Tales From Firozsha Baag

Squatter

Whenever Nariman Hansotia returned in the evening from the Cawasji Framji Memorial Library in a good mood the signs were plainly evident.

First, he parked his 1932 Mercedes-Benz (he called it the apple of his eye) outside A Block, directly in front of his ground-floor veranda window, and beeped the horn three long times. It annoyed Rustomji who also had a ground-floor flat in A Block. Ever since he had defied Nariman in the matter of painting the exterior of the building, Rustomji was convinced that nothing the old coot did was untainted by the thought of vengeance and harassment, his retirement pastime.

But the beeping was merely Nariman’s signal to let Hirabai inside know that though he was back he would not step indoors for a while. Then he raised the hood, whistling “Rose Marie,” and leaned his tall frame over the engine. He checked the oil, wiped here and there with a rag, tightened the radiator cap, and lowered the hood. Finally, he polished the Mercedes star and let the whistling modulate into the march from The Bridge On The River Kwai. The boys playing in the compound knew that Nariman was ready now to tell a story. They started to gather round.

“Sahibji, Nariman Uncle,” someone said tentatively and Nariman nodded, careful not to lose his whistle, his bulbous nose flaring slightly. The pursed lips had temporarily raised and reshaped his Clark Gable moustache. More boys walked up. One called out, “How about a story, Nariman Uncle?” at which point Nariman’s eyes began to twinkle, and he imparted increased energy to the polishing. The cry was taken up by others, “Yes, yes, Nariman Uncle, a story!” He swung into a final verse of the march. Then the lips relinquished the whistle, the Clark Gable moustache descended. The rag was put away, and he began.

“You boys know the great cricketers: Contractor, Polly Umrigar, and recently, the young chap, Farokh Engineer. Cricket aficionados, that’s what you all are.” Nariman liked to use new words, especially big ones, in the stories he told, believing it was his duty to expose young minds to as shimmering and varied a vocabulary as possible; if they could not spend their days at the Cawasji Framji Memorial Library then he, at least, could carry bits of the library out to them.

The boys nodded; the names of the cricketers were familiar.

“But does anyone know about Savukshaw, the greatest of them all?” They shook their heads in unison.

“This, then, is the story about Savukshaw, how he saved the Indian team from a humiliating defeat when they were touring in England.” Nariman sat on the steps of A Block. The few diehards who had continued with their games could not resist any longer when they saw the gathering circle, and ran up to listen. They asked their neighbours in whispers what the story was about, and were told: Savukshaw the greatest cricketer. The whispering died down and Nariman began.

“The Indian team was to play the indomitable MCC as part of its tour of England. Contractor was our captain. Now the MCC being the strongest team they had to face, Contractor was almost certain of defeat. To add to Contractor’s troubles, one of his star batsmen, Nadkarni, had caught influenza early in the tour, and would definitely not be well enough to play against the MCC. By the way, does anyone know what those letters stand for? You, Kersi, you wanted to be a cricketer once.”

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.

“And like them, a fellow called Sarosh also went abroad, to Toronto, but did not find happiness there. This story is about him. You probably don’t know him, he does not live in Firozsha Baag, though he is related to someone who does.”

“Who? Who?”

“Curiosity killed the cat,” said Nariman, running a finger over each branch of his moustache, “and what’s important is the tale. So let us continue. This Sarosh began calling himself Sid after living in Toronto for a few months, but in our story he will be Sarosh and nothing but Sarosh, for that is his proper Parsi name. Besides, that was his own stipulation when he entrusted me with the sad but instructive chronicle of his recent life.” Nariman polished his glasses with his handkerchief, put them on again, and began.

“At the point where our story commences, Sarosh had been living in Toronto for ten years. We find him depressed and miserable, perched on top of the toilet, crouching on his haunches, feet planted firmly for balance upon the white plastic oval of the toilet seat.

“Daily for a decade had Sarosh suffered this position. Morning after morning, he had no choice but to climb up and simulate the squat of our Indian latrines. If he sat down, no amount of exertion could produce success.

“At first, this inability was no more than mildly incommodious. As time went by, however, the frustrated attempts caused him grave anxiety. And when the failure stretched unbroken over ten years, it began to torment and haunt all his waking hours.”

Some of the boys struggled hard to keep straight faces. They suspected that Nariman was not telling just a funny story, because if he intended them to laugh there was always some unmistakable way to let them know. Only the thought of displeasing Nariman and prematurely terminating the story kept their paroxysms of mirth from bursting forth unchecked.

Nariman continued: “You see, ten years was the time Sarosh had set himself to achieve complete adaptation to the new country. But how could he claim adaptation with any honesty if the acceptable catharsis continually failed to favour him? Obtaining his new citizenship had not helped either. He remained dependent on the old way, and this unalterable fact, strengthened afresh every morning of his life in the new country, suffocated him.

“The ten-year time limit was more an accident than anything else. But it hung over him with the awesome presence and sharpness of a guillotine. Careless words, boys, careless words in a moment of light-heartedness, as is so often the case with us all, had led to it.

“Ten years before, Sarosh had returned triumphantly to Bombay after fulfilling the immigration requirements of the Canadian High Commission in New Delhi. News of his imminent departure spread amongst relatives and friends. A farewell party was organized. In fact, it was given by his relatives in Firozsha Baag. Most of you will be too young to remember it, but it was a very loud party, went on till late in the night. Very lengthy and heated arguments took place, which is not the thing to do at a party. It started like this: Sarosh was told by some what a smart decision he had made, that his whole life would change for the better; others said he was making a mistake, emigration was all wrong, but if he wanted to be unhappy that was his business, they wished him well.

“By and by, after substantial amounts of Scotch and soda and rum and Coke had disappeared, a fierce debate started between the two groups. To this day Sarosh does not know what made him raise his glass and announce: ‘My dear family, my dear friends, if I do not become completely Canadian in exactly ten years from the time I land there, then I will come back. I promise. So please, no more arguments. Enjoy the party.’ His words were greeted with cheers and shouts of hear! hear! They told him never to fear embarrassment; there was no shame if he decided to return to the country of his birth.

“But shortly, his poor worried mother pulled him aside. She led him to the back room and withdrew her worn and aged prayer book from her purse, saying, ‘I want you to place your hand upon the Avesta and swear that you will keep that promise.’

“He told her not to be silly, that it was just a joke. But she insisted: ‘Kassum khà — on the Avesta. One last thing for your mother. Who knows when you will see me again?’ and her voice grew tremulous as it always did when she turned deeply emotional. Sarosh complied, and the prayer book was returned to her purse.

“His mother continued: ‘It is better to live in want among your family and your friends, who love you and care for you, than to be unhappy surrounded by vacuum cleaners and dishwashers and big shiny motor cars.’ She hugged him. Then they joined the celebration in progress.

“And Sarosh’s careless words spoken at the party gradually forged themselves into a commitment as much to himself as to his mother and the others. It stayed with him all his years in the new land, reminding him every morning of what must happen at the end of the tenth, as it reminded him now while he descended from his perch.”

Jehangir wished the titters and chortles around him would settle down, he found them annoying. When Nariman structured his sentences so carefully and chose his words with extreme care as he was doing now, Jehangir found it most pleasurable to listen. Sometimes, he remembered certain words Nariman had used, or combinations of words, and repeated them to himself, enjoying again the beauty of their sounds when he went for his walks to the Hanging Gardens or was sitting alone on the stone steps of C Block. Mumbling to himself did nothing to mitigate the isolation which the other boys in the Baag had dropped around him like a heavy cloak, but he had grown used to all that by now.

Nariman continued: “In his own apartment Sarosh squatted barefoot. Elsewhere, if he had to go with his shoes on, he would carefully cover the seat with toilet paper before climbing up. He learnt to do this after the first time, when his shoes had left telltale footprints on the seat. He had had to clean it with a wet paper towel. Luckily, no one had seen him.

“But there was not much he could keep secret about his ways. The world of washrooms is private and at the same time very public. The absence of feet below the stall door, the smell of faeces, the rustle of paper, glimpses caught through the narrow crack between stall door and jamb — all these added up to only one thing: a foreign presence in the stall, not doing things in the conventional way. And if the one outside could receive the fetor of Sarosh’s business wafting through the door, poor unhappy Sarosh too could detect something malodorous in the air: the presence of xenophobia and hostility.”

What a feast, thought Jehangir, what a feast of words! This would be the finest story Nariman had ever told, he just knew it.

“But Sarosh did not give up trying. Each morning he seated himself to push and grunt, grunt and push, squirming and writhing unavailingly on the white plastic oval. Exhausted, he then hopped up, expert at balancing now, and completed the movement quite effortlessly.

“The long morning hours in the washroom created new difficulties. He was late going to work on several occasions, and one such day, the supervisor called him in: ‘Here’s your time-sheet for this month. You’ve been late eleven times. What’s the problem?’ ”

Here, Nariman stopped because his neighbour Rustomji’s door creaked open. Rustomji peered out, scowling, and muttered: “Saala loafers, sitting all evening outside people’s houses, making a nuisance, and being encouraged by grownups at that.”

He stood there a moment longer, fingering the greying chest hair that was easily accessible through his sudra, then went inside. The boys immediately took up a soft and low chant: “Rustomji-the-curmudgeon! Rustomji-the-curmudgeon!”

Nariman help up his hand disapprovingly. But secretly, he was pleased that the name was still popular, the name he had given Rustomji when the latter had refused to pay his share for painting the building. “Quiet, quiet!” said he. “Do you want me to continue or not?”

“Yes, yes!” The chanting died away, and Nariman resumed the story.

“So Sarosh was told by his supervisor that he was coming late to work too often. What could poor Sarosh say?”

“What, Nariman Uncle?” rose the refrain.

“Nothing, of course. The supervisor, noting his silence, continued: ‘If it keeps up, the consequences could be serious as far as your career is concerned.’

“Sarosh decided to speak. He said embarrassedly, ‘It’s a different kind of problem. I … I don’t know how to explain … it’s an immigration-related problem.’

“Now this supervisor must have had experience with other immigrants, because right away he told Sarosh, ‘No problem. Just contact your Immigrant Aid Society. They should be able to help you. Every ethnic group has one: Vietnamese, Chinese — I’m certain that one exists for Indians. If you need time off to go there, no problem. That can be arranged, no problem. As long as you do something about your lateness, there’s no problem.’ That’s the way they talk over there, nothing is ever a problem.

“So Sarosh thanked him and went to his desk. For the umpteenth time he bitterly rued his oversight. Could fate have plotted it, concealing the western toilet behind that shroud of anxieties which had appeared out of nowhere to beset him just before he left India? After all, he had readied himself meticulously for the new life. Even for the great, merciless Canadian cold he had heard so much about. How could he have overlooked preparation for the western toilet with its matutinal demands unless fate had conspired? In Bombay, you know that offices of foreign businesses offer both options in their bathrooms. So do all hotels with three stars or more. By practising in familiar surroundings, Sarosh was convinced he could have mastered a seated evacuation before departure.

“But perhaps there was something in what the supervisor said. Sarosh found a telephone number for the Indian Immigrant Aid Society and made an appointment. That afternoon, he met Mrs. Maha-Lepate at the Society’s office.”

Kersi and Viraf looked at each other and smiled. Nariman Uncle had a nerve, there was more lépate in his own stories than anywhere else.

“Mrs. Maha-Lepate was very understanding, and made Sarosh feel at ease despite the very personal nature of his problem. She said, ‘Yes, we get many referrals. There was a man here last month who couldn’t eat Wonder Bread — it made him throw up.’

“By the way, boys, Wonder Bread is a Canadian bread which all happy families eat to be happy in the same way; the unhappy families are unhappy in their own fashion by eating other brands.” Jehangir was the only one who understood, and murmured: “Tolstoy,” at Nariman’s little joke. Nariman noticed it, pleased. He continued.

“Mrs. Maha-Lepate told Sarosh about that case: Our immigrant specialist, Dr. No-Ilaaz, recommended that the patient eat cake instead. He explained that Wonder Bread caused vomiting because the digestive system was used to Indian bread only, made with Indian flour in the village he came from. However, since his system was unfamiliar with cake, Canadian or otherwise, it did not react but was digested as a newfound food. In this way he got used to Canadian flour first in cake form. Just yesterday we received a report from Dr. No-Ilaaz. The patient successfully ate his first slice of whole-wheat Wonder Bread with no ill effects. The ultimate goal is pure white Wonder Bread.’

“Like a polite Parsi boy, Sarosh said, ‘That’s very interesting.’ The garrulous Mrs. Maha-Lepate was about to continue, and he tried to interject: ‘But I —’ but Mrs. Maha-Lepate was too quick for him: Oh, there are so many interesting cases I could tell you about. Like the woman from Sri Lanka — referred to us because they don’t have their own Society — who could not drink the water here. Dr. No-Ilaaz said it was due to the different mineral content. So he started her on Coca-Cola and then began diluting it with water, bit by bit. Six weeks later she took her first sip of unadulterated Canadian water and managed to keep it down.’

“Sarosh could not halt Mrs. Maha-Lepate as she launched from one case history into another: ‘Right now, Dr. No-Ilaaz is working on a very unusual case. Involves a whole Pakistani family. Ever since immigrating to Canada, none of them can swallow. They choke on their own saliva, and have to spit constantly. But we are confident that Dr. No-Ilaaz will find a remedy. He has never been stumped by any immigrant problem. Besides, we have an information network with other third-world Immigrant Aid Societies. We all seem to share a history of similar maladies, and regularly compare notes. Some of us thought these problems were linked to retention of original citizenship. But this was a false lead.’

“Sarosh, out of his own experience, vigorously nodded agreement. By now he was truly fascinated by Mrs. Maha-Lepate’s wealth of information. Reluctantly, he interrupted: ‘But will Dr. No-Ilaaz be able to solve my problem?’

“ ‘I have every confidence that he will,’ replied Mrs. Maha-Lepate in great earnest. ‘And if he has no remedy for you right away, he will be delighted to start working on one. He loves to take up new projects.’ ”

Nariman halted to blow his nose, and a clear shrill voice travelled the night air of the Firozsha Baag compound from C Block to where the boys had collected around Nariman in A Block: “Jehangoo! O Jehangoo! Eight o’clock! Upstairs now!”

Jehangir stared at his feet in embarrassment. Nariman looked at his watch and said, “Yes, it’s eight.” But Jehangir did not move, so he continued.

“Mrs. Maha-Lepate was able to arrange an appointment while Sarosh waited, and he went directly to the doctor’s office. What he had heard so far sounded quite promising. Then he cautioned himself not to get overly optimistic, that was the worst mistake he could make. But along the way to the doctor’s, he could not help thinking what a lovely city Toronto was. It was the same way he had felt when he first saw it ten years ago, before all the joy had dissolved in the acid of his anxieties.”

Once again that shrill voice travelled through the clear night: “Arre Jehangoo! Mua, do I have to come down and drag you upstairs!”

Jehangir’s mortification was now complete. Nariman made it easy for him, though: “The first part of the story is over. Second part continues tomorrow. Same time, same place.” The boys were surprised, Nariman did not make such commitments. But never before had he told such a long story. They began drifting back to their homes.

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?

“But such questions were merely academic. Or were they? He could not decide. If he returned, what would it be like? Ten years ago, the immigration officer who had stamped his passport had said, ‘Welcome to Canada.’ It was one of Sarosh’s dearest memories, and thinking of it, he fell asleep.

“The plane was flying above the rainclouds. Sunshine streamed into the cabin. A few raindrops were still clinging miraculously to the windows, reminders of what was happening below. They sparkled as the sunlight caught them.”

Some of the boys made as if to leave, thinking the story was finally over. Clearly, they had not found this one as interesting as the others Nariman had told. What dolts, thought Jehangir, they cannot recognize a masterpiece when they hear one. Nariman motioned with his hand for silence.

“But our story does not end there. There was a welcome-home party for Sarosh a few days after he arrived in Bombay. It was not in Firozsha Baag this time because his relatives in the Baag had a serious sickness in the house. But I was invited to it anyway. Sarosh’s family and friends were considerate enough to wait till the jet lag had worked its way out of his system. They wanted him to really enjoy this one.

“Drinks began to flow freely again in his honour: Scotch and soda, rum and Coke, brandy. Sarosh noticed that during his absence all the brand names had changed — the labels were different and unfamiliar. Even for the mixes. Instead of Coke there was Thums-Up, and he remembered reading in the papers about Coca-Cola being kicked out by the Indian Government for refusing to reveal their secret formula.

“People slapped him on the back and shook his hand vigorously, over and over, right through the evening. They said: ‘Telling the truth, you made the right decision, look how happy your mother is to live to see this day;’ or they asked: ‘Well, bossy, what changed your mind?’ Sarosh smiled and nodded his way through it all, passing around Canadian currency at the insistence of some of the curious ones who, egged on by his mother, also pestered him to display his Canadian passport and citizenship card. She had been badgering him since his arrival to tell her the real reason: ‘Saachoo kahé, what brought you back?’ and was hoping that tonight, among his friends, he might raise his glass and reveal something. But she remained disappointed.

“Weeks went by and Sarosh found himself desperately searching for his old place in the pattern of life he had vacated ten years ago. Friends who had organized the welcome-home party gradually disappeared. He went walking in the evenings along Marine Drive, by the sea-wall, where the old crowd used to congregate. But the people who sat on the parapet while waves crashed behind their backs were strangers. The tetrapods were still there, staunchly protecting the reclaimed land from the fury of the sea. He had watched as a kid when cranes had lowered these cement and concrete hulks of respectable grey into the water. They were grimy black now, and from their angularities rose the distinct stench of human excrement. The old pattern was never found by Sarosh; he searched in vain. Patterns of life are selfish and unforgiving.

“Then one day, as I was driving past Marine Drive, I saw someone sitting alone. He looked familiar, so I stopped. For a moment I did not recognize Sarosh, so forlorn and woebegone was his countenance. I parked the apple of my eye and went to him, saying, ‘Hullo, Sid, what are you doing here on your lonesome?’ And he said, ‘No no! No more Sid, please, that name reminds me of all my troubles.’ Then, on the parapet at Marine Drive, he told me his unhappy and wretched tale, with the waves battering away at the tetrapods, and around us the hawkers screaming about coconut-water and sugar-cane juice and paan.

“When he finished, he said that he had related to me the whole sad saga because he knew how I told stories to boys in the Baag, and he wanted me to tell this one, especially to those who were planning to go abroad. ‘Tell them,’ said Sarosh, ‘that the world can be a bewildering place, and dreams and ambitions are often paths to the most pernicious of traps.’ As he spoke, I could see that Sarosh was somewhere far away, perhaps in New Delhi at his immigration interview, seeing himself as he was then, with what he thought was a life of hope and promise stretching endlessly before him. Poor Sarosh. Then he was back beside me on the parapet.

“ ‘I pray you, in your stories,’ said Sarosh, his old sense of humour returning as he deepened his voice for his favourite Othello lines” — and here, Nariman produced a basso profundo of his own — “ ‘When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice: tell them that in Toronto once there lived a Parsi boy as best as he could. Set you down this; and say, besides, that for some it was good and for some it was bad, but for me life in the land of milk and honey was just a pain in the posterior.’ ”

And now, Nariman allowed his low-pitched rumbles to turn into chuckles. The boys broke into cheers and loud applause and cries of “Encore!” and “More!” Finally, Nariman had to silence them by pointing warningly at Rustomji-the-curmudgeon’s door.

While Kersi and Viraf were joking and wondering what to make of it all, Jehangir edged forward and told Nariman this was the best story he had ever told. Nariman patted his shoulder and smiled. Jehangir left, wondering if Nariman would have been as popular if Dr. Mody was still alive. Probably, since the two were liked for different reasons: Dr. Mody used to be constantly jovial, whereas Nariman had his periodic story-telling urges.

Now the group of boys who had really enjoyed the Savukshaw story during the previous week spoke up. Capitalizing on Nariman’s extraordinarily good mood, they began clamouring for more Savukshaw: “Nariman Uncle, tell the one about Savukshaw the hunter, the one you had started that day.”

“What hunter? I don’t know which one you mean.” He refused to be reminded of it, and got up to leave. But there was loud protest, and the boys started chanting, “We-want-Savukshaw! We-want-Savukshaw!”

Nariman looked fearfully towards Rustomji’s door and held up his hands placatingly: “All right, all right! Next time it will be Savukshaw again. Savukshaw the artist. The story of the Parsi Picasso.”