Tales From Firozsha Baag

One Sunday

Najamai was getting ready to lock up her flat in Firozsha Baag and take the train to spend the day with her sister’s family in Bandra.

She bustled her bulk around, turning the keys in the padlocks of her seventeen cupboards, then tugged at each to ensure the levers had tumbled properly. Soon, she was breathless with excitement and exertion.

Her breathlessness reminded her of the operation she had had three years ago to remove fat tissue from the abdomen and breasts. The specialist had told her, “You will not notice any great difference in the mirror. But you will appreciate the results when you are over sixty. It will keep you from sagging.”

Here she was at fifty-five, and would soon know the truth of his words if merciful God kept her alive for five more years. Najamai did not question the ways of merciful God, even though her Soli was taken away the very year after first Dolly and then Vera went abroad for higher studies.

Today would be the first Sunday that the flat would be empty for the whole day. “In a way it is good,” she reflected, “that Tehmina next door and the Boyces downstairs use my fridge as much as they do. Anyone who has evil intentions about my empty flat will think twice when he sees the coming-going of neighbours.”

Temporarily reconciled towards the neighbours whom she otherwise regarded as nuisances, Najamai set off. She nodded at the boys playing in the compound. Outside, it did not feel as hot, for there was a gentle breeze. She felt at peace with the world. It was a twenty-minute walk, and there would be plenty of time to catch the ten-fifteen express. She would arrive at her sister’s well before lunch-time.

At eleven-thirty Tehmina cautiously opened her door and peered out. She made certain that the hallway was free of the risk of any confrontation with a Boyce on the way to Najamai’s fridge. “It is shameful the way those people misuse the poor lady’s goodness,” thought Tehmina. “All Najamai said when she bought the fridge was to please feel free to use it. It was only out of courtesy. Now those Boyces behave as if they have a share in the ownership of the fridge.”

She shuffled out in slippers and duster-coat, clutching one empty glass and the keys to Najamai’s flat. She reeked of cloves, lodged in her mouth for two reasons: it kept away her attacks of nausea and alleviated her chronic toothaches.

Cursing the poor visibility in the hallway, Tehmina, circumspect, moved on. Even on the sunniest of days, the hallway persisted in a state of half-light. She fumbled with the locks, wishing her cataracts would hurry and ripen for removal.

Inside at last, she swung open the fridge door to luxuriate in the delicious rush of cold air. A curious-looking package wrapped in plastic caught her eye; she squeezed it, sniffed at it, decided against undoing it. The freezer section was almost bare; the Boyces’ weekly packets of beef had not yet arrived.

Tehmina placed two ice-cubes in the empty glass she had brought along — the midday drink of chilled lemonade was as dear to her as the evening Scotch and soda — and proceeded to lock up the place. But she was startled in her battle with Najamai’s locks and bolts by footsteps behind her.

“Francis!”

Francis did odd jobs. Not just for Tehmina and Najamai in C Block, but for anyone in Firozsha Baag who required his services. This was his sole means of livelihood ever since he had been laid off or dismissed, it was never certain which, from the furniture store across the road where he used to be a delivery boy. The awning of that store still provided the only roof he had ever known. Strangely, the store owner did not mind, and it was a convenient location — all that Tehmina or Najamai or any of the other neighbours had to do was lean out of their verandas and wave or clap hands and he would come.

Grinning away as usual, Francis approached Tehmina.

“Stop staring, you idiot,” started Tehmina, “and check if this door is properly locked.”

“Yes, bai. But when will Najamai return? She said she would give me some work today.”

“Never. Could not be for today. She won’t be back till very late. You must have made a mistake.” With a loud suck she moved the cloves to the other cheek and continued, “So many times I’ve told you to open your ears and listen properly when people tell you things. But no. You never listen.”

Francis grinned again and shrugged his shoulders. In order to humour Tehmina he replied, “Sorry bai, it is my mistake!” He stood only about five feet two but possessed strength which was out of all proportion to his light build. Once, in Tehmina’s kitchen during a cleaning spree he had picked up the stone slab used for grinding spices. It weighed at least fifty pounds, and it was the way in which he lifted it, between thumb and fingertips, that amazed Tehmina. Later, she had reported the incident to Najamai. The two women had marvelled at his strength, giggling at Tehmina’s speculation that he must be built like a bull.

As humbly as possible Francis now asked, “Do you have any work for me today?”

“No. And I do not like it, you skulking here in the hallway. When there is work we will call you. Now go away.”

Francis left. Tehmina could be offensive, but he needed the few paise the neighbours graciously let him earn and the leftovers Najamai allowed him whenever there were any. So he returned to the shade of the furniture store awning.

While Tehmina was chilling her lemonade with Najamai’s ice, downstairs, Silloo Boyce cleaned and portioned the beef into seven equal packets. She disliked being obligated to Najamai for the fridge, though it was a great convenience. “Besides,” she argued with herself, “we do enough to pay her back, every night she borrows the newspaper. And every morning I receive her milk and bread so she does not have to wake up early. Madam will not even come down, my sons must carry it upstairs.” Thus she mused and reasoned each Sunday, as she readied the meat in plastic bags which her son Kersi later stacked in Najamai’s freezer.

Right now, Kersi was busy repairing his cricket bat. The cord around the handle had come unwound and had gathered in a black cluster at its base, leaving more than half the length of the handle naked. It looked like a clump of pubic hair, Kersi thought, as he untangled the cord and began gluing it back around the handle.

The bat was a size four, much too small for him, and he did not play a lot of cricket any more. But for some reason he continued to care for it. The willow still possessed spring enough to send a ball to the boundary line, in glaring contrast to his brother Percy’s bat. The latter was in sad shape. The blade was dry and cracked in places; the handle, its rubber grip and cord having come off long ago, had split; and the joint where the blade met the handle was undone. But Percy did not care. He never had really cared for cricket, except during that one year when the Australian team was visiting, when he had spent whole days glued to the radio, listening to the commentary. Now it was aeroplanes all the time, model kits over which he spent hours, and Biggies books in which he buried himself.

But Kersi had wanted to play serious cricket ever since primary school. In the fifth standard he was finally chosen for the class team. On the eve of the match, however, the captain contracted mumps, and the vice-captain took over, promptly relegating Kersi to the extras and moving up his own crony. That was the end of serious cricket for Kersi. For a short while, his father used to take him and his Firozsha Baag friends to play at the Marine Drive maidaan on Sunday mornings. And nowadays, they played a little in the compound. But it was not the same. Besides, they were interrupted all the time by people like that mean old Rustomji in A Block. Of all the neighbours who yelled and scolded, Rustomji-the-curmudgeon did the loudest and the most. He always threatened to confiscate their bat and ball if they didn’t stop immediately.

Kersi now used his bat mainly for killing rats. Rat poison and a variety of traps were also employed with unflagging vigilance. But most of the rat population, with some rodent sixth sense, circumnavigated the traps. Kersi’s bat remained indispensable.

His mother was quite proud of his skill, and once she had bragged about it to Najamai upstairs: “So young, and yet so brave, the way he runs after the ugly things. And he never misses.” This was a mistake, because Kersi was promptly summoned the next time Najamai spied a rat in her flat. It had fled into the daughters’ room and Kersi rushed in after it. Vera had just finished her bath and was not dressed. She screamed, first when she saw the rat, and again, when Kersi entered after it. He found it hard to keep his eyes on the rat — it escaped easily. Soon after, Vera had gone abroad for higher studies, following her sister Dolly’s example.

The first time that Kersi successfully used his bat against a rat, it had been quite messy. Perhaps it was the thrill of the chase, or his rage against the invader, or just an ignorance about the fragility of that creature of fur and bone. The bat had come down with such vehemence that the rat was badly squashed. A dark red stain had oozed across the floor, almost making him sick. He discovered how sticky that red smear was only when he tried to wipe it off with an old newspaper.

The beef was now ready for the freezer. With seven packets of meat, and Najamai’s latchkeys in his pocket, Kersi plodded upstairs.

When Najamai’s daughters had gone abroad, they took with them the youthful sensuality that once filled the flat, and which could drive Kersi giddy with excitement on a day like this, with no one home, and all before him the prospect of exploring Vera and Dolly’s bedroom, examining their undies that invariably lay scattered around, running his hands through lacy frilly things, rubbing himself with these and, on one occasion, barely rescuing them from a sticky end. Now, exploration would yield nothing but Najamai’s huge underclothes. Kersi could not think of them as bras and panties — their vastness forfeited the right to these dainty names.

Feeling sadness, loss, betrayal, he descended the stairs lifelessly. Each wooden step, with the passage of years and the weight of tenants, was worn to concavity, and he felt just as worn. Not so long ago, he was able to counter spells of low spirits and gloominess by turning to his Enid Blyton books. A few minutes was all it took before he was sharing the adventures of the Famous Five or the Secret Seven, an idyllic existence in a small English village, where he would play with dogs, ride horses in the meadows, climb hills, hike through the countryside, or, if the season was right, build a snowman and have a snowball fight.

But lately, this had refused to work, and he got rid of the books. Percy had made fun of him for clinging to such silly and childish fantasy, inviting him to share, instead, the experience of aerial warfare with Biggies and his men in the RAF.

Everything in Firozsha Baag was so dull since Pesi paadmaroo had been sent away to boarding school. And all because of that sissy Jehangir, the Bulsara Bookworm.

Francis was back in the hallway, and was disappointed when Kersi did not notice him. Kersi usually stopped to chat; he got on well with all the servants in the building, especially Francis. Kersi’s father had taught him to play cricket but Francis had instructed him in kite-flying. With a kite and string bought with fifty paise earned for carrying Najamai’s quota of rice and sugar from the rationing depot, and with the air of a mentor, he had taught Kersi everything he knew about kites.

But the time they spent together was anathema to Kersi’s parents. They looked distastefully on the growing friendship, and all the neighbours agreed it was not proper for a Parsi boy to consort in this way with a man who was really no better than a homeless beggar, who would starve were it not for their thoughtfulness in providing him with odd jobs. No good would come of it, they said.

Much to their chagrin, however, when the kite-flying season of high winds had passed, Kersi and Francis started spinning tops and shooting marbles. These, too, were activities considered inappropriate for a Parsi boy.

At six-thirty, Tehmina went to Najamai’s flat for ice. This was the hour of the most precious of all ice-cubes — she’d just poured herself two fingers of Scotch.

A red glow from the Ambica Saris neon display outside Firozsha Baag floated eerily over the compound wall. Though the street lamps had now come on, they hardly illuminated the hallway, and tonight’s full moon was no help either. Tehmina cursed the locks eluding her efforts. But as she continued the unequal struggle by twilight, her armpits soaked with sweat, she admitted that life before the fridge had been even tougher.

In those days she had to venture beyond the compound of Firozsha Baag and buy ice from the Irani Restaurant in Tar Gully. It was not the money she minded but the tedium of it all. Besides, the residents of Tar Gully amused themselves by spitting from their tenement windows on all comers who were better-heeled than they. In impoverished Tar Gully she was certainly considered better-heeled, and many well-aimed globs had found their mark. On such evenings Tehmina, in tears, would return to her flat and rush to take a bath, cursing those satanic animals and fiends of Tar Gully. Meanwhile, the ice she had purchased would sit melting to a sliver.

As the door finally unlocked, Tehmina spied a figure at the far end of the darkened hallway. Heart racing a little, she wondered who it might be, and called out as authoritatively as she could, “Kaun hat? What do you want?”

The answer came: “Bai, it’s only Francis.”

The familiar voice gave her courage. She prepared to scold him. “Did I not tell you this morning not to loiter here? Did I not say we would call if there was work? Did I not tell you that Najamai would be very late? Tell me then, you rascal, what are you doing here?”

Francis was hungry. He had not eaten for two whole days, and had been hoping to earn something for dinner tonight. Unable to tolerate Tehmina much longer, he replied sullenly, “I came to see if Najamai had arrived,” and turned to go.

But Tehmina suddenly changed her mind. “Wait here while I get my ice,” she said, realizing that she could use his help to lock the door.

Inside, she decided it was best not to push Francis too far. One never knew when this type of person would turn vicious. If he wanted to, he could knock her down right now, ransack Najamai’s flat and disappear completely. She shuddered at these thoughts, then composed herself.

From downstairs came the strains of “The Blue Danube.” Tehmina swayed absently. Strauss! The music reminded her of a time when the world was a simpler, better place to live in, when trips to Tar Gully did not involve the risk of spit globs. She reached into the freezer, and “The Blue Danube” concluded. Grudgingly, Tehmina allowed that there was one thing about the Boyces: they had good taste in music. Those senseless and monotonous Hindi film-songs never blared from their flat as they did sometimes from the other blocks of Firozsha Baag.

In control of herself now, she briskly stepped out. “Come on, Francis,” she said peremptorily, “help me lock this door. I will tell Najamai that you will be back tomorrow for her work.” She held out the ring of keys and Francis, not yet appeased by her half-hearted attempt at pacification, slowly and resentfully reached for them.

Tehmina was thankful at asking him to wait. “If it takes him so long, I could never do it in this darkness,” she thought, as he handed back the keys.

Silloo downstairs heard the door slam when Tehmina returned to her own flat. It was time to start dinner. She rose and went to the kitchen.

Najamai stepped off the train and gathered together her belongings: umbrella, purse, shopping-bag of leftovers, and cardigan. Sunday night had descended in full upon the station, and the platforms and waiting-rooms were deserted. She debated whether to take the taxi waiting in the night or to walk. The station clock showed nine-thirty. Even if it took her forty minutes to walk instead of the usual twenty, it would still be early enough to stop at the Boyces’ before they went to bed. Besides, the walk would be healthy and help digest her sister’s pupeta-noo-gose and dhandar-paatyo. With any luck, tonight would be a night unencumbered by the pressure of gas upon her gut.

The moon was full, the night was cool, and Najamai enjoyed her little walk. She neared Firozsha Baag and glanced quickly at the menacing mouth of Tar Gully. In there, streetlights were few, and sections of it had no lights at all. Najamai wondered if she would be able to spot any of the pimps and prostitutes who were said to visit here after dark even though Tar Gully was not a red-light district. But it looked deserted.

She was glad when the walk was over. Breathing a little rapidly, she rang the Boyce doorbell.

“Hullo, hullo — just wanted to pick up today’s paper. Only if you’ve finished with it.”

“Oh yes,” said Silloo, “I made everyone read it early.”

“This is very sweet of you,” said Najamai, raising her arm so Silloo could tuck the paper under it. Then, as Silloo reached for the flashlight, she protested: “No no, the stairs won’t be dark, there’s a full moon.”

Lighting Najamai’s way up the stairs at night was one of the many things Silloo did for her neighbour. She knew that if Najamai ever stumbled in the dark and fell down the stairs, her broken bones would be a problem for the Boyces. It was simpler to shine the flashlight and see her safely to the landing.

“Good-night,” said Najamai and started up. Silloo waited. Like a spotlight in some grotesque cabaret, the torch picked up the arduous swaying of Najamai’s buttocks. She reached the top of the stairs, breathless, thanked Silloo and disappeared.

Silloo restored the flashlight to its niche by the door. The sounds of Najamai’s preparation for bed and sleep now started to drip downstairs, as relentlessly as a leaky tap. A cupboard slammed … the easy chair in the bedroom, next to the window by day, was dragged to the bedside … footsteps led to the extremities of the flat … after a suitable interval, the flush … then the sound of water again, not torrential this time but steady, gentle, from a faucet … footsteps again …

The flow of familiar sounds was torn out of sequence by Najamai’s frantic cries.

“Help! Help! Oh quickly! Thief!”

Kersi and his mother were the first to reach the door. They were outside in time to see Francis disappear in the direction of Tar Gully. Najamai, puffing, stood at the top of the stairs. “He was hiding behind the kitchen door,” she gasped. “The front door — Tehmina as usual —”

Silloo was overcome by furious indignation. “I don’t know why, with her bad eyes, that woman must fumble and mess with your keys. What did he steal?”

“I must check my cupboards,” Najamai panted. “That rascal of a loafer will have run far already.”

Tehmina now shuffled out, still clad in the duster-coat, anxiously sucking cloves and looking very guilty. She had heard everything from behind her door but asked anyway, “What happened? Who was screaming?”

The senseless fluster irritated Kersi. He went indoors. Confused by what had happened, he sat on his bed and cracked the fingers of both hands. Each finger twice, expertly, once at the knuckle, then at the joint closest to the nail. He could also crack his toes — each toe just once, though — but he did not feel like it right now. Don’t crack your fingers, they used to tell him, your hands will become fat and ugly. For a while then he had cracked his knuckles more fervently than ever, hoping they would swell into fists the size of a face. Such fists would be useful to scare someone off in a fight. But the hands had remained quite normal.

Kersi picked up his bat. The cord had set firmly around the handle and the glue was dry; the rubber grip could go back on. There was a trick to fitting it right; if not done correctly, the grip would not cover the entire handle, but hang over the tip, like uncircumcised foreskin. He rolled down the cylindrical rubber tube onto itself, down to a rubber ring. Then he slipped the ring over the handle and unrolled it. A condom was probably put on the same way, he thought; someone had showed him those things at school, only this looked like one with the tip lopped off. Just as in that joke about a book called The Unwanted Child by EL. Burst.

He posed before the mirror and flourished the bat. Satisfied with his repair work, he sat down again. He felt angry and betrayed at the thought of Francis vanishing into Tar Gully. His anger, coupled with the emptiness of this Sunday which, like a promise unfulfilled, had primed him many hours ago, now made him succumb to the flush of heroics starting to sweep through him. He glanced at himself in the mirror again and went outside with the bat.

A small crowd of C Block neighbours and their servants had gathered around Najamai, Silloo, and Tehmina. “I’m going to find him,” Kersi announced grimly to this group.

“What rubbish are you talking?” his mother exclaimed. “In Tar Gully, alone at night?”

“Oh what a brave boy!” cried Najamai. “But maybe we should call the police.”

Tehmina, by this time, was muttering non sequiturs about ice-cubes and Scotch and soda. Kersi repeated: “I’m going to find him.”

This time Silloo said, “Your brother must go with you. Alone you’ll be no match for that rascal. Percy! Bring the other bat and go with Kersi.”

Obediently, Percy joined his brother and they set off in the direction of Tar Gully. Their mother shouted instructions after them: “Be careful for God’s sake! Stay together and don’t go too far if you cannot find him.”

In Tar Gully the two drew a few curious glances as they strode along with cricket bats. But the hour was late and there were not many people around. Those who were, waited only for the final Matka draw to decide their financial destinies. Some of these men now hooted at Kersi and Percy. “Parsi bawaji! Cricket at night? Parsi bawaji! What will you hit, boundary or sixer?”

“Just ignore the bloody ghatis? said Percy softly. It was good advice; the two walked on as if it were a well-rehearsed plan, Percy dragging his bat behind him. Kersi carried his over the right shoulder to keep the puddles created by the overflowing gutters of Tar Gully from wetting it.

“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.