Tales From Firozsha Baag

Condolence Visit

Yesterday had been the tenth day, dusmoo, after the funeral of Minocher Mirza. Dusmoo prayers were prayed at the fire-temple, and the widow Mirza awaited with apprehension the visitors who would troop into the house over the next few weeks. They would come to offer their condolence, share her grief, poke and pry into her life and Minocher’s with a thousand questions. And to gratify them with answers she would have to relive the anguish of the most trying days of her life.

The more tactful ones would wait for the first month, maasiso, to elapse before besieging her with sympathy and comfort. But not the early birds; they would come flocking from today. It was open season, and Minocher Mirza had been well-known in the Parsi community of Bombay.

After a long and troubled illness, Minocher had suddenly eased into a condition resembling a state of convalescence. Minocher and Daulat had both understood that it was only a spurious convalescence, there would be no real recovery. All the same, they were thankful his days and nights passed in relative comfort. He was able to wait for death freed from the agony which had racked his body for the past several months.

And, as it so often happens in such cases, along with relief from physical torment, the doubts and fears which had tortured his mind released their hold as well. He was at peace with his being which was soon to be snuffed out.

Daulat, too, felt at peace because her one fervent prayer was being answered. Minocher would be allowed to die with dignity, without being reduced to something less than human; she would not have to witness any more of his suffering.

Thus Minocher had passed away in his sleep after six days spent in an inexplicable state of grace and tranquillity. Daulat had cried for the briefest period; she felt it would be sinful to show anything but gladness when he had been so fortunate in his final days.

Now, however, the inescapable condolence visits would make her regurgitate months of endless pain, nights spent sleeplessly, while she listened for his breath, his sighs, his groans, his vocalization of the agony within. For bearers of condolences and sympathies she would have to answer questions about the illness, about doctors and hospitals, about nurses and medicines, about X-rays and blood reports. She would be requested (tenderly but tenaciously, as though it was their rightful entitlement) to recreate the hell her beloved Minocher had suffered, instead of being allowed to hold on to the memory of those final blessed six days. The worst of it would be the repetition of details for different visitors at different hours on different days, until that intensely emotional time she had been through with Minocher would be reduced to a dry and dull lesson learned from a textbook which she would parrot like a schoolgirl.

Last year, Daulat’s nephew Sarosh, the Canadian immigrant who now answered to the name of Sid, had arrived from Toronto for a visit, after ten years. Why he had never gone back he would not say, nor did he come to see her any more. After all that she and Minocher had done for him. But he did bring her a portable cassette tape recorder from Canada, remembering her fondness for music, so she could tape her favourite songs from All India Radio’s two Western music programs: “Merry Go Round” and “Saturday Date.” Daulat, however, had refused it, saying “Poor Minocher sick in bed, and I listen to music? Never.” She would not change her mind despite Sarosh-Sid’s recounting of the problems he had had getting it through Bombay customs.

Now she wished she had accepted the gift. It could be handy, she thought with bitterness, to tape the details, to squeeze all of her and Minocher’s suffering inside the plastic case, and proffer it to the visitors who came propelled by custom and convention. When they held out their right hands in the condolence-handshake position (fingertips of left hand tragically supporting right elbow, as though the right arm, overcome with grief, could not make it on its own) she could thrust towards them the cassette and recorder: “You have come to ask about my life, my suffering, my sorrow? Here, take and listen. Listen on the machine, everything is on tape. How my Minocher fell sick, where it started to pain, how much it hurt, what doctor said, what specialist said, what happened in hospital. This R button? Is for Rewind. Some part you like, you can hear it again, hear it ten times if you want: how nurse gave wrong medicine but my Minocher, sharp even in sickness, noticed different colour of pills and told her to check; how wardboy always handled the bedpan savagely, shoving it underneath as if doing sick people a big favour; how Minocher was afraid when time came for sponge bath, they were so careless and rough — felt like number three sandpaper on his bedsores, my brave Minocher would joke. What? The FF button? Means Fast Forward. If some part bores you, just press FF and tape will turn to something else: like how in hospital Minocher’s bedsores were so terrible it would bring tears to my eyes to look, all filled with pus and a bad smell on him always, even after sponge bath, so I begged of doctor to let me take him home; how at home I changed dressings four times a day using sulfa ointment, and in two weeks bedsores were almost gone; how, as time went by and he got worse, his friends stopped coming when he needed them most, friends like you, now listening to this tape. Huh? This letter P? Stands for Pause. Press it if you want to shut off machine, if you cannot bear to hear more of your friend Minocher’s suffering…”

Daulat stopped herself. Ah, the bitter thoughts of a tired old woman. But of what use? It was better not to think of these visits which were as inevitable as Minocher’s death. The only way out was to lock up the flat and leave Firozsha Baag, live elsewhere for the next few weeks. Perhaps at a boarding-house in Udwada, town of the most sacrosanct of all fire-temples. But though her choice of location would be irreproachable, the timing of her trip would generate the most virulent gossip and criticism the community was capable of, to weather which she possessed neither the strength nor the audacity. The visits would have to be suffered, just as Minocher had suffered his sickness, with forbearance.

The doorbell startled Daulat. This early in the morning could not bring a condolence visitor. The clock was about to strike nine as she went to the door.

Her neighbour Najamai glided in, as fluidly as the smell of slightly rancid fat that always trailed her. The pounds shed by her bulk in recent years constantly amazed Daulat. Today the smell was supplemented by dhansaak masala, she realized, as the odours found and penetrated her nostrils. It was usually possible to tell what Najamai had been cooking, she carried a bit of her kitchen with her wherever she went.

Although about the same age as Daulat, widowhood had descended much earlier upon Najamai, turning her into an authority on the subject of Religious Rituals And The Widowed Woman. This had never bothered Daulat before. But the death of Minocher offered Najamai unlimited scope, and she had made the best of it, besetting and bombarding Daulat with advice on topics ranging from items she should pack in her valise for the four-day Towers Of Silence vigil, to the recommended diet during the first ten days of mourning. Her counselling service had to close, however, with completion of the death rituals. Then Daulat was again able to regard her in the old way, with a mixture of tolerance and mild dislike.

“Forgive me for ringing your bell so early in the morning but I wanted to let you know, if you need chairs or glasses, just ask me.”

“Thanks, but no one will —”

“No no, you see, yesterday was dusmoo, I am counting carefully. How quickly ten days have gone by! People will start visiting from today, believe me. Poor Minocher, so popular, he had so many friends, they will all visit —”

“Yes, they will, and I must get ready,” said Daulat, interrupting what threatened to turn into an early morning prologue to a condolence visit. She found it hard to judge her too harshly, Najamai had had her share of sorrow and rough times. Her Soli had passed away the very year after the daughters, Vera and Dolly, had gone abroad for higher studies. The sudden burden of loneliness must have been horrible to bear. For a while, her large new refrigerator had helped to keep up a flow of neighbourly companionship, drawn forth by the offer of ice and other favours. But after the Francis incident, that, too, ceased. Tehmina refused to have anything to do with the fridge or with Najamai (her conscience heavy and her cataracts still unripe), and Silloo Boyce downstairs had also drastically reduced its use (though her conscience was clear, her sons Kersi and Percy had saved the day).

So Najamai, quite alone and spending her time wherever she was tolerated, now spied Minocher’s pugree. “Oh, that’s so nice, so shiny and black! And in such good condition!” she rhapsodized.

It truly was an elegant piece of headgear, and many years ago Minocher had purchased a glass display case for it. Daulat had brought it out into the living-room this morning.

Najamai continued: “You know, pugrees are so hard to find these days, this one would bring a lot of money. But you must never sell it. Never. It is your Minocher’s, so always keep it.” With these exhortatory words she prepared to leave. Her eyes wandered around the flat for a last minute scrutiny, the sort that evoked mild dislike for her in Daulat.

“You must be very busy today, so I’ll —” Najamai turned towards Minocher’s bedroom and halted in mid-sentence, in consternation: “O baap ré! The lamp is still burning! Beside Minocher’s bed — that’s wrong, very wrong!”

“Oh, I forgot all about it,” lied Daulat, feigning dismay. “I was so busy. Thanks for reminding, I’ll put it out.”

But she had no such intention. When Minocher had breathed his last, the dustoorji from A Block had been summoned and had given her careful instructions on what was expected of her. The first and most important thing, the dustoorji had said, was to light a small oil lamp at the head of Minocher’s bed; this lamp, he said, must burn for four days and nights while prayers were performed at the Towers Of Silence. But the little oil lamp became a source of comfort in a house grown quiet and empty for the lack of one silent feeble man, one shadow. Daulat kept the lamp lit past the prescribed four days, replenishing it constantly with coconut oil.

“Didn’t dustoorji tell you?” asked Najamai. “For the first four days the soul comes to visit here. The lamp is there to welcome the soul. But after four days prayers are all complete, you know, and the soul must now quickly-quickly go to the Next World. With the lamp still burning the soul will be attracted to two different places: here, and the Next World. So you must put it out, you are confusing the soul,” Najamai earnestly concluded.

Nothing can confuse my Minocher, thought Daulat, he will go where he has to go. Aloud she said, “Yes, I’ll put it out right away.”

“Good, good,” said Najamai, “and oh, I almost forgot to tell you, I have lots of cold-drink bottles in the fridge, Limca and Goldspot, nice and chilled, if you need them. Few years back, when visitors were coming after Dr. Mody’s dusmoo, I had no fridge, and poor Mrs. Mody had to keep running to Irani restaurant. But you are lucky, just come to me.”

What does she think, I’m giving a party the day after dusmoo? thought Daulat. In the bedroom she poured more oil in the glass, determined to keep the lamp lit as long as she felt the need. Only, the bedroom door must remain closed, so the tug-of-war between two worlds, with Minocher’s soul in the middle, would not provide sport for visitors.

She sat in the armchair next to what had been Minocher’s bed and watched the steady, unflickering flame of the oil lamp. Like Minocher, she thought, reliable and always there; how lucky I was to have such a husband. No bad habits, did not drink, did not go to the racecourse, did not give me any trouble. Ah, but he made up for it when he fell sick. How much worry he caused me then, while he still had the strength to argue and fight back. Would not eat his food, would not take his medicine, would not let me help with anything.

In the lamp glass coconut oil, because it was of the unrefined type, rested golden-hued on water, a natant disc. With a pure sootless flame the wick floated, a little raft upon the gold. And Daulat, looking for answers to difficult questions, stared at the flame. Slowly, across the months, borne upon the flame-raft came the incident of the Ostermilk tin. It came without the anger and frustration she had known then, it came in a new light. And she could not help smiling as she remembered.

It had been the day of the monthly inspection for bedbugs. Due to the critical nature of this task, Daulat tackled it with a zeal unreserved for anything else. She worked side by side with the servant. Minocher had been made comfortable in the chair, and the mattress was turned over. The servant removed the slats, one by one, while Daulat, armed with a torch, examined every crack and corner, every potential redoubt. Then she was ready to spray the mixture of Flit and Tik-20, and pulled at the handle of the pump.

But before plunging in the piston she glimpsed, between the bedpost and the wall, a large tin of Ostermilk on the floor. The servant dived under to retrieve it. The tin was shut tight, she had to pry the lid open with a spoon. And as it came off, there rose a stench powerful enough to rip to shreds the hardy nostrils of a latrine-basket collector. She quickly replaced the lid, fanning the air vigorously with her hand. Minocher seemed to be dozing off, olfactory nerves unaffected. Was he trying to subdue a smile? Daulat could not be sure. But the tin without its lid was placed outside the back door, in hopes that the smell would clear in a while.

The bedbug inspection was resumed and the Flitting finished without further interruption. Minocher’s bed was soon ready, and he fell asleep in it.

The smell of the Ostermilk tin had now lost its former potency. Daulat squinted at the contents: a greyish mass of liquids and solids, no recognizable shapes or forms amongst them. With a stick she explored the gloppy, sloppy mess. Gradually, familiar objects began to emerge, greatly transmogrified but retaining enough of their original states to agitate her. She was now able to discern a square of fried egg, exhume a piece of toast, fish out an orange pip. So! This is what he did with his food! How could he get better if he did not eat. Indignation drove her back to his bedroom. She refused to be responsible for him if he was going to behave in this way. Sickness or no sickness, I will have to tell him straight.

But Minocher was fast asleep, snoring gently. Like a child, she thought, and her anger had melted away. She did not have the heart to waken him; he had spent all night tossing and turning. Let him sleep. But from now on I will have to watch him carefully at mealtimes.

Beside the oil lamp Daulat returned to the present. Talking to visitors about such things would not be difficult. But they would be made uncomfortable, not knowing whether to laugh or keep the condolence-visit-grimness upon their faces. The Ostermilk tin would have to remain their secret, hers and Minocher’s. As would the oxtail soup, whose turn it now was to sail silently out of the past, on the golden disc, on the flame-raft of Minocher’s lamp.

At the butcher’s, Daulat and Minocher had always argued about oxtail which neither had ever eaten. Minocher wanted to try it, but she would say with a shudder, “See how they hang like snakes. How can you even think of eating that? It will bring bad luck, I won’t cook it.”

He called her superstitious. Oxtail, however, remained a dream deferred for Minocher. After his illness commenced, Daulat shopped alone, and at the meat market she would remember Minocher’s penchant for trying new things. She picked her way cautiously over the wet, slippery floors, weaving through the narrow aisles between the meat stalls, avoiding the importunating hands that thrust shoulders and legs and chops before her. But she forced herself to stop before the pendent objects of her dread and fix them with a long, hard gaze, as though to stare them down and overcome her aversion.

She was often tempted to buy oxtail and surprise Minocher — something different might revive his now almost-dead appetite. But the thought of evil and misfortune associated with all things serpentine dissuaded her each time. Finally, when Minocher had entered the period of his pseudo-convalescence, he awakened after a peaceful night and said, “Do me a favour?” Daulat nodded, and he smiled wickedly: “Make oxtail soup.” And that day, they dined on what had made her cringe for years, the first hearty meal for both since the illness had commandeered the course of their lives.

Daulat rose from the armchair. It was time now to carry out the plan she had made yesterday, walking past the Old-Age Home For Parsi Men, on her way back from the fire-temple. If Minocher could, he would want her to. Many were the times he had gone through his wardrobe selecting things he did not need or wear any longer, wrapped them in brown paper and string, and carried them to the Home for distribution.

Beginning with the ordinary items of everyday wear, she started sorting them: sudras, underwear, two spare kustis, sleeping suits, light cotton shirts for wearing around the house. She decided to make parcels right away — why wait for the prescribed year or six months and deny the need of the old men at the Home if she could (and Minocher certainly could) give today?

When the first heap of clothing took its place upon brown paper spread out on his bed, something wrenched inside her. The way it had wrenched when he had been pronounced dead by the doctor. Then it passed, as it had passed before. She concentrated on the clothes; one of each in every parcel: sudra, underpants, sleeping suit, shirt would make it easier to distribute.

Bent over the bed, she worked unaware of her shadow on the wall, cast by the soft light of the oil lamp. Though the curtainless window was open, the room was half-dark because the sun was on the other side of the flat. But half-dark was light enough in this room into which had been concentrated her entire universe for the duration of her and Minocher’s ordeal. Every little detail in this room she knew intimately: the slivered edge of the first compartment of the chest of drawers where a sudra could snag, she knew to avoid; the little trick, to ease out the shirt drawer which always stuck, she was familiar with; the special way to jiggle the key in the lock of the Godrej cupboard she had mastered a long time ago.

The Godrej steel cupboard Daulat tackled next. This was the difficult one, containing the “going-out” clothes: suits, ties, silk shirts, fashionable bush shirts, including some foreign ones sent by their Canadian nephew, Sarosh-Sid, and the envy of Minocher’s friends. This cupboard would be the hard one to empty out, with each garment holding memories of parties and New Year’s Eve dances, weddings and navjotes. Strung out on the hangers and spread out on the shelves were the chronicles of their life together, beginning with the Parsi formal dress Minocher had worn on the day of their wedding: silk dugli, white silk shirt, and the magnificent pugree. And to commence her life with him all she had had to do was move from her parents’ flat in A Block to Minocher’s in C Block. Yes, they were the only childhood sweethearts in Firozsha Baag who had got married, all the others had gone their separate ways.

The pugree was in its glass case in the living-room where Daulat had left it earlier. She went to it now and opened the case. It gleamed the way it had forty years ago. How grand he had looked then, with the pugree splendidly seated on his head! There was only one other occasion when he had worn it since, on the wedding of Sarosh-Sid, who had been to them the son they never had. Sarosh’s papers had arrived from the Canadian High Commission in New Delhi, and three months after the wedding he had emigrated with his brand new wife. They divorced a year later because she did not like it in Canada. For the wedding, Minocher had wanted Sarosh to wear the pugree, but he had insisted (like the modern young man that he was) on an English styled double-breasted suit. So Minocher had worn it instead. Pugree-making had become a lost art due to modern young men like Sarosh, but Minocher had known how to take care of his. Hence its mint condition.

Daulat took the pugree and case back into the bedroom as she went looking for the advertisement she had clipped out of the Jam-E-Jamshed. It had appeared six days ago, on the morning after she had returned from the Towers Of Silence: “Wanted — a pugree in good condition. Phone no. ____.” Yesterday, Daulat had dialled the number; the advertiser was still looking. He was coming today to inspect Minocher’s pugree.

The doorbell rang. It was Najamai. Again. In her wake followed Ramchandra, lugging four chairs of the stackable type. The idea of a full-time servant who would live under her roof had always been disagreeable to Najamai, but she had finally heeded the advice of the many who said that a full-time servant was safer than an odd-job man, he became like one of the family, responsible and loyal. Thus Najamai had taken the plunge; now the two were inseparable.

They walked in, her rancid-fat-dhansaak-masala smell embroidered by the attar of Ramchandra’s hair oil. The combination made Daulat wince.

“Forgive me for disturbing you again, I was just now leaving with Ramu, many-many things to do today, and I thought, what if poor Daulat needs chairs? So I brought them now only, before we left. That way you will…”

Daulat stopped listening. Good thing the bedroom door was shut, or Najamai would have started another oil lamp exegesis. Would this garrulous busybody never leave her alone? There were extra chairs in the dining-room she could bring out.

With Sarosh’s cassette recorder, she could have made a tape for Najamai too. It would be a simple one to make, with many pauses during which Najamai did all the talking. Neighbour Najamai Take One — “Hullo, come in” — (long pause) — “hmm, right” — (short pause) — “yes yes, that’s okay” — (long pause) — “right, right.” It would be easy, compared to the tape for condolence visitors.

“ … you are listening, no? So chairs you can keep as long as you like, don’t worry, Ramchandra can bring them back after a month, two months, after friends and relatives stop visiting. Come on Ramu, come on, we’re getting late.”

Daulat shut the door and withdrew into her flat. Into the silence of the flat. Where moments of life past and forgotten, moments lost, misplaced, hidden away, were all waiting to be recovered. They were like the stubs of cinema tickets she came across in Minocher’s trouser pockets or jackets, wrung through the laundry, crumpled and worn thin but still decipherable. Or like the old program for a concert at Scot’s Kirk by the Max Mueller Society of Bombay, found in a purse fallen, like Scot’s Kirk, into desuetude. On the evening of the concert Minocher, with a touch of sarcasm, had quipped: Indian audience listens to German musicians inside a church built by skirted men — truly Bombay is cosmopolitan. The encore had been Für Elise. The music passed through her mind now, in the silent flat, by the light of the oil lamp: the beginning in A minor, full of sadness and nostalgia and an unbearable yearning for times gone by; then the modulation into C major, with its offer of hope and strength and understanding. This music, felt Daulat, was like a person remembering — if you could hear the sound of the working of remembrance, the mechanism of memory, Für Elise was what it would sound like.

Suddenly, remembering was extremely important, a deep-seated need surfacing, manifesting itself in Daulat’s flat. All her life those closest to her had reminisced about events from their lives; she, the audience, had listened, sometimes rapt, sometimes impatient. Grandmother would sit her down and tell stories from years gone by; the favourite one was about her marriage and the elaborate matchmaking that preceded it. Mother would talk about her Girl Guide days, with a faraway look in her eyes; she still had her dark blue Girl Guide satchel, faded and frayed.

When grandmother had died no music was allowed in the house for three months. Even the neighbours, in all three blocks, had silenced their radios and gramophones for ten days. No one was permitted to play in the compound for a month. In those old days, the compound was not flagstoned, and clouds of dust were raised by the boys of Firozsha Baag as they tore about playing their games. The greatest nuisance was, of course, to the ground floor: furniture dusted and cleaned in the morning was recoated by nightfall. The thirty-day interdiction against games was a temporary reprieve for those tenants. That month, membership in the Cawasji Framji Memorial Library rose, and grandmother’s death converted several boys in the Baag to reading. During that time, Daulat’s mother introduced her to kitchen and cooking — there was now room for one more in that part of the flat.

Daulat had become strangers with her radio shortly after Minocher’s illness started. But the childhood proscription against music racked her with guilt whenever a strand of melody strayed into her room from the outside world. Minocher’s favourite song was “At the Balalaika.” He had taken her to see Balalaika starring Nelson Eddy at a morning show. It was playing at the Eros Cinema, it was his fourth time, and he was surprised that she had never seen the film before. How did the song … she hummed it, out of tune: At the Balalaika, one summer night a table laid for two, was just a private heaven made for two …

The wick of the oil lamp crackled. It did this when the oil was low. She fetched the bottle and filled the glass, shaking out the last drop, then placed the bottle on the windowsill: a reminder to replenish the oil.

Outside, the peripatetic vendors started to arrive, which meant it was past three o’clock. Between one and three was nap time, and the watchman at the gate of Firozsha Baag kept out all hawkers, according to the instructions of the management. The potato-and-onion man got louder as he approached now, “Onions rupee a kilo, potatoes two rupees,” faded after he went past, to the creaky obligato of his thirsty-for-lubrication cart as it jounced through the compound. He was followed by the fishwalli, the eggman, the biscuitwalla; and the ragman who sang with a sonorous vibrato:

Of old saris and old clothes I am collector,

Of new plates and bowls in exchange I am giver…

From time to time, B.E.S.T. buses thundered past and all sounds were drowned out. Finally came the one Daulat was waiting for. She waved the empty bottle at the oilwalla, purchased a quarter litre, and arranged with him to knock at her door every alternate day. She was not yet sure when she would be ready to let the lamp go out.

The clock showed half past four when she went in with the bottle. Minocher’s things lay in neat brown paper packages, ready for the Old-Age Home. She shut the doors of the cupboards now almost empty; the clothes it took a man a lifetime to wear and enjoy, she thought, could be parcelled away in hours.

The man would soon arrive to see Minocher’s pugree. She wondered what it was that had made him go to the trouble of advertising. Perhaps she should never have telephoned. Unless he had a good reason, she was not going to part with it. Definitely not if he was just some sort of collector.

The doorbell. Must be him, she thought, and looked through the peephole.

But standing outside were second cousin Moti and her two grandsons. Moti had not been at the funeral. Daulat did not open the door immediately. She could hear her admonishing the two little boys: “Now you better behave properly or I will not take you anywhere ever again. And if she serves Goldspot or Vimto or something, be polite, leave some in the glass. Drink it all and you’ll get a pasting when you get home.”

Daulat had heard enough. She opened the door and Moti, laden with eau de cologne, fell on her neck with properly woeful utterances and tragic tones. “O Daulat, Daulat! What an unfortunate thing to happen to you! O very wrong thing has come to pass! Poor Minocher gone! Forgive me for not coming to the funeral, but my Gustadji’s gout was so painful that day. Completely impossible. I said to Gustadji, least I can do now is visit you soon as possible after dusmoo!’

Daulat nodded, trying to look grateful for the sympathy Moti was so desperate to offer to fulfil her duties. It was almost time to reach for her imaginary cassette player.

“Before you start thinking what a stupid woman I am to bring two little boys to a condolence visit, I must tell you that there was no one at home they could stay with. And we never leave them alone. It is so dangerous. You heard about that vegetablewalla in Bandra? Broke into a flat, strangled a child, stole everything. Cleaned it out completely. Parvar Daegar! Save us from such wicked madmen!”

Daulat led the way into the living-room, and Moti sat on the sofa. The boys occupied Najamai’s loaned chairs. The bedroom door was open just a crack, revealing the oil lamp with its steady unwavering flame. Daulat shut it quickly lest Moti should notice and comment about the unorthodoxy of her source of comfort.

“Did he suffer much before the end? I heard from Ruby — you know Ruby, sister of Eruch Uncle’s son-in-law Shapur, she was at the funeral — that poor Minocher was in great pain the last few days.”

Daulat reached in her mind for the start switch of the cassette player. But Moti was not yet ready: “Couldn’t the doctors do something? From what we hear these days, they can cure almost anything.”

“Well,” said Daulat, “our doctor was very helpful, but it was a hopeless case, he told me, we were just prolonging the agony.”

“You know, I was reading in the Indian Express last week that doctors in China were able to make” — here, Moti lowered her voice in case the grandsons were listening, shielded her mouth with one hand, and pointed to her lap with the other — “a man’s Part. His girlfriend ran off with another man and he was very upset. So he chopped off” — in a whisper — “his own Part, in frustration, and flushed it down the toilet. Later, in hospital, he regretted doing it, and God knows how, but the doctors made for him” — in a whisper again — “a New Part, out of his own skin and all. They say it works and everything. Isn’t that amazing?”

“Yes, very interesting,” said Daulat, relieved that Moti had, at least temporarily, forsaken the prescribed condolence visit questioning.

The doorbell again. Must be the young man for the pugree this time.

But in stepped ever-solicitous Najamai. “Sorry, sorry. Very sorry, didn’t know you had company. Just wanted to see if you were okay, and let you know I was back. In case you need anything.” Then leaning closer conspiratorially, rancid-fat-dhansaak-masala odours overwhelming Daulat, she whispered, “Good thing, no, I brought the extra chairs.”

Daulat calculated quickly. If Najamai stayed, as indeed she was eager to, Moti would drift even further from the purpose of her visit. So she invited her in. “Please come and sit, meet my second cousin Moti. And these are her grandsons. Moti was just now telling me a very interesting case about doctors in China who made” — copying Moti’s whisper — “a New Part for a man.”

“A new part? But that’s nothing new. They do it here also now, putting artificial arms-legs and little things inside hearts to make blood pump properly.”

“No no,” said Moti. “Not a new part. This was” — in a whisper, dramatically pointing again to her lap for Najamai’s benefit — “a New Part! And he can do everything with it. It works. Chinese doctors made it.”

“Oh!” said Najamai, now understanding. “A New Part!”

Daulat left the two women to ponder the miracle, and went to the kitchen. There was a bottle of Goldspot in the icebox for the children. The kettle was ready and she poured three cups of tea. The doorbell rang for the third time while she arranged the tray. She was about to abandon it and go to the door but Najamai called out, “It’s all right, I’ll open it, don’t worry, finish what you are doing.”

Najamai said: “Yes?” to the young man standing outside.

“Are you Mrs. Mirza?”

“No no, but come in. Daulat! There’s a young man asking for you.”

Daulat settled the tray on the teapoy before the sofa and went to the door. “You’re here to see the pugree. Please come in and sit.” He took one of Najamai’s loaned chairs.

Najamai and Moti exchanged glances. Come for the pugree? What was going on?

The young man noticed the exchange and felt obliged to say something. “Mrs. Mirza is selling Mr. Mirza’s pugree to me. You see, my fiancée and I, we decided to do everything, all the ceremonies, the proper traditional way at our wedding. In correct Parsi dress and all.”

Daulat heard him explain in the next room and felt relieved. It was going to be all right, parting with the pugree would not be difficult. The young man’s reasons would have made Minocher exceedingly happy.

But Najamai and Moti were aghast. Minocher’s pugree being sold and the man barely digested by vultures at the Towers Of Silence! Najamai decided she had to take charge. She took a deep breath and tilted her chin pugnaciously. “Look here, bawa, it’s very nice to hear you want to do it the proper Parsi way. So many young men are doing it in suits and ties these days. Why, one wedding I went to, the boy was wearing a shiny black suit with lacy, frilly-frilly shirt and bow tie. Exactly like Dhobitalao Goan wedding of a Catholic it was looking! So believe me when I say that we are very happy about yours.”

She paused, took another deep breath, and prepared for a fortissimo finale. “But this poor woman who is giving you the pugree, her beloved husband’s funeral was only ten days ago. Yesterday was dusmoo, and her tears are barely dry! And today you are taking away his pugree. It is not correct! You must come back later!” Then Najamai went after Daulat, and Moti followed.

The young man could see them go into a huddle from where he sat, and could hear them as well. Moti was saying, “Your neighbour is right, this is not proper. Wait for a few days.”

And Najamai was emboldened to the point of presenting one of her theories. “You see, with help of prayers, the soul usually crosses over after four days. But sometimes the soul is very attached to this world and takes longer to make the crossing. And as long as the soul is here, everything such as clothes, cup-saucer, brush-comb, all must be kept same way they were, exactly same. Or the soul becomes very unhappy.”

The young man was feeling extremely uncomfortable. He, of course, had not known that Daulat had been widowed as recently as ten days ago. Once again he felt obliged to say something. He cleared his throat: “Excuse me.” But it was washed away in the downpour of Najamai’s words.

He tried again, louder this time: “Excuse me, please!”

Najamai and Moti turned around sharply and delivered a challenging “Yes?”

“Excuse me, but maybe I should come back later for the pugree, the wedding is three months away.”

“Yes! Yes!” said Moti and Najamai in unison. The latter continued: “I don’t want you thinking I’m stirring my ladle in your pot, but that would be much better. Come back next month, after maasiso. You can try it on today if you like, see if it fits. In that there is no harm. Just don’t take it away from the place where the soul expects it to be.”

“I don’t want to give any trouble,” said the young man. “It’s all right, I can try it later, the wedding is three months away. I’m sure it will fit.”

Daulat, with the pugree in her hands, approached the young man. “If you think it is bad luck to wear a recently dead man’s pugree and you are changing your mind, that’s okay with me.” The young man vigorously shook his head from side to side, protesting, as Daulat continued: “But let me tell you, my Minocher would be happy to give it to you if he were here. He would rejoice to see someone get married in his pugree. So if you want it, take it today.”

The young man looked at Moti and Najamai’s flabbergasted countenances, then at Daulat waiting calmly for his decision. The tableau of four persisted: two women slack-jawed with disbelief; another holding a handsome black pugree; and in the middle an embarrassed young man pulled two ways, like Minocher Mirza’s soul, in a tug-of-war between two worlds.

The young man broke the spell. He reached out for the pugree and gently took it from Daulat’s hands.

“Come,” she smiled, and walked towards the bedroom, to the dressing-table.

“Excuse me,” he said to Najamai and Moti, who were glaring resentfully, and followed. He placed the pugree on his head and looked in the mirror.

“See, it fits perfectly,” said Daulat.

“Yes,” he answered, “it does fit perfectly.” He took it off, caressed it for a moment, then asked hesitantly, “How much …?”

Daulat held up her hand; she had prepared for this moment. Though she had dismissed very quickly the thought of selling it, she had considered asking for its return after the wedding. Now, however, she shook her head and took the pugree from the young man. Carefully, she placed it in the glass case and handed it back to him.

“It is yours, wear it in good health. And take good care of it for my Minocher.”

“I will, oh thank you,” said the young man. “Thank you very much.” He waited for a moment, then softly, shyly added, “And God bless you.”

Daulat smiled. “If you have a son, maybe he will wear it, too, on his wedding.” The young man nodded, smiling back.

She saw him to the door and returned to the living-room. Moti and Najamai were sipping half-heartedly at their tea, looking somewhat injured. The children had finished their cold drink. They were swishing the shrunken ice-cubes around in the forbidden final quarter inch of liquid, left in their glasses as they’d been warned to, to attest to their good breeding. An irretrievably mixed up and confusing bit of testimony.

A beggar was crying outside, “Firstfloorwalla bail Take pity on the poor! Secondfloorwalla bail Help the hungry!”

Presently, Najamai rose. “Have to leave now, Ramchandra must be ready with dinner.”

Moti took the opportunity to depart as well, offering the fidgetiness of the two little boys for an excuse.

Daulat was alone once more. Leaving the cups and glasses where they stood with their dregs of tea and Goldspot, she went into Minocher’s room. It was dark except for the glow of the oil lamp. The oil was low again and she reached for the bottle, then changed her mind.

From under one of the cups in the living-room she retrieved a saucer and returned to his room. She stood before the lamp for a moment, looking deep into the flame, then slid the saucer over the glass. She covered it up completely, the way his face had been covered with a white sheet ten days ago.

In a few seconds the lamp was doused, snuffed out. The afterglow of the wick persisted; then it, too, was gone. The room was in full darkness.

Daulat sat in the armchair. The first round, at least, was definitely hers.