Tales From Firozsha Baag (12 page)

Till the arrival of the Mody family the yards were home for stray and happy felines, well fed on scraps and leftovers disgorged regularly as clockwork, after mealtimes, by the three blocks. The ground floors
were the only ones who refrained. They voiced their protests in a periodic cycle of reasoning, pleading, and screaming of obscenities, because the garbage collected outside their windows where the cats took up permanent residency, miaowing, feasting and caterwauling day and night. If the cascade of food was more than the cats could devour, the remainder fell to the fortune of the rats. Finally, flies and insects buzzed and hovered over the dregs, little pools of pulses and curries fermenting and frothing, till the
kuchrawalli
came next morning and swept it all away.

The backyards of Firozsha Baag constituted its squalid underbelly. And this would be the scenario for stoning-the-cats, Pesi decided. But there was one hitch: the backyards were off limits to the boys. The only way in was through the
kuchrawalli’s
little shack standing beyond A Block, where her huge ferocious dog, tied to the gate, kept the boys at bay. So Pesi decreed that the boys gather at the rear windows of their homes, preferably at a time of day when the adults were scarce, with the fathers away at work and the mothers not yet finished with their afternoon naps. Each boy brought a pile of small stones and took turns, chucking three stones each. The game could just as easily have been stoning-the-rats; but stoned rats quietly walked away to safety, whereas the yowls of cats provided primal satisfaction and verified direct hits: no yowl, no point.

The game added to Pesi’s popularity – he called it a howling success. But the parents (except the ground floor) complained to Dr. Mody about his son instigating their children to torment poor dumb and helpless creatures. For a veterinarian’s son to harass animals was shameful, they said.

As might be supposed, Pesi was the despair of his parents. Over the years Dr. Mody had become inured to the initial embarrassment in each new place they moved to. The routine was familiar: first, a spate of complaints from indignant parents claiming their sons
bugree nay dhoor thai gaya –
were corrupted to become useless as dust; next, the protestations giving way to sympathy when the neighbours saw that Pesi was the worm in the Modys’ mango.

And so it was in Firozsha Baag. After the furor about stoning-the-cats had died down, the people of the Baag liked Dr. Mody more than
ever. He earned their respect for the initiative he took in Baag matters, dealing with the management for things like broken lifts, leaking water tanks, crumbling plaster, and faulty wiring. It was at his urging that the massive iron gate, set in the stone wall which ran all around the buildings, compound and backyards, was repaired, and a watchman installed to stop beggars and riff-raff. (And although Dr. Mody would be dead by the time of the
Shiv Sena
riots, the tenants would remember him for the gate which would keep out the rampaging mobs.) When the Bombay Municipality tried to appropriate a section of Baag property for its road-widening scheme, Dr. Mody was in the forefront of the battle, winning a compromise whereby the Baag only lost half the proposed area. But the Baag’s esteem did nothing to lighten the despair for Pesi that hung around the doctor.

At the birth of his son, Dr. Mody had deliberated long and hard about the naming. Peshotan, in the Persian epic,
Shah-Nama
, was the brother of the great Asfandyar, and a noble general, lover of art and learning, and man of wise counsel. Dr. Mody had decided his son would play the violin, acquire the best from the cultures of East and West, thrill to the words of Tagore and Shakespeare, appreciate Mozart and Indian ragas; and one day, at the proper moment, he would introduce him to his dearest activity, stamp-collecting.

But the years passed in their own way. Fate denied fruition to all of Dr. Mody’s plans; and when he talked about stamps, Pesi laughed and mocked his beloved hobby. This was the point at which, hurt and confused, he surrendered his son to whatever destiny was in store. A perpetual grief entered to occupy the void left behind after the aspirations for his son were evicted.

The weight of grief was heaviest around Dr. Mody when he returned from work in the evenings. As the car turned into the compound he usually saw Pesi before Pesi saw him, in scenes which made him despair, scenes in which his son was abusing someone, fighting, or making lewd gestures.

But Dr. Mody was careful not to make a public spectacle of his despair. While the car made its way sluggishly over the uneven flagstones of the compound, the boys would stand back and wave him
through. With his droll comments and jovial countenance he was welcome to disrupt their play, unlike two other car-owners of Firozsha Baag: the priest in A Block and the chartered accountant in B who habitually berated, from inside their vehicles, the sons of bank clerks and bookkeepers for blocking the driveway with their games. Their well-worn curses had become so predictable and ineffective that sometimes the boys chanted gleefully, in unison with their nemeses: “Worse than
saala
animals!” or
“junglee
dogs-cats have more sense!” or “you
sataans
ever have any lesson-paani to do or not!”

There was one boy who always stayed apart from his peers – the Bulsara boy, from the family next door to the Modys. Jehangir sat on the stone steps every evening while the gentle land breezes, drying and cooling the sweaty skins of the boys at play, blew out to sea. He sat alone through the long dusk, a source of discomfiture to the others. They resented his melancholy, watching presence.

Dr. Mody noticed Jehangir, too, on the stone steps of C Block, the delicate boy with the build much too slight for his age. Next to a hulk like Pesi he was diminutive, but things other than size underlined his frail looks: he had slender hands, and forearms with fine downy hair. And while facial fuzz was incipient in most boys of his age (and Pesi was positively hirsute), Jehangir’s chin and upper lip were smooth as a young woman’s. But it pleased Dr. Mody to see him evening after evening. The quiet contemplation of the boy on the steps and the noise and activity of the others at play came together in the kind of balance that Dr. Mody was always looking for and was quick to appreciate.

Jehangir, in his turn, observed the burly Dr. Mody closely as he walked past him each evening. When he approached the steps after parking his car, Jehangir would say
“Sahibji”
in greeting, and smile wanly. He saw that despite Dr. Mody’s constant jocularity there was something painfully empty about his eyes. He noticed the peculiar way he scratched the greyish-red patches of psoriasis on his elbows, both elbows simultaneously, by folding his arms across his chest. Sometimes Jehangir would arise from the stone steps and the two would go up together to the third floor. Dr. Mody asked him once, “You don’t like playing with the other boys? You just sit and watch
them?” The boy shook his head and blushed, and Dr. Mody did not bring up the matter after that.

Gradually, a friendship of sorts grew between the two. Jehangir touched a chord inside the doctor which had lain silent for much too long. Now affection for the boy developed and started to linger around the region hitherto occupied by grief bearing Pesi’s name.

One evening, while Jehangir sat on the stone steps waiting for Dr. Mody’s car to arrive, Pesi was organizing a game of
naargolio
. He divided the boys into two teams, then discovered he was one short. He beckoned to Jehangir, who said he did not want to play. Scowling, Pesi handed the ball to one of the others and walked over to him. He grabbed his collar with both hands, jerking him to his feet.
“Arré choosya!”
he yelled, “want a pasting?” and began dragging him by the collar to where the boys had piled up the seven flat stones for
naargolio
.

At that instant, Dr. Mody’s car turned into the compound, and he spied his son in one of those scenes which could provoke despair. But today the despair was swept aside by rage when he saw that Pesi’s victim was the gentle and quiet Jehangir Bulsara. He left the car in the middle of the compound with the motor running. Anger glinted in his eyes. He kicked over the pile of seven flat stones as he walked blindly towards Pesi who, having seen his father, had released Jehangir. He had been caught by his father often enough to know that it was best to stand and wait. Jehangir, meanwhile, tried to keep back the tears.

Dr. Mody stopped before his son and slapped him hard, once on each cheek, with the front and back of his right hand. He waited, as if debating whether that was enough, then put his arm around Jehangir and led him to the car.

He drove to his parking spot. By now, Jehangir had control of his tears, and they walked to the steps of C Block. The lift was out of order. They climbed the stairs to the third floor and knocked. He waited with Jehangir.

Jehangir’s mother came to the door.
“Sahibji
, Dr. Mody,” she said,
a short, middle-aged woman, very prim, whose hair was always in a bun. Never without a
mathoobanoo
, she could do wonderful things with that square of fine white cloth which was tied and knotted to sit like a cap on her head, snugly packeting the bun. In the evenings, after the household chores were done, she removed the
mathoobanoo
and wore it in a more conventional manner, like a scarf.

“Sahibji?
she said, then noticed her son’s tear-stained face. “Arre, Jehangoo, what happened, who made you cry?” Her hand flew automatically to the
mathoobanoo
, tugging and adjusting it as she did whenever she was concerned or agitated.

To save the boy embarrassment, Dr. Mody intervened: “Go, wash your face while I talk to your mother.” Jehangir went inside, and Dr. Mody told her briefly about what had happened. “Why does he not play with the other boys?” he asked finally.

“Dr. Mody, what to say. The boy never wants even to go out.
Khoedai salaamat raakhé
, wants to sit at home all the time and read storybooks. Even this little time in the evening he goes because I force him and tell him he will not grow tall without fresh air. Every week he brings new-new story books from school. First, school library would allow only one book per week. But he went to Father Gonzalves who is in charge of library and got special permission for two books. God knows why he gave it.”

“But reading is good, Mrs. Bulsara.”

“I know, I know, but a mania like this, all the time?”

“Some boys are outdoor types, some are indoor types. You shouldn’t worry about Jehangir, he is a very good boy. Look at my Pesi, now there is a case for worry,” he said, meaning to reassure her.

“No, no. You mustn’t say that. Be patient,
Khoedai
is great,” said Mrs. Bulsara, consoling him instead. Jehangir returned, his eyes slightly red but dry. While washing his face he had wet a lock of his hair which hung down over his forehead.

“Ah, here comes my indoor champion,” smiled Dr. Mody, and patted Jehangir’s shoulder, brushing back the lock of hair. Jehangir did not understand, but grinned anyway; the doctor’s joviality was infectious. Dr. Mody turned again to the mother. “Send him to my house on Sunday at ten o’clock. We will have a little talk.”

After Dr. Mody left, Jehangir’s mother told him how lucky he was that someone as important and learned as Burjor Uncle was taking an interest in him. Privately, she hoped he would encourage the boy towards a more all-rounded approach to life and to the things other boys did. And when Sunday came she sent Jehangir off to Dr. Mody’s promptly at ten.

Dr. Mody was taking his bath, and Mrs. Mody opened the door. She was a dour-faced woman, spare and lean – the opposite of her husband in appearance and disposition, yet retaining some quality from long ago which suggested that it had not always been so. Jehangir had never crossed her path save when she was exchanging civilities with his mother, while making purchases out by the stairs from the vegetablewalla or fruitwalla.

Not expecting Jehangir’s visit, Mrs. Mody stood blocking the doorway and said: “Yes?” Meaning, what nuisance now?

“Burjor Uncle asked me to come at ten o’clock.”

“Asked you to come at ten o’clock? What for?”

“He just said to come at ten o’clock.”

Grudgingly, Mrs. Mody stepped aside. “Come in then. Sit down there.” And she indicated the specific chair she wanted him to occupy, muttering something about a
baap
who had time for strangers’ children but not for his own son.

Jehangir sat in what must have been the most uncomfortable chair in the room. This was his first time inside the Modys’ flat, and he looked around with curiosity. But his gaze was quickly restricted to the area of the floor directly in front of him when he realized that he was the object of Mrs. Mody’s watchfulness.

Minutes ticked by under her vigilant eye. Jehangir was grateful when Dr. Mody emerged from the bedroom. Being Sunday, he had eschewed his usual khaki half-pants for loose and comfortable white pyjamas. His
sudra
hung out over it, and he strode vigorously, feet encased in a huge pair of
sapaat
. He smiled at Jehangir, who happily noted the crow’s-feet appearing at the corners of his eyes. He was ushered into Dr. Mody’s room, and man and boy both seemed glad to escape the surveillance of the woman.

The chairs were more comfortable in Dr. Mody’s room. They sat
at his desk and Dr. Mody opened a drawer to take out a large book.

“This was the first stamp album I ever had,” said Dr. Mody. “It was given to me by my Nusserwanji Uncle when I was your age. All the pages were empty.” He began turning them. They were covered with stamps, each a feast of colour and design. He talked as he turned the pages, and Jehangir watched and listened, glancing at the stamps flying past, at Dr. Mody’s face, then at the stamps again.

Dr. Mody spoke not in his usual booming, jovial tones but softly, in a low voice charged with inspiration. The stamps whizzed by, and his speech was gently underscored by the rustle of the heavily laden pages that seemed to turn of their own volition in the quiet room. (Jehangir would remember this peculiar rustle when one day, older, he’d stand alone in this very room, silent now forever, and turn the pages of Nusserwanji Uncle’s album.) Jehangir watched and listened. It was as though a mask had descended over Dr. Mody, a faraway look upon his face, and a shining in the eyes which heretofore Jehangir had only seen sad with despair or glinting with anger or just plain and empty, belying his constant drollery. Jehangir watched, and listened to the euphonious voice hinting at wondrous things and promises and dreams.