Tales From Firozsha Baag (21 page)

Kersi shook his head. None of the boys knew, even though they
had heard the
MCC
mentioned in radio commentaries, because the full name was hardly ever used.

Then Jehangir Bulsara spoke up, or Bulsara Bookworm, as the boys called him. The name given by Pesi
paadmaroo
had stuck even though it was now more than four years since Pesi had been sent away to boarding-school, and over two years since the death of Dr. Mody. Jehangir was still unliked by the boys in the Baag, though they had come to accept his aloofness and respect his knowledge and intellect. They were not surprised that he knew the answer to Nariman’s question: “Marylebone Cricket Club.”

“Absolutely correct,” said Nariman, and continued with the story. “The
MCC
won the toss and elected to bat. They scored four hundred and ninety-seven runs in the first inning before our spinners could get them out. Early in the second day’s play our team was dismissed for one hundred and nine runs, and the extra who had taken Nadkarni’s place was injured by a vicious bumper that opened a gash on his forehead.” Nariman indicated the spot and the length of the gash on his furrowed brow. “Contractor’s worst fears were coming true. The
MCC
waived their own second inning and gave the Indian team a follow-on, wanting to inflict an inning’s defeat. And this time he had to use the second extra. The second extra was a certain Savukshaw.”

The younger boys listened attentively; some of them, like the two sons of the chartered accountant in B Block, had only recently been deemed old enough by their parents to come out and play in the compound, and had not received any exposure to Nariman’s stories. But the others like Jehangir, Kersi, and Viraf were familiar with Nariman’s technique.

Once, Jehangir had overheard them discussing Nariman’s stories, and he could not help expressing his opinion: that unpredictability was the brush he used to paint his tales with, and ambiguity the palette he mixed his colours in. The others looked at him with admiration. Then Viraf asked what exactly he meant by that. Jehangir said that Nariman sometimes told a funny incident in a very serious way, or expressed a significant matter in a light and playful manner. And these were only two rough divisions, in between were lots of subtle gradations of tone and texture. Which, then, was the funny story and
which the serious? Their opinions were divided, but ultimately, said Jehangir, it was up to the listener to decide.

“So,” continued Nariman, “Contractor first sent out his two regular openers, convinced that it was all hopeless. But after five wickets were lost for just another thirty-eight runs, out came Savukshaw the extra. Nothing mattered any more.”

The street lights outside the compound came on, illuminating the iron gate where the watchman stood. It was a load off the watchman’s mind when Nariman told a story. It meant an early end to the hectic vigil during which he had to ensure that none of the children ran out on the main road, or tried to jump over the wall. For although keeping out riff-raff was his duty, keeping in the boys was as important if he wanted to retain the job.

“The first ball Savukshaw faced was wide outside the off stump. He just lifted his bat and ignored it. But with what style! What panache! As if to say, come on, you blighters, play some polished cricket. The next ball was also wide, but not as much as the first. It missed the off stump narrowly. Again Savukshaw lifted his bat, boredom written all over him. Everyone was now watching closely. The bowler was annoyed by Savukshaw’s arrogance, and the third delivery was a vicious fast pitch, right down on the middle stump.

“Savukshaw was ready, quick as lightning. No one even saw the stroke of his bat, but the ball went like a bullet towards square leg.

“Fielding at square leg was a giant of a fellow, about six feet seven, weighing two hundred and fifty pounds, a veritable Brobdingnagian, with arms like branches and hands like a pair of huge
sapaat
, the kind that Dr. Mody used to wear, you remember what big feet Dr. Mody had.” Jehangir was the only one who did; he nodded. “Just to see him standing there was scary. Not one ball had got past him, and he had taken some great catches. Savukshaw purposely aimed his shot right at him. But he was as quick as Savukshaw, and stuck out his huge
sapaat
of a hand to stop the ball. What do you think happened then, boys?”

The older boys knew what Nariman wanted to hear at this point. They asked, “What happened, Nariman Uncle, what happened?” Satisfied, Nariman continued.

“A howl is what happened. A howl from the giant fielder, a howl
that rang through the entire stadium, that soared like the cry of a banshee right up to the cheapest seats in the furthest, highest corners, a howl that echoed from the scoreboard and into the pavilion, into the kitchen, startling the chap inside who was preparing tea and scones for after the match, who spilled boiling water all over himself and was severely hurt. But not nearly as bad as the giant fielder at square leg. Never at any English stadium was a howl heard like that one, not in the whole history of cricket. And why do you think he was howling, boys?”

The chorus asked, “Why, Nariman Uncle, why?”

“Because of Savukshaw’s bullet-like shot, of course. The hand he had reached out to stop it, he now held up for all to see, and
dhur-dhur, dhur-dhur
the blood was gushing like a fountain in an Italian piazza, like a burst water-main from the Vihar-Powai reservoir, dripping onto his shirt and his white pants, and sprinkling the green grass, and only because he was such a giant of a fellow could he suffer so much blood loss and not faint. But even he could not last forever; eventually, he felt dizzy, and was helped off the field. And where do you think the ball was, boys, that Savukshaw had smacked so hard?”

And the chorus rang out again on the now dark steps of A Block: “Where, Nariman Uncle, where?”

“Past the boundary line, of course. Lying near the fence. Rent asunder. Into two perfect leather hemispheres. All the stitches had ripped, and some of the insides had spilled out. So the umpires sent for a new one, and the game resumed. Now none of the fielders dared to touch any ball that Savukshaw hit. Every shot went to the boundary, all the way for four runs. Single-handedly, Savukshaw wiped out the deficit, and had it not been for loss of time due to rain, he would have taken the Indian team to a thumping victory against the
MCC
.
AS
it was, the match ended in a draw.”

Nariman was pleased with the awed faces of the youngest ones around him. Kersi and Viraf were grinning away and whispering something. From one of the flats the smell of frying fish swam out to explore the night air, and tickled Nariman’s nostrils. He sniffed appreciatively, aware that it was in his good wife Hirabai’s pan that the frying was taking place. This morning, he had seen the pomfret she had purchased at the door, waiting to be cleaned, its mouth open and
eyes wide, like the eyes of some of these youngsters. It was time to wind up the story.

“The
MCC
will not forget the number of new balls they had to produce that day because of Savukshaw’s deadly strokes. Their annual ball budget was thrown badly out of balance. Any other bat would have cracked under the strain, but Savukshaw’s was seasoned with a special combination of oils, a secret formula given to him by a
sadhu
who had seen him one day playing cricket when he was a small boy. But Savukshaw used to say his real secret was practice, lots of practice, that was the advice he gave to any young lad who wanted to play cricket.”

The story was now clearly finished, but none of the boys showed any sign of dispersing. “Tell us about more matches that Savukshaw played in,” they said.

“More nothing. This was his greatest match. Anyway, he did not play cricket for long because soon after the match against the
MCC
he became a champion bicyclist, the fastest human on two wheels. And later, a pole-vaulter – when he glided over on his pole, so graceful, it was like watching a bird in flight. But he gave that up, too, and became a hunter, the mightiest hunter ever known, absolutely fearless, and so skilful, with a gun he could have, from the third floor of A Block, shaved the whisker of a cat in the backyard of C Block.”

“Tell us about that,” they said, “about Savukshaw the hunter!”

The fat ayah, Jaakaylee, arrived to take the chartered accountant’s two children home. But they refused to go without hearing about Savukshaw the hunter. When she scolded them and things became a little hysterical, some other boys tried to resurrect the ghost she had once seen: “Ayah
bhoot!
Ayah
bhoot!”
Nariman raised a finger in warning – that subject was still taboo in Firozsha Baag; none of the adults was in a hurry to relive the wild and rampageous days that Pesi
paadmaroo
had ushered in, once upon, a time, with the
bhoot
games.

Jaakaylee sat down, unwilling to return without the children, and whispered to Nariman to make it short. The smell of frying fish which had tickled Nariman’s nostrils ventured into and awakened his stomach. But the story of Savukshaw the hunter was one he had wanted to tell for a long time.

“Savukshaw always went hunting alone, he preferred it that way.
There are many incidents in the life of Savukshaw the hunter, but the one I am telling you about involves a terrifying situation. Terrifying for us, of course; Savukshaw was never terrified of anything. What happened was, one night he set up camp, started a fire and warmed up his bowl of
chicken-dhansaak.”

The frying fish had precipitated famishment upon Nariman, and the subject of
chicken-dhansaak
suited him well. His own mouth watering, he elaborated: “Mrs. Savukshaw was as famous for her
dhansaak
as Mr. was for hunting. She used to put in tamarind and brinjal, coriander and cumin, cloves and cinnamon, and dozens of other spices no one knows about. Women used to come from miles around to stand outside her window while she cooked it, to enjoy the fragrance and try to penetrate her secret, hoping to identify the ingredients as the aroma floated out, layer by layer, growing more complex and delicious. But always, the delectable fragrance enveloped the women and they just surrendered to the ecstasy, forgetting what they had come for. Mrs. Savukshaw’s secret was safe.”

Jaakaylee motioned to Nariman to hurry up, it was past the children’s dinner-time. He continued: “The aroma of savoury spices soon filled the night air in the jungle, and when the
dhansaak
was piping hot he started to eat, his rifle beside him. But as soon as he lifted the first morsel to his lips, a tiger’s eyes flashed in the bushes! Not twelve feet from him! He emerged licking his chops! What do you think happened then, boys?”

“What, what, Nariman Uncle?”

Before he could tell them, the door of his flat opened. Hirabai put her head out and said,
“Chaalo ni
, Nariman, it’s time. Then if it gets cold you won’t like it.”

That decided the matter. To let Hirabai’s fried fish, crisp on the outside, yet tender and juicy inside, marinated in turmeric and cayenne – to let that get cold would be something that
Khoedaiji
above would not easily forgive. “Sorry boys, have to go. Next time about Savukshaw and the tiger.”

There were some groans of disappointment. They hoped Nariman’s good spirits would extend into the morrow when he returned from the Memorial Library, or the story would get cold.

But a whole week elapsed before Nariman again parked the apple of his eye outside his ground-floor flat and beeped the horn three times. When he had raised the hood, checked the oil, polished the star and swung into the “Colonel Bogie March,” the boys began drifting towards A Block.

Some of them recalled the incomplete story of Savukshaw and the tiger, but they knew better than to remind him. It was never wise to prompt Nariman until he had dropped the first hint himself, or things would turn out badly.

Nariman inspected the faces: the two who stood at the back, always looking superior and wise, were missing. So was the quiet Bulsara boy, the intelligent one. “Call Kersi, Viraf, and Jehangir,” he said, “I want them to listen to today’s story.”

Jehangir was sitting alone on the stone steps of C Block. The others were chatting by the compound gate with the watchman. Someone went to fetch them.

“Sorry to disturb your conference, boys, and your meditation, Jehangir,” Nariman said facetiously, “but I thought you would like to hear this story. Especially since some of you are planning to go abroad.”

This was not strictly accurate, but Kersi and Viraf did talk a lot about America and Canada. Kersi had started writing to universities there since his final high-school year, and had also sent letters of inquiry to the Canadian High Commission in New Delhi and to the U.S. Consulate at Breach Candy. But so far he had not made any progress. He and Viraf replied with as much sarcasm as their unripe years allowed, “Oh yes, next week, just have to pack our bags.”

“Riiiight,” drawled Nariman. Although he spoke perfect English, this was the one word with which he allowed himself sometimes to take liberties, indulging in a broadness of vowel more American than anything else. “But before we go on with today’s story, what did you learn about Savukshaw, from last week’s story?”

“That he was a very talented man,” said someone.

“What else?”

“He was also a very lucky man, to have so many talents,” said Viraf.

“Yes, but what else?”

There was silence for a few moments. Then Jehangir said, timidly:
“He was a man searching for happiness, by trying all kinds of different things.”

“Exactly! And he never found it. He kept looking for new experiences, and though he was very successful at everything he attempted, it did not bring him happiness. Remember this, success alone does not bring happiness. Nor does failure have to bring unhappiness. Keep it in mind when you listen to today’s story.”

A chant started somewhere in the back: “We-want-a-story! We-want-a-story!”

“Riiiight,” said Nariman. “Now, everyone remembers Vera and Dolly, daughters of Najamai from C Block.” There were whistles and hoots; Viraf nudged Kersi with his elbow, who was smiling wistfully. Nariman held up his hand: “Now now, boys, behave yourselves. Those two girls went abroad for studies many years ago, and never came back. They settled there happily.