Breathless in Bombay

by Murzban Shroff

  This was important, this spine kneading. So Bheem Singh concentrated on it for a while. His work gave him pleasure, that he knew, but how he hated sharing his earnings with the policewalla. Especially the one on duty these days. He was the worst Bheem Singh had ever met. He humiliated the maalishwallas, called them laundebaaz, meaning “homosexuals.” Not that they were all this way, thought Bheem Singh. He knew there were some who did offer extended services under cover of the night, but to brand them all was cruel and meaningless. The policewalla had a habit of coming up and prodding the maalishwallas with his stick. He would prod them in places of great irritation—like behind the ear, or in the soft part of the neck, or on their outstretched soles as they kneeled beside their customers. For Bheem, it was very hard to control his temper, but he knew that the consequences of such an outburst would be disastrous.

  He worked on the spine for a while and then began to crush down on the muscles at the side. Not too much pressure, just enough to loosen up the back and ready it for a fresh routine of work. The customer slept on, a transient sleep, induced by those big, pampering hands. The smile on his face came from knowing that Bheem was applying the right amount of pressure. In the distance, the waves beat down on the beach. Thin, gray clouds moved overhead, eclipsing the moon. The maalishwallas plodded away, some silent, some jabbering, some throwing sneaky looks over their shoulders. Bheem Singh looked up at the sky. He wondered if he had spent too much time on this one customer. Maybe he needed to hurry up a bit.

  The next phase of the massage was easy. The legs could be dealt with mechanically, because they seldom took on tension blocks. Bheem Singh began working on them, with a series of slaps, aimed and distributed over the sides of the thighs. Thin, weakened thighs, thought Bheem Singh. How could they be carrying the weight of that distorted body, that sagging stomach, and that heavy wallet? He was tempted to slap them hard, just to make his customer squeal, but he resisted the temptation. He knew if he took a little care there might be some extra baksheesh waiting.

  On reflex, his hand touched the side of his lungi, where he felt something crisp. He compared the feeling of a few solitary ten-rupee notes to the wad his customer carried. Yet he felt good, for he knew that all his savings were lying safe in a bank account, and just that day he had made sure that his bank in Bombay would credit his bank in Isthaanpur, so that his family could withdraw money whenever they wanted. When the bank had asked him to name two family members who would have access to his money, Bheem found himself in a quandary. He wanted to name his mother, because she had brought him up and she always complained that Rathod Singh never gave her enough to run the house. He wanted to name Rathod Singh, because it would make his father proud, but he knew that owing to the same pride, his father would never touch the money. He wanted to name Dalpat, but Dalpat had no use for it. Well, that left only Kaveri—his beautiful, beautiful Kaveri, so teasing with her innocence, so childlike, pretty, and defenseless.

  His arms would tremble with passion each time he held her, her soft molten form exuding small breaths of warmth in his embrace. And his heart—it would swell with burgeoning pride when he clasped her head against his chest. Yes, she would be the ideal beneficiary for his savings. Kaveri, his heart, his soul, his new bride, who made him forget he was big, dark, and clumsy. Bheem Singh’s heart ached for her now, and he wondered when he would see her next.

  Before his thoughts could return to his last trip home, during which he had married Kaveri, Bheem took the customer’s right leg and placed it across his own shoulder. He began kneading the calves, to ease the tangle of nerves and send waves of pleasure and relaxation down to the feet. Knowing that this would take a few minutes, he allowed himself the luxury of a daydream. The dream within the dream, which had brought home his beloved Kaveri—to him, for life!

  During that last trip home, so much had happened, in such a short time. He had arrived in Isthaanpur with gifts and stories, warm bear hugs, and loads of buttoned-up laughter, and they had indulged him for one night only. The next day, they broke the news. There was a proposal—from the weaver’s side. It seemed the weaver had tried to get Kaveri married to Kalyan Singh, who kept accounts at the ration shop and who was in a position to favor them with more than their share of monthly rations. But the girl had kicked up a fuss. She had not eaten for two days and turned a deadly pale, till the father had to plead, persuade, and probe her state of mind. He asked her what she really wanted, if not marriage to Kalyan Singh. And bright-eyed and unflinching, as if returned to life by the very thought, she had mentioned Bheem, a childhood fondness for him.

  The weaver had not found the idea objectionable. He liked Bheem and admired his strength greatly. He found Bheem to be one of those sensible men who had the courage to break away from the village and set themselves up in the city—where, eventually, they would make more money. Heartened by this thought, the weaver carried a proposal to Rathod Singh, his only condition being that the marriage should take place as soon as Bheem Singh returned home. It was not correct for a girl of Kaveri’s age to remain single for another year.

  When Bheem heard this, a fierce joy broke inside him. He went weak with happiness. How was it possible? he thought. Fair, fragile Kaveri wanting him, Bheem, who was so plain and dark? He did not voice his doubts—not to his parents, nor to Dalpat. All had been decided. He wasn’t to say no. Good days were around the corner. The timing was perfect—otherwise a whole year would be wasted. Of course, after marriage Kaveri would stay in the village and help Bheem’s mother with the housework. Dalpat, unlike during his early years, wasn’t much help now. He had become lazy and indifferent, rendered so by his own inadequacies and by a biting bitterness about his ineffectiveness. Even Rathod Singh had given up on him and spared him his vituperations. It was just as well he had never maintained any ambitions about his elder son. It was his young tiger who did him proud.

  In a daze, Bheem Singh had agreed to the proposal. He met Kaveri twice after that, and both times she had blushed and scurried away. Bheem knew it was her innocence that gave her flight, her silent admiration of him that took her to a safe distance from where she could watch.

  Until the wedding Bheem walked, lived, and slept on a cloud. Nothing dampened his happiness. Not even the suspicion that Dalpat spent wasteful mornings at the local bar instead of spending time with him. His elder brother had not congratulated him, or teased him, or showered him with words of advice, as would have been expected. Nor had he shown any interest in the wedding arrangements. Instead, he seemed to remain in a sullen, inebriated state. Nothing noisy or offensive, just detached, inward, and brooding. Bheem wondered whether he should speak to Dalpat about it, but then it was the world that had made his brother this way. His father’s scorn, his mother’s overprotectiveness, the narrow-mindedness of the villagers, the contempt of the village girls, who, having been his playmates in childhood, called him bangle-boy, meaning effeminate. All this had twisted Dalpat’s mind, angered him, led him to drink. If ever a brother understood his sibling’s state of mind, it was Bheem’s reading of Dalpat—his insecurities, his regrets, that had made him the way he was.

  Bheem wasn’t allowed to see Kaveri before the marriage. The elders didn’t think it necessary. He saw her directly at the ceremony, and all through the rituals she refused to look at him. She stayed that way, hidden in her sari, which covered her face and veiled her shyness, and Bheem kept staring at her feet. How exquisite they were! And how fair! He wondered if she would mind if he held them to his lips. The thought made him glow with anticipation, and he quivered in a boyish sort of way.

  His mind possessed with such thoughts, Bheem had gone through the ceremony in a trance. He didn’t hear the priest’s good counsel, traditional words of advice for a long-lasting marriage, nor did he hear his father’s drunken laughter echoing through the celebration, nor the weaver’s bragging about his son-in-law’s strength. He missed the fact that Dalpat was absent at dinner.

  That night Bheem Singh felt proud
, privileged, and successful, and he smiled the largest smile of his life. Three hours later, when he crawled into bed, his large hands trembled as they reached for his wife’s delicate feet. He raised them to his lips in an admission of surrender, and in that moment his soul left his physical body and it soared higher than a kite in a gale.

  The waves on the beach had turned louder and noisier, and Bheem knew that it was high tide. It was surprising that the policewalla had not come around yet. Maybe he had found a new scapegoat, or maybe he was ill. Bheem Singh savored the thought as he lifted the customer’s left leg and went to work on the sole, the last lap of the maalish.

  In small circular motions, Bheem Singh began rubbing the foot. The customer slept on, oblivious to the swell of the sea, the waves thrashing their fury against the sparsely populated beach. Bheem looked up and saw a movement behind a tree: a couple struggling, grappling with each other. Bheem recognized it as a paid rendezvous, one of the many the beach was notorious for. The man was wanting more than what the open space could afford; the woman was struggling to fend him off. Bheem Singh saw her recoil. She came into sight, and he noticed she was young: barely eighteen or nineteen. Bheem shivered when he saw how fragile she was, how ineffectual against the man, who was holding her, pulling her, relishing his own strength and her captivity.

  A dark uneasiness shot through Bheem Singh’s spine. He felt cold. His hands trembled, and with great effort he regained possession of himself.

  As he absentmindedly rubbed the foot of his customer, Bheem Singh’s mind went back to Kaveri. To her feet: young and healthy. At first, when his lips had grazed her toes, they had curled with shyness. Then, slowly, they had relaxed, opening up to meet his kisses, his lips trying to find a hundred spots for devotion. Kaveri had not seemed to mind this adulation. It gave her joy, he could tell. By the way she looked at him. By the way she clutched at the bedsheet, with childlike hands and gleaming white knuckles.

  Bheem Singh’s simple act of devotion had served to reassure his bride that her colossus of a husband meant well. She had lost her inhibitions, her fears, her shyness, and that night, as one experimental touch led to another, the two came closer and closer. The girl gave herself to the man, and the man gave the full force of his tenderness to her, and he swore utmost devotion when all the energy in him flowed out into her. Bheem Singh felt blessed and heavenly, holding his bride while she slept. He watched the rise and fall of her breath and lay beside her, still as a leaf on a pond on a windless night. He did not move, even when he felt a mosquito sit on his naked arm, even when he felt a piercing prick and a burning scratchiness thereafter.

  Bheem had stayed awake through the length of his wedding night. His eyes were wide-open with revelation and feeling, and his mind swam with thoughts of deep intensity. As dawn broke, he felt a sense of deprivation and fear, and he stayed rooted to Kaveri, who slept contentedly in his arms. Unlike him, she did not seem to fear the fact that this would be their first and last night together till Bheem returned to the village again—which would be next year. Yes, Bheem was scheduled to return the next day, and he hated the thought. Back to Bombay—the city of dark realism, of lonely, self-preserving nights and hot, oppressive days. Bheem refused to wake up, even when sounds from outside the curtained partition told him that the rest of the household were up and about their duties.

  “No, behave yourself. Maintain a little shame at least.” These words came from the girl under the tree. She was trying to fend off the demands of the man who had paid for her time. It broke through Bheem’s daydream and brought back his panic. He wiped his brow, which was cold and moist, and ran his tongue over his lips, which had gone dry. The struggle intensified. The girl delivered a series of slaps to the man’s hand. The man laughed, unaffected.

  Bheem Singh felt a wave of fury against the man. How dare he force himself on the girl—so what if she was hired? Bheem Singh’s hands shook with rage. His fingers dug savagely into the sole of the foot he was rubbing. The customer winced sharply, turned, and cursed him. Bheem Singh ignored him, keeping his eyes on the scene ahead. The customer raised his head to see what had distracted the maalishwalla. He saw the struggle, poohed his disgust, and went back to sleep. Bheem looked at his customer and felt sick. How could people be so blind? he thought. Here was a girl being molested in the open. Yet there was no one to stand by her. Not even he, Bheem Singh Bahadur, who was so worried about abandoning his work, lest he lose the money that was owed to him.

  For a wild moment, Bheem Singh contemplated extracting a few notes from the customer’s wallet, from the trousers lying at his side. Bheem Singh could then save the girl from the man and give her the money, which she probably needed desperately. That was foolish, he realized, almost as soon as he thought of it. His customer would notice the theft when he paid him, and then there would be trouble. The head maalishwalla would expel him instantly.

  Maybe he would just finish the massage, walk across, and give the man a hiding. He would shake him by the neck or catch him by midriff and squeeze the life out of him. Men like that deserved to have the life squeezed out of them, slowly—till they lived no more.

  Bheem Singh turned the thought in his mind, over and over again, and he felt a huge relief. Ah, if only it were possible to let his hands speak—how effective that would be, how easy and instantaneous. He looked at the foot in his hands and almost gave a snort of contempt. How tempting it was to turn it, to snap the ankle abruptly—just to see this lazy, deformed creature squirm and howl in anguish. He looked ahead, to the side, where the girl had ceased struggling; she stood limp against her oppressor, while his hands navigated all over. On him—the oppressor—Bheem would use his hands slowly, and he’d watch, while the life hissed out of him, while his expression changed, and his body would slump to the ground, drained off its evil purpose. How grateful the girl would be. How eternally grateful!

  But that wouldn’t take away all the anger he felt, Bheem Singh thought. How could it? There was still so much injustice in this world, so much of accepted, accumulated tragedy. The worst was at home—in his village, his own family. Dalpat, casting eyes on Kaveri, just before Bheem Singh left. It was as if his elder brother wanted to show some foul intention. But no, he wouldn’t! Surely he would remember what they’d shared, those years of brotherhood, those days of closeness, and, if not that, then surely the swell in the river, the sweep of panic, the hand of death circling, and then Bheem’s hand, a masterful grip dragging him to safety.

  But now it wasn’t about hands anymore, or about courage, or about gratitude. It was pure custom, cold custom that allowed the elder brother to share the conjugal rights of the younger. That was how it had been for centuries, and no one was allowed to question it, let alone speak of it.

  A gust of wind rose from the sea. It carried a little sand and scattered it into Bheem Singh’s face and eyes. It stung and blinded him, making him wince, making him feel assaulted by a force he did not know. Bheem paused from the maalish and flexed the skin above and below his eyes. Upward and downward he rubbed and, feeling better for it, resumed what he was doing—bringing life to the crisp, deadened heel.

  His mind returned to Dalpat. Surely he would remember how Bheem had stood by him, protected him, chasing away all those who teased him, so that they might leave him alone. Surely Dalpat would remember all that and the respect that Bheem had shown him—as much as any younger brother would show his elder brother. And when he’d remember that, surely Dalpat would blush with shame, he would stop right there, outside the curtained partition, and he would decide to leave Kaveri alone.

  But, then, the question was (and this dawned on Bheem Singh slowly): did Dalpat respect himself anymore? Did he see himself as worthy, capable of noble thought and action? Or was he so steeped in humiliation, so doomed and denied that anything might appear a triumph over a lifetime of deprivation? And, as Bheem licked the bitter salt air off his lips, he realized why Dalpat had stayed aloof at the celebrations, why he was not his usual self wi
th Bheem. It was not the liquor demon that stood between them but the demon of wretched tradition.

  Sadly Bheem Singh replaced the customer’s foot on the ground. He remained seated while the customer rose, swiveling his arms back and forth, back and forth, in a show of restored energy, his belly quivering impudently at the ocean. As expected, the customer paid Bheem Singh his full sixty rupees, and as a mark of respect to his talent, he dug into his pocket, fished out a five-rupee coin, and threw it at Bheem Singh, saying, “Baksheesh.” Yet Bheem Singh sat unmoved. He did not bat an eyelid when the customer cursed him for his ingratitude. He just sat there, hearing the boom-boom of the ocean echoing unbearably in his heart and mind and sometimes deep within his stomach.

  Bheem Singh did not know how long he sat like that, his eyes riveted on the waves rushing in and swallowing the beach bit by bit. He did not notice when the oppressor and the girl finished their business and moved away, or when a fleet of dark swollen clouds moved in and blanked out the stars. If he had looked behind him, he would have seen what was happening at the edge of the beach, where it met the city. He would have seen the head maalishwalla in conversation with a police inspector, who stood next to his jeep, flanked by two constables. He would have seen the officer give instructions to the head maalishwalla, who listened intently, nodding from time to time. He would have seen the inspector get into his jeep and drive off, leaving the head maalishwalla staring in disbelief, in confusion—and the head maalishwalla walk back, his feet dragging in the sand like they were sinking, like it was wet sand he was walking on. But Bheem Singh didn’t see that. He only saw the dark of a horizon he couldn’t fathom, the gloom of a night that had settled on his neck, his shoulders, his lithe, muscular spine.

  A little later, a constable came around for hafta; he crept in on him as usual and tapped him with his lathi. Bheem Singh dug into his pocket, fished out the coin, and gave it to the constable. He felt no resentment when he did that, for—this is what he thought—what did it matter what he gave away when what really mattered would not remain his? The lathi creeping up reminded him of life. Just when you thought you had a little extra in hand, something to celebrate, to look forward to, you had to pay up.