Breathless in Bombay

by Murzban Shroff

  Mrs. Mullafiroze could read no further. She sat clutching the newspaper with bloodless, wrinkled hands. The muscles in her throat pounded against the thin folds of her skin. Madhopur? Why, that was the place her manservant came from—that big goonda-looking man her husband, Dinsoo, had hired, despite her repeated warnings. Wait till she showed Dinsoo this, once he came in from his prayers, which were getting lengthier with age. He never listened to her—that man of hers. He always wanted his own way, thought everybody should obey him, just because he was an army man.

  In reality, Mrs. Mullafiroze was very proud of her husband and his illustrious career. She had met him fifty-five years ago, when he was a young officer, handsome, rugged, with soft brown hair, bright green eyes, and a firm, even jawline. She expected all the spit and polish that went with the uniform, and he hadn’t disappointed her. At times he appeared a little imperious, but that was understandable, for he was a born leader, almost always correct in his judgment.

  His mettle had shone through in the 1971 Indo–Pak war, when he had led his troops against a formidable tanker unit. Employing a sagacious mix of brains and bravery, he’d outwitted the enemy and captured a post that was crucial to the war effort. For this he was honored by General Dorabshaw in the presence of two thousand soldiers. At the felicitation, Mrs. Mullafiroze, who sat in the front row, had glowed with inner radiance. She felt she had led the victory herself. Later, even an august evening spent in the presence of the General and his lovely wife hadn’t served to elevate Mrs. Mullafiroze as much as the thought of being Dinsoo’s wife, of managing his home while he served the country and kept it free from the advances of encroaching neighbors.

  But this time her hero had made a mistake. He was growing old and careless, she inferred. All through his life he had looked after her, exactly as he promised he would, in front of the holy fire at the Banaji fire temple, where they had taken their vows. But now he was eighty and prone to making mistakes. He had hired this man Ram Kumar Yadav, so dark and fierce in appearance that he looked as though he could snap their throats with two fingers if he so wished. This man who had no relatives in the city and no past employers to recommend him, who said it did not matter what they paid him—work was work after all.

  And murder was murder, and so easy it was these days—a life lived gracefully ending at the tip of a knife or waning under thick strangulating hands. Mrs. Mullafiroze shuddered. All the recent murders in the city were of senior citizens; it was like there was a conspiracy to eradicate them, a planned cleansing to make way for a more virile generation, a generation who took their chances, because that’s how they saw life in the city—in resplendent blinding glamour. The city was being taken over; that was certain. Look at the numbers pouring in: hordes of migrants, parched for work, ready to live anyhow, anywhere. Look at them crowding the footpaths, the platforms, along the tracks, and under the bridges. Look at them sleeping, defecating, and washing in public places. What would they think of, if not murder?

  And now the threat had crept into her home. Dinsoo would have to be warned. Eighteen stab wounds? she thought. I don’t want to die looking like a shredded chicken. That’s how people will remember me. And they will say, “Poor Silla, what a sight she looked all cut up!”

  But would her husband listen, would he take her seriously, or would he nod his head with resignation and say, “Silla, my Silla, you are too suspicious. You must have faith in your fellow beings. You must learn to trust, so they can trust you in return. How do you know what Yadav is capable of till you give him a chance to prove himself? How will we understand our people, our countrymen—without opportunity, without trust?”

  Opportunity? Why, she remembered how Yadav was hired. He’d been introduced by their gardener, the old maali. Yadav had arrived in the city with no contacts, no definite plans of where to stay, what to do. He had pushed a handcart for a fortnight and then looked for domestic work, thinking it would be easier and more respectable. He was used to staying with a family, he said.

  “Like who?” Dinsoo had asked.

  “Mother, father,” he had replied. Father was retired now, an old soldier who had served with the Gharwals. He had lost both legs in the war, having led feetfirst into a minefield.

  Dinsoo softened when he heard this. “Anyone else?” he asked. “Brothers, sisters?”

  “Three sisters, all unmarried. My brother is there, but he minds his own family,” Yadav had replied. He was reluctant to reveal more.

  “Poor man, the onus must be on him,” Dinsoo had said, and agreed to a salary of eighteen hundred rupees a month. He avoided Silla’s eye when he did that, for his wife could be a baniya in matters of compensation. Besides, what good were his investments if they did not serve the heroes of the nation? One thing he told Yadav firmly: “Don’t go squandering the money, okay? Make sure your father receives it at the beginning of every month.” It sounded like an order and was intended to be one. It reminded Mrs. Mullafiroze of the times Dinsoo made himself responsible: Brigadier Mullafiroze taking charge of his men, their careers, their lives, their joys, and their sorrows. They had never minded not having kids, for their house—despite constant disbandment and resettlement in the course of various transfers—was always peopled with the lives of others. Over time, the regiment had come to mean family. Intimate details were known about the men who served under him, who jumped to his command, not because he ordered them to but because he deserved obedience at all times.

  The confidence was such that cash-strapped jawans could approach him with their financial problems—a sister ready for marriage, a brother wanting a loan for further studies, a farm to be freed from debt—and Brigadier Mullafiroze would delve into his pocket without waiting for the wheels of bureaucracy to turn and do their bit. Or a captain in love could apply for leave, his excuse anything but that. And he’d be sure to get it, provided he was ready to withstand some ragging at the hands of his leader, a ribbing more vigorous than at the academy. Likewise, a soldier son could rush to his father’s sickbed, no questions asked, no leave quota to worry about. “Just fulfill your duties as a son,” was the only advice he would take with him.

  It was common knowledge that the younger soldiers’ marriages would come under strain, especially at the borders, when they were posted there and their wives were housebound, isolated, bored, sometimes even terrified till their husbands returned. At such times, Dinsoo and Silla would do their duty as senior officers, as stalwarts in the known battlefield of marriage. By cajoling, coaxing, or counseling, they’d get the couple to mix with other couples who’d been down that route, who’d been through a similar period of adjustment; this way they’d steer the marriage to calmer shores, where it stood at least a chance to endure.

  Sometimes this excessive preoccupation with others ate into their own lives, when they got too involved, that is, when they took sides and stances: she for the wives, he for the husbands. But eventually the larger picture dawned. They used each other to understand the nuances of opposite-sex expectation, to grasp the finer unspoken things. Themselves aware, they’d convey the answers to the dissenting partners, backing it up with extreme logic, rehearsed first in their own bedroom. They worked well as a team—antagonistic, fiery, squabbling, but fair-minded always.

  But that was in younger, more alert days. Now she’d have to protect him, she thought.

  There were things about Yadav that hadn’t seemed right since day one. If God intended him to be a good man, why had he given him such fearsome features? His face seemed to protrude in a way that was simian. His eyes were beady, like sullen dots. His mouth was open; his lips drooped; his teeth were unusually big, like transplants. His skin was dark and swarthy, and there were shrubs of hair on his neck and shoulders. This drove her mad with repulsion. “I always feel,” she said to her friends at the Willingdon Club, “that the brute was never washed as a child.”

  “But Silla,” exclaimed Mrs. Adenwalla, thumbing through her cards during their afternoon flush session, “why don
’t you just dump him? Find fault with his work. Accuse him of keeping things dirty. Shout. Nitpick. So he leaves. It can be arranged, you know, without making it look like you have sacked him.”

  “I can’t—even if I want to. Dinsoo is rigid about some things. You know how he feels about ex-servicemen. Says it is a privilege to support the family of a war veteran. Besides, I can’t find fault with his work. In that he seems okay.”

  “What is worrying you then?” asked Mrs. Kashyap, scrutinizing her cards calmly. She knew Silla and her hysterical ways.

  “I think it’s the way he moves,” said Silla. “He just kind of appears, slowly and silently. He never makes a noise, even when he is working. I never hear the sound of vessels, or clothes being washed, or the click of a door when he leaves. It’s like having a ghost in the house, an invisible person.”

  “I would never tolerate that!” exclaimed Mrs. Kanga. Fat and voluble, she was Silla’s closest friend. “I would ask him outright, ‘Tum zinda ho ya murda? Are you alive or dead?’ I like human beings around me, huh, not some village zombie.”

  “But what can you expect from these villagers?” said Mrs. Adenwalla. “They are not used to employing their minds in the village. They come here all brain-dead.”

  “Oh, they may come that way, but they smarten up pretty soon,” said Mrs. Pochkhanawalla, the well-dressed one. “Then they try and outsmart us.”

  “And how they succeed, huh? They take over our roads and our parks, and they don’t pay taxes, and they build their slums all over, and soon our city starts looking like one big village, and soon we will be working for them. I tell you, that day is not far off, mark my words, you-all,” said Mrs. Kanga. She threw her cards down in a gesture of resigned show.

  The others laughed. All except Mrs. Mullafiroze. She wasn’t listening. Her mind was racing. Her heart was keeping pace. What was the name of that movie she had seen in her youth? It had Audrey Hepburn as a blind girl holding out against a gang of housebreakers. Wait Until Dark: yes, that was the name! Well, here at least she knew the enemy; she could see him. It was just a question of anticipating his murdering mind. And outwitting it—in time!

  That evening she left the club early. Usually she’d wait for the pastry shop to open and she’d take time choosing an assortment of éclairs and gateaux, which she and Dinsoo would savor after dinner. But now she had more important matters to attend to. And for this she needed the inspiration of single malt, a habit acquired during the years she’d wait for Dinsoo to return from the battlefront. With her first drink, she’d toast to his safety; with the second and third, their marriage and home. Once he was back, she’d given up the toasts and proceeded to knock back the whisky without preliminaries. Over the last two years she had stopped drinking, though. A sudden attack of colitis had brought about the abstinence. But now she was about to revive the custom. Colitis be damned! She had a husband to protect and a criminal to bring to book.

  On reaching home, she realized she was nervous. She wondered whether the evil of Madhopur would choose to raise its feisty, murdering hand tonight. Eighteen stab wounds? She shuddered and let herself in through the main door. For a moment she flinched. At the entrance were Yadav’s chappals. They were large and flared and had dark sweat stains soaked into the rubber. They reminded her of the feet that could bear down on them and crush them easily. She wondered whether she was being foolish by allowing this man to stay the night. It was Dinsoo’s fault; her softhearted husband had allowed Yadav to sleep in the kitchen, rather than take his murdering intentions outside. How did other servants find places to stay: on the landing, in between floors, out on the porch? It was just a matter of making things clear from day one. But no, her Dinsoo had to go and welcome him indoors. “Poor man, let him feel part of the family. Why treat him like an outsider? Besides, where does he urinate in the night? We don’t want him irrigating the garden.” He was a trusting man, her Dinsoo, a great believer in natural goodness, in justice that restores dignity to men. There was no point talking to him. Operation Oust would have to be her baby.

  She fixed herself a whisky, not a Parsi peg, four fingers clubbed, but a portion large enough to relax her. She had an hour before Dinsoo came in for his chhota, his small peg, and she wanted this time to work out the details of her plan.

  First, she thought she’d photograph Yadav. She’d do so in the morning, for she wasn’t sure he’d photograph well in the dark. And the flash wasn’t working, either. But what would she tell him? What excuse would she give? She thought for a moment and brightened. She would say she wanted to get his ration card done. He’d believe this—the dumb ox! She strained to hear sounds from the kitchen. None. Depressing, she thought, and took a sip of her whisky. The sharpness of the malt paved the way for clear-sighted thinking.

  She thought of two kinds of plans: one long-term, the other, immediate. The long-term plan would focus on getting Yadav registered, with all his details, at the nearest police station. For this she would rely on her nephew, Jamshed, a partner with Billimoria & Frazer, Solicitors & Lawyers Since 1924. Jamshed would look at Yadav with that sharp legal eye of his, and he would either convince Dinsoo to throw Yadav out or terrorize the brute into abdicating any unsavory intention.

  As preventive action, starting tonight, she would keep an eye on Yadav herself. She would guard her husband and her turf. She took a sip of her whisky, then a gulp. Ah, she was feeling better already, more in control. Her lips puckered, her bony jaw tightened with resolve. The glass felt cool and reassuring in her hand. Her mind cleared and she thought calmly, This is going to be a working night; I might as well get started.

  She walked across to the sideboard along the wall. Bending, she pulled one of the drawers at the bottom, slipped her hand in, and fumbled. She drew out a wooden box, long, rectangular, and dusty. Under the dust, she could see a gleaming coat of polish. Ah, she thought, how the workmanship of old lingers. She shook off the strands of dust that adhered to her fingers, then opened the box. A .32 pistol glittered.

  As she raised the pistol and held it, the years seemed to slip away. She felt invincible, like she had in Amritsar, where Dinsoo had taught her how to use it, firing at old Dalda boxes till the logo was shot to pieces.

  She checked to see whether it was loaded. It was. She needed a way to conceal it. Her eyes fell on a kettle cover: soft, thick, and embroidered, her grandmother’s work of art. She placed the gun on the sideboard and neatly dropped the cover over it.

  Then she went over the details. She must remember to keep their bedroom window open. If the brute tried to attack during the night they could scream for help. Of course, keeping the window open would invite mosquitoes, but then she could keep two mosquito coils burning. She made up her mind she wouldn’t sleep in the bedroom. After Dinsoo went to sleep she would slip out and go into the room that preceded their bedroom, a tearoom with shelves of porcelain, large wooden cupboards, and carved sofas covered with bedsheets. Near the entrance of the room was a couch. She’d sleep on that and leave the door slightly ajar, alert to any passing footstep. She was a light sleeper, one of the benefits acquired with age.

  She grimaced at the thought of the manservant attempting to sneak into their bedroom and cause harm to her darling Dinsoo. She wouldn’t give him a chance. She would simply shoot him in the back. Once, twice, thrice, till she was sure he couldn’t harm them. Ah, one in the butt, too, for effect. She wondered whether his blood was black; it certainly wouldn’t be red. Nor blue, she thought poignantly.

  Lightened by the malt, she reflected on her dream and whipped it to a conclusion: “Army man’s wife stops killer in the dead of night.” She saw her picture on the front page of the Bombay Times, erect on her Victorian couch, in a full-sleeved blouse, the edge of her grand piano showing. She saw the interview unfold. “I wasn’t scared,” she’d say. “I am an army man’s wife, used to danger.” Of course, she would give Dinsoo credit. She’d touch upon his bravery and the heroic deeds of his past, and his medal from General D
orabshaw.

  She saw the sequel at the Willingdon Club: the ladies in rapture, guests nudging one another, darting glances of admiration as she passed, and the waiters hovering in attendance. She’d be called upon to tell her tale a number of times, and over ham and cheese sandwiches and mint tea and lemon cake her afternoons would be so much sweeter. She patted the kettle cover as if she shared a secret with its bulge. Later she’d take it to the tearoom.

  Around 8:00 P.M., Dinsoo came in. He announced that he was ready to skip his drink and eat dinner. He looked tired, she thought. He’d had his friends over for bridge, and there had been a lot of chatter and ribbing, which excited him, tired him out. She rang for Yadav to serve dinner, and minutes later, as if by intuition, he wheeled in the trolley.

  While the dishes were being laid, Dinsoo attempted conversation. “How is your father, Yadav? Does he see his friends from his old unit?”

  “No, sir,” came the answer, curt and uninterested.

  “Why is that? Does he not miss them? All the talk about old battles, old officers, and old friendships?”

  “All dead, sir,” came the reply.

  “All dead? But there must be some juniors who remember him, who remember his bravery. I know it is many years since he served, but things couldn’t have changed so much.”

  “Dead, all are dead,” came the reply flatly. The tone implied “don’t ask me more. I am here to serve you, not to feed your sentimentalism.”

  A stony silence followed. Yadav stood at the side like a giant slave, mummified. He moved only when his employers pointed to the dishes. Then he’d glide in and serve expertly—with thick, hairy hands—and he’d remember to refill their glasses with water, without spilling a drop. That done, he would retire to the side, from where he would stare at the table with unflinching eyes—at the food but never at them.