Breathless in Bombay

by Murzban Shroff

  “Maybe I am being foolish,” Hausangbhai said. “Maybe I will regret it later, at some point. But I hate the thought of being bulldozed by these builders. I hate the thought of giving in to their greed.” The two were sitting in the A-1 Restaurant late at night. The restaurant was empty. Hausangbhai was drinking beer, Chacha was drinking chai, and between them they had finished a plate of kheema bhurji and two masala omelets.

  “I know what you mean,” Chacha said, thinking of some people at the racecourse who bribed jockeys, doped horses, and rigged races. “But you have four sons to think about, and their future. Doesn’t this worry you?”

  Hausangbhai thought for a while before replying. Then he said, “Of course. I worry about it all the time. I worry what we will do when the boys want to settle down, how any girl will agree to marry them and come to a place like this—so I just hope that they will be intelligent and choose careers apart from this dying restaurant business, where either the taxes kill you or the bribes and, if not that, then the builders’ threats.”

  That night when Chacha climbed into bed—his loft at the top of the stable—he did not sleep right away. For a long time, he stayed awake, rubbing his chest, running his fingers through his thick, white hair. Once in a while, he’d turn on his side and stare at Badshah below. Chacha, too, had his worries; he, too, would have to think ahead, to the time when Badshah would grow old, when he would not be able to pull the victoria and bring home the earnings that fed them.

  But Badshah was his own, a part of him. He’d known him for years. From the time he was a colt, lean, restless, and sprightly. Chacha cared for him like no syce cared for his horse. In racing days, he would dry Badshah as soon as he came in from his workout, so that he wouldn’t catch a chill. He’d maalish him daily, remove bits of hay and unwanted hair, check him for ticks, and clean his ears, so that he wouldn’t catch an infection. When the vet would visit, Chacha would be holding Badshah, stroking him, while the vet would inject vitamins into the side of his neck. And Badshah would quiver, but he wouldn’t create a fuss; he wouldn’t rear and break away like other horses; he wouldn’t make Chacha look bad in front of the vet. Caring for Badshah was nothing new for Chacha. But how had he come to develop so much affection for the girl-child, Zulfi? How did she, who was nothing to him, bound not by blood or by obligation, come to mean so much to him? As the victoria clattered along, Chacha tried to remember how it had begun—his attachment to Zulfi.

  WHEN ZULFI WAS SIX MONTHS OLD, a terrible thing happened at the adda. It was 11:30 P.M. and the area was swarming with activity. The pimps were busy scouting for customers. The brothel doors were open. The disengaged women sat on the steps, laughing, applying makeup, gesticulating to passersby. On the side of the road, kebabwallas slid lumps of slimy, wet liver and balls of shredded meat onto long, black skewers, which they held over an oven of coals. Chanda, a young prostitute, was waiting for Sukhram, a kelawalla who had arrived in the city a few months before. It appeared that Sukhram was enamored of Chanda; he chose her always over the rest and would bring her gifts like bangles, beads, and flowers. He also spent more time with Chanda than the time he had paid for, and of late he’d gotten her a mangalsutra to suggest that he wished to marry her. This got Zarinabai Doobrasta, the madam of the brothel, agitated. “It’s not good,” she warned Chanda. “Not good to get so involved. Not good if Mussabhai knows.”

  The night of the incident was a busy night at the adda. It was a Saturday night, and a group of truckers had docked in at Cotton Green. They had been on the road for over a month. They had delivered their cargo, collected their wages, and were flush with extra money, which they made by cheating on the gasoline, by driving on kerosene and urine.

  The truckers were big, hearty men with deep pockets to match. They swooped in with bottles of hooch, paan in their mouths, fire in their eyes, and mischief on their minds.

  The girls received them warmly; they knew if they did, the madam would permit them the next day off; she’d allow them a movie at the theater, with a beer at the intermission.

  The truckers sat nuzzling the girls. The girls played up happily. They crossed their legs and bared their thighs; they showed their tongues and teased; they even struggled and moved away, to increase the heat and the longing.

  But the truckers caught them and held them firmly. They fondled the girls and bit them on their arms and necks, or they pinched their thighs and slapped their bottoms. The girls squealed and understood: they were not to lose sight of what mattered, what was desired eventually.

  The truckers had all the time in the world. At home, in their villages, they would have wives and children. They would have fathers who’d sit gazing at the sky, radios to their ears, predicting rain or shine, and mothers who’d cook and serve them and rub oil into their scalps with fingers of devotion. They would have brothers who’d work the fields and boast about the changing hues of the land and sisters who’d play hopscotch and blush at talk of marriage, and they’d have priests whom they’d have known since childhood and whose words of wisdom they would lap up reverentially, swearing there was no other way of life.

  But that was there in the villages. This was Mumbai, queen of cities. Dhamaal city, masti city, city of chances and fun. Who’d be mad enough to stay sober? Who’d be mad enough to miss out? Who’d be stupid enough not to succumb? There was none so crazy or born so foolish. So they bellowed for food; they bellowed for music; they asked that some naach-gaana should begin. An old two-in-one was dragged out from under a bed and slapped and rattled into playing.

  The truckers rose. They removed their shirts, bared their chests, and, unfurling their turbans, began to dance. Before that, they knocked back some hooch and made the women sip, too, which each did with a gasp and a grimace. In the back room, a child started crying. Zarinabai signaled to Simran: “Tell the sweeper-woman to mind the baby. At the back, where she can keep an eye.”

  In this atmosphere, who should come by but Sukhram drunk, Sukhram resolute, Sukhram wanting to spend time with Chanda.

  When he walked in, Chanda was sitting between two truckers. They were fondling her, nuzzling her cheeks, stroking her neck and thighs. And she was laughing, pretending to enjoy their attention.

  The truckers’ actions tore at Sukhram’s soul. The music appeared loud and deafening, the dancing coarse and demeaning. He stood and stared disbelievingly.

  After a few moments, he found his voice. “Stop!” he shouted. “Stop this madness; stop this vile behavior! I will not have this. I will not tolerate it. I will not see her like this.”

  The truckers looked up and howled. In the state they were in, they thought it a joke. “Oh, we are so very scared,” one of them said, and drawing in his knees huddled up to Chanda. Pulling her close, he squeezed her breast and cupped it tightly. The others erupted into laughter.

  The madam frowned. “Quick,” she said to the boy who had delivered the kebabs. “Quick! Tell Mussabhai there might be trouble.”

  Sukhram looked around and his eyes fell on a hooch bottle, its stem fat and inviting. He grabbed it and advanced toward the truckers. “I warn you,” he said. “Let her go this instant.”

  Chanda sprang to her feet. “No,” she said. “This is madness! What are you trying to do? Can’t you see I am busy? Come back later, toward morning, or first thing tomorrow. I promise . . . I will spend time with you. All the time you want.”

  “Shut up!” said the kelawalla. His eyes were on the truckers; he refused to look at her.

  She felt hurt by his tone and frustrated. What did he expect—that she pledge herself to him? That she refuse other men? Did he have the muscle for that? Or the money? And did he know the consequences of such an action? Already she was seeing the dark face of Zarinabai Doobrasta. It was poised and ready for a storm.

  From the back, one of the truckers tried to grab the bottle. Sukhram saw the movement and with astonishing speed turned and struck the trucker across the face. There was a sickening crunch, which, in the crowded room,
sounded like a gunshot. The trucker reeled and fell on his back. He sprawled in a corner and spurted blood. In moments, his jaw began to swell.

  Sukhram turned to Chanda and pulled her by the wrist. “Come!” he said. “We are leaving.” She marveled at his strength and shrank at his breath, hot and pungent with alcohol.

  Holding her, he started backing toward the door, the bottle erect in his hand. “I warned you,” he said to the truckers. “I warned you, didn’t I? Don’t fool with her. She is my woman.”

  “And you?” he said to Zarinabai. “You have always despised me, haven’t you? You knew one day I will take her away. You knew one day you will lose your hold and there will be nothing you can do. See—I am taking her now, under your nose. And what you can do, huh?”

  And loudly he laughed, unaware that outside a crowd had gathered, that customers slid toward remote corners, that paan-beediwallas pulled down their shutters, that the kebabwalla blew hard to extinguish his coals, that vendors of fruits and vegetables wheeled away their carts, and pimps, diverted from their business, whispered bewildered, “Who is this? What is he trying to do? If he must die, couldn’t he choose an easier way?”

  As Sukhram and Chanda emerged, backs to the entrance, the street behind them cleared. A eunuch raised her sari to her face and spat in disgust, “What a madman! Would he do what he is doing otherwise?”

  The truckers made as if to follow, but Zarinabai stayed them with her hand. Slowly, a smile appeared on her face. It was a smile of patience, a smile of hard-earned street knowledge. It was the smile of a clairvoyant who had known the outcome all along.

  Chanda turned, and her expression changed to one of horror. She tried to cry out, but nothing came. Otherwise she would have warned Sukhram before he was spun around and a searing acid flung in his face. Sukhram screamed. His eyes, nose, cheeks, and lips began to smoke and burn, smoke and wilt, and rivulets of flesh began to appear. Tears streamed down his face, and he screamed the scream of a tortured soul crying for deliverance. He could not bear it; he could not see; he could not live—oh, what agony this was! Sukhram ran blindly. He struck a lamppost and fell. The bottle in his hand fell, too. It rolled toward a forgotten corner.

  As instantly as he had come, the attacker strode away. Those who saw him whispered to themselves, “Mussabhai! Hey Ram, to try this in Mussabhai’s area.”

  Chanda ran inside screaming. Zarinabai gripped her by the hair and flung her on the bed, her face locked in a snarl. Sprawled on the bed, Chanda screamed and thrashed. The other girls moved to comfort her, but she lashed at them in fear. She screamed for her life, which she thought was in danger, and she screamed for Sukhram, who she knew was dying. She could hear his shrieks and his imprecations: “Hey Bhagwan. Take me please. Release me from this agony.”

  Chanda wished she could have warned Sukhram about Mussabhai, about his reputation, which no one dared to challenge. Not the girls whom he owned, nor the madams who worked for him, nor the policemen who bowed to him, nor the politicians who paid him to fix bandhs and riots. Mussabhai had his arm all the way to Dubai, to the dreaded don himself, and it was rumored that he had twenty-seven murder cases pending, not counting the ones unreported.

  Twenty minutes later, three police jeeps appeared. In charge was a young inspector, who cordoned off the area and asked his men to pick up the bystanders. One by one, he questioned them. He slapped them hard, saying, “Who did this? Speak, you scumbags, or we will put you in jail. Speak, or we will pull your balls out! We will make sure you never fuck again.”

  No one spoke for fear of Mussabhai, knowing that nothing good would come of it. He, Mussabhai, would go underground, to some foreign country perhaps; his men would walk freely, they’d continue to extort money, and his dens would continue to operate and attract customers. Soon there’d be a payment made and the case would close permanently. And Mussabhai would return and walk the streets, dreaded and salaamed by all.

  Yet appearances of investigation had to be maintained. So the whores of the adda were herded out. The inspector barked at Zarinabai, “We want all your girls out at once!” To his men he said, “Round them up. A night in the lock-up will do them good.”

  A constable blew his whistle. Zarinabai stood at the door, comforting her girls as they emerged. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “Say nothing! We have Mussabhai’s hand over us.”

  As she stepped out with Zulfi, Simran had barely a few seconds to search out a friendly face. Her eyes fell on Chacha. Chacha, her friend, Chacha her confidant, who never judged her, never condemned her. “Please,” Simran said, holding out Zulfi, who had begun to wail. “Look after her, just for a day or two?”

  As he held the warm, struggling bundle, Chacha felt something stir—something rare, puzzling, and overwhelming. And he who held most human beings in contempt, he who had seen their fickleness at the racecourse and fortunes being made and surrendered and the horses who made them being willfully retired, he felt proud to take charge of a child. So small and unspoiled the baby was—and so fragile. It seemed unfair that she should be crying.

  Later, when the crying subsided and Zulfi had shown fascination with Chacha’s gossamer-white beard—she had clutched it with plump little fingers and squealed when Chacha contorted his face in make-believe agony—then he had known an even greater delight, a secret inward joy, which made him break into a song. He’d waltzed all round the stable, her in his arms, a ludicrous, shuffling Mary Poppins bloated on happiness. He held her to Badshah and said, “See, my angel. This is your Uncle Badshah. Like me, he is your protector. When you are older, you can dress like a princess and ride along the Queen’s Necklace. Then everybody will see how pretty you are.”

  Even as he said that, Chacha shivered. Would Zulfi be permitted to do that? Or would she, like her mother, be initiated into the trade? Hey Bhagwan, he thought. Let this child know better. Let her have my luck, if there’s any left. With this thought began a bond between child and man, a bond that gave Chacha the strength to look after the child, to warm her milk, not once but thrice, to wash her bottle in boiling hot water and burn an agarbatti to keep the mosquitoes away.

  That night Chacha didn’t sleep in the loft; he didn’t sleep at all. He lay next to Zulfi, whom he placed on a mattress borrowed from Hausangbhai’s wife. “Don’t worry, O victoriawalla,” Haola had said. “When God places a child in your hands, he also gives you the means to look after it. If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask. Not for nothing have I brought up four sons.”

  Three times during the night Zulfi woke, and three times Chacha fed her, carried her, and patted her to sleep, speaking to her in a soft, lulling voice.

  When Simran returned from the lock-up, he spoke to her seriously. It would be okay if she left Zulfi with him every night, after he returned from his sawari, once he’d cleaned out the stable and dried and fed Badshah. This way the child could sleep undisturbed and she’d see less of her mother’s life. He looked at Simran anxiously, dreading her answer.

  Simran couldn’t believe her ears. Chacha must be an angel sent by God. He must be a saint in disguise. She bent and touched his feet, and she clasped her hands and thanked him, saying he had relieved her of so much tension. “Don’t forget to remove her milk,” Chacha said gruffly. “This outside milk is okay for a day or two, but not for long. And she wakes up three times at night, so make sure there’s enough.”

  THE STEADFAST RHYTHM of the hooves, the rocking motion of the carriage, the fading light of twilight, and a faint breeze from the Queen Mother made Chacha drift deeper into thought. He sighed. It was bad luck that Zulfi was born in the red-light district. It was bad luck that she had to grow up in a neighborhood where childhood wasn’t allowed to run its course, where innocence was considered a frailty and beauty an asset to be exploited without remorse.

  Now that she was older, Zulfi was being noticed; she was drawing attention. The out-of-work tapori boys had started calling to her. They tried to lure her with their promises of “we
will give you this, but do this for us first”—things like singing, dancing, wriggling her hips, rolling her eyes, in exchange for sweets or sherbet. On the surface, it looked innocent enough, but later it would lead to things beyond an ordinary performance.

  So far, between Simran and Chacha, they had managed to protect Zulfi. They had impressed on her to trust no one. “Be good, be courteous, but go with no one,” they had said. And she had listened and obeyed and stayed a child—thank God for that!

  But just that morning Amir Jawaab had visited the adda. He had business with Zulfi’s mother, he said. And Zulfi was the business.

  Suddenly the Arab boy at Chacha’s side let out a squeal, forcing him to break from his thoughts. The boy stood and pointed to a man on the road, along the sea-face, who was blowing bubbles through a handheld object. The object was like a magnifying glass, except there was no glass. The bubblewalla pulled the soapy mixture from a bucket at his feet, and the mixture clung to the object like a thin, transparent film. The man smiled and blew in the direction of the passing victoria. The bubbles came forth like spaceships.

  The Arab boy was fascinated. And seeing his son fascinated, the father, too, was fascinated.

  Beaming, the boy pointed to the bubbles, and he stretched and grabbed at them as they came toward him. A gust of wind drove them overhead. The boy got excited and jumped higher. The victoria lurched. The movement startled Badshah, who, in his nervousness, quickened his pace.

  The bubblewalla saw he was losing a customer. Smiling like a magician, he blew, and more bubbles appeared, a steady stream, behind the victoria.

  The victoria rolled along. The boy whined to his father. The father’s face darkened.

  “Stop the tonga,” he ordered in terse Hindi.

  Chacha tugged at the reins. Badshah stopped. The father fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a wad of hundred-rupee notes. He thrust a few notes at Chacha and said, “Go! Buy it for him.”

  Chacha was affronted. He was a horseman, not a servant. But seeing the boy’s face, he took the money.