, my
bai
calls out, Jaakaylee, is
masala
ready? Thinks a sixty-three-year-old ayah can make
masala
as quick as she used to when she was fifteen. Yes, fifteen. The day after my fourteenth birthday I came by bus from Goa to Bombay. All day and night I rode the bus. I still remember when my father took me to bus station in Panjim. Now it is called Panaji. Joseph Uncle, who was mechanic in Mazagaon, met me at Bombay Central Station. So crowded it was, people running all around, shouting, screaming, and coolies with big-big trunks on their heads. Never will I forget that first day in Bombay. I just stood in one place, not knowing what to do, till Joseph Uncle saw me. Now it has been forty-nine years in this house as ayah, believe or don’t believe. Forty-nine years in Firozsha Baag’s B Block and they still don’t say my name right. Is it so difficult to say Jacqueline? But they always say Jaakaylee. Or worse, Jaakayl.

All the fault is of old
bai
who died ten years ago. She was in charge till her son brought a wife, the new
bai
of the house. Old
bai
took English words and made them Parsi words. Easy chair was
igeechur
, French beans
was ferach beech
, and Jacqueline became Jaakaylee. Later I found out that all old Parsis did this, it was like they made their own private language.

So then new
bai
called me Jaakaylee also, and children do the same. I don’t care about it now. If someone asks my name I say Jaakaylee. And I talk Parsi-Gujarati all the time instead of Konkani, even with other ayahs. Sometimes also little bits of English.

But I was saying. My breath was fast-fast when I reached first floor and stopped for rest. And then I noticed someone, looked like in a white gown. Like a man, but I could not see the face, just body shape.
Kaun hai?
I asked in Hindi. Believe or don’t believe, he vanished. Completely! I shook my head and started for second floor. Carefully, holding the railing, because the steps are so old, all slanting and crooked.

Then same thing happened. At the top of second floor he was waiting. And when I said,
kya hai?
believe or don’t believe, he vanished again! Now I knew it must be a
bhoot
. I knew he would be on third floor also, and I was right. But I was not scared or anything.

I reached the third floor entrance and found my bedding which I had put outside before leaving. After midnight mass I always sleep
outside, by the stairs, because
bat
and
seth
must not be woken up at two
A.M
., and they never give me a key. No ayah gets key to a flat. It is something I have learned, like I learned forty-nine years ago that life as ayah means living close to floor. All work I do, I do on floors, like grinding
masala
, cutting vegetables, cleaning rice. Food also is eaten sitting on floor, after serving them at dining-table. And my bedding is rolled out at night in kitchen-passage, on floor. No cot for me. Nowadays, my weight is much more than it used to be, and is getting very difficult to get up from floor. But I am managing.

So Christmas morning at two o’clock I opened my bedding and spread out my
saterunjee
by the stairs. Then stopped. The
bhoot
had vanished, and I was not scared or anything. But my father used to say some ghosts play mischief. The ghost of our field never did, he only took water from our well, but if this ghost of the stairs played mischief he might roll me downstairs, who was to say. So I thought about it and rang the doorbell.

After many, many rings
bai
opened, looking very mean. Mostly she looks okay, and when she dresses in nice sari for a wedding or something, and puts on all bangles and necklace, she looks really pretty, I must say. But now she looked so mean. Like she was going to bite somebody. Same kind of look she has every morning when she has just woken up, but this was much worse and meaner because it was so early in the morning. She was very angry, said I was going crazy, there was no ghost or anything, I was just telling lies not to sleep outside.

Then
seth
also woke up. He started laughing, saying he did not want any ghost to roll me downstairs because who would make
chai
in the morning. He was not angry, his mood was good. They went back to their room, and I knew why he was feeling happy when crrr-crr crrr-crr sound of their bed started coming in the dark.

When he was little I sang Konkani songs for him.
Mogacha Mary
and
Hanv Saiba
. Big man now, he’s forgotten them and so have I. Forgetting my name, my language, my songs. But complaining I’m not, don’t make mistake. I’m telling you, to have a job I was very lucky because in Goa there was nothing to do. From Panjim to Bombay on the bus I cried, leaving behind my brothers and sisters and parents, and all my village friends. But I knew leaving was best thing. My father had
eleven children and very small field. Coming to Bombay was only thing to do. Even schooling I got first year, at night. Then
bai
said I must stop because who would serve dinner when
seth
came home from work, and who would carry away dirty dishes? But that was not the real reason. She thought I stole her eggs. There were six eggs yesterday evening, she would say, only five this morning, what happened to one? She used to think I took it with me to school to give to someone.