Breathless in Bombay

by Murzban Shroff

  Silla Mullafiroze glanced at her husband. He did not seem to mind this terrible silence, this precarious doom; he was content to chew his meat. She reached for her glass of water. Any man who could be so listless about his family was lying, or cold-blooded and dangerous, she inferred. But she was ready for him, this Rakshash of Madhopur. Three sips to that—yes, yes, yes!

  After dinner, Dinsoo retired to the living room to watch the 9:00 P.M. news. A journalist was interviewing a Chief Minister, pushing him to take responsibility for the riots in his state. The Chief Minister was giving evasive answers, while in the background mobs with headbands, swords, cans of kerosene, and gas bombs roamed. Places belonging to a minority community went up in flames. The mobs exulted. The police stood and watched, impotent. The Chief Minister spoke eloquently. He called it a backlash, the reaction of a few miscreants. This got Dinsoo incensed. He rose, his face crimson, his hand quivering on his walking stick, the blue veins on the back of his hand bulging. His head shook with disbelief, and pointing his stick at the screen, he yelled, “Bastards, how can you let this happen? In the land of Gandhi, how can you?”

  “You shouldn’t watch if it upsets you so,” said Silla. He turned to look at her, and for a moment she saw something like defiance, fury, that old martial spirit roused but restrained. She noticed he was sweating.

  He retired to bed as soon as the news ended. Mrs. Mullafiroze noticed he had forgotten to do the diya—the first time in fifty years. He was forgetting a lot these days. Some share dividends he hadn’t deposited in the bank, and he had forgotten to pay the club fees and to tell Jamshed about the property tax. She didn’t mind that; she reminded him twice and then did it herself. What was strange was, he never asked about these matters; it was as if he had relinquished his duties to her—man turning into child, child turning to woman, for protection. How well she understood him: her husband of fifty years.

  After a while, she went into the bedroom, where she lit the diya and prayed. The wick burned encouragingly. She prayed longer than usual, taking care to utter the syllables slowly and clearly. In her religion, this was important; the right sound could move mountains; it could part the seas, split evil intent at the seams, and transform equations miraculously. At the side, Dinsoo slept, his mouth open, his chest rising and falling, punctuated by small throaty snores.

  She stepped into the passage and saw the light in the kitchen was on. The door was ajar and the shadow of the servant was moving luminously. She could imagine those feet dominating her kitchen. She could see them coming down the passage, stopping outside the bedroom door, behind which her Dinsoo slept the sleep of old age. She shuddered, collected her thoughts, and disappeared into the tearoom, her watchtower. She took with her the kettle cover and the hard assurance within. Before entering, she stopped and arranged six walnuts on the floor of the passage. If Mr. Killing-Me-Softly brought his murdering footsteps their way, he would be flattened nicely. And now that shot in the butt didn’t seem such a bad idea after all.

  Pleased with her planning, she lay down on the Victorian couch. Its bright yellow satin upholstery was losing its sheen and tearing slightly. The largeness of the couch enveloped her, reminding her of her days as a girl, when she had to give up her bedroom to visiting aunts, uncles, and elder cousins. She had felt vulnerable and scared then, but now . . . she leaned over and felt the pistol under the kettle cover. It was close at hand, on top of a marble stool.

  It was 2:00 A.M. when she awoke next. She woke with a start and a sense of guilt. Had she slept too heavily? Had she slipped at her duty? She shifted uneasily. She’d better check on Dinsoo, she thought. Just a peek would assuage her fears.

  She took the gun from under the cover. Feeling powerful, she tiptoed barefoot into the passage, taking care to avoid the walnuts. She looked toward the kitchen. The door was open; it looked ominous in the dark. A crazy fear shot through her. The kitchen door was never left open. In the Mullafiroze house it was a rule that you slept with all doors shut. This applied to servants, too, and Yadav knew it only too well.

  Her heart started racing. She tightened her grip around the pistol. Should she go and check? No! She realized she was scared. Oh, why had Dinsoo put her through this?

  Dinsoo?

  She felt a bolt of panic. Her heart pounding, her stomach in knots, she stole toward their bedroom. She pushed the door slightly and could see his sleeping form. He was on his side. A thick Chinese blanket covered him, from his neck down to his feet. Overhead, the ancient fan creaked. At the side, the curtains fluttered lightly. The sounds of night wafted in through the window, harmless and lulling as ever. She was tempted to pat Dinsoo’s soft white head, to kiss and stroke his curls at the back, all this out of relief, but that would awaken him, so she didn’t.

  Her hand holding the pistol dropped to her side. There was no need to check the kitchen now, she thought. She would berate the Bihari tomorrow. She went back to the tearoom and made herself snug under the blanket. Maybe she was being foolish. Maybe Dinsoo was right after all. She settled her head against the cushion and readied herself for sleep.

  When she awoke, it was with the silver light of morning on her face. It had found its way in through the long, thick curtains; it fell across the wall, the sideboard, the cupboards, and down on the floor halfway through the room. But what awoke her was not that as much as the breath and the presence of the Bihari towering above her. “What is it? What?” she spluttered, struggling to rise from under the blanket. She groped for the pistol, but the brightness in the room and something in the Bihari’s eyes told her it wasn’t necessary.

  “Madam, oh, madam,” the Bihari blurted, his eyes wide with fear. “It is horrible, madam, but sahib won’t listen. He won’t wake up for his morning tea.”

  In a jiffy, she was up and in the bedroom. Dinsoo’s face was still, looking up at the ceiling. His mouth was wide open and there was a trickle of black foam running down the side of his stubbled jaw. Behind her, the Bihari ranted, “Oh, madam, what is wrong? Call a doctor please. Sahib will be okay, no?”

  Stiff with shock, Silla Mullafiroze bent over the sleeping form of her husband. She stayed that way for a while, lingering, longing, waiting for a breath of air, for the click of a heartbeat that would tell her the dhak-dhak in her own heart was unfounded. When she was sure, absolutely sure, she brought her lips to his forehead and planted a deep, long kiss. His skin was cold but familiar and sweet as ever. “I am sorry,” she whispered. “I am sorry, my darling, I wasn’t there.”

  The arrangements took the rest of the morning. She called Dr. Jambhax and requested him to come over. He wanted to phone for an ambulance, but she assured him that it wasn’t necessary. If he could call for the hearse instead, on his way out, well, she would be grateful.

  While that was happening, she went into the bathroom, wet a napkin, and wiped Dinsoo’s mouth. Gently she daubed over his forehead and cheeks, stopping to admire the peace on his face when the head tilted and sagged into her palm. With her other hand, she touched his skin under the neck and, finding it warm, for a moment thought maybe—but no, she was being foolish.

  She opened his wardrobe and brought out a brand-new sadra and kusti: his shield and sword, according to the tenets of their religion. Worn under their clothes, it was meant to protect them—the Parsis—from any form of evil. The evil would be repelled instantly, back onto the evildoer.

  Watched by Yadav, who followed her meekly, she packed a bag, just a few things—hairbrush, toothbrush, soap, perfume, lipstick, and towel—so that she could look her best at the funeral and at the evening prayers. She called the army headquarters and spoke to Major Singhal, who had served under Dinsoo. Would he arrange for some honors later, on any day convenient? Would he let her know? “Of course, of course, madam,” replied the Major, and then softly he added, “If I may say so, madam, at the expense of stating the obvious, the country has lost one of its finest soldiers.”

  That done, she looked up the directory and called up the newspa
pers, and because they recognized the age in her voice they agreed to carry the obituaries. It was a miracle really, because they never did that. Too many April-foolers had had their way.

  All through, the Bihari followed her. He kept looking at her mournfully, as if searching for some trace of emotion, some deep concealed grief. But Silla Mullafiroze was remarkably calm. It was as if all the sadness in her had been collected and locked away.

  For the next twenty minutes she stationed herself at the phone, calling up family members and close friends. They had questions for her, not too many, just the odd one or two, which she answered briefly. “Yes, it was a peaceful death, thank you.” “No, he didn’t suffer at all. Thank God for that!” “Yes, I was by his side. I was sleeping, of course, when it happened.”

  The hearse arrived: a large van with scrubbed-out tires and a snout for a face. The pallbearers bundled out: men in white, with bloodshot eyes, scruffy mustaches, and bandaged hands. They looked like mime artists, but that’s where the resemblance ended, for they made a great deal of noise drawing out the stretcher. Their breath smelt of liquor, their manners were rough and unruly, but that was expected, for after the funeral they would venture where stronger men feared to tread. They would take the body inside the dakhmas, the sepulcher towers of the Parsis, where vultures circled expectantly, waiting to lower themselves on the body and feed off its fullness. The pallbearers would walk in among the half-eaten bodies, the decaying flesh, and the progressive smells of life forsaken—and this would be their daily job, for which they needed to tank up, to deaden themselves, morning, afternoon, and evening.

  When they trooped in to collect the body, Silla Mullafiroze waited outside, at the door of the bedroom. It was best she didn’t see this: her Dinsoo unseated from their four-poster bed, where so many promises had been made and kept. She left the Bihari in charge. And from where she stood she heard him hiss at the pallbearers who were tying the hands and feet cursorily. “Be careful; show some respect. That is not anybody. That is Brigadier Sahib. He was a hero, a great soldier.” Silla Mullafiroze was surprised at the animosity in his voice and the reverence behind it.

  The funeral was held at the Towers of Silence, the burial grounds of the Parsis, at the foot of Kemps Corner, going all the way up to Malabar Hill. By late afternoon the prayer hall was full of condoling guests: relatives, friends, and admirers of all ages. They came in proper funeral gear, which is to say, white shirts, trousers, and caps for the men and white lace saris for the women. The younger women wore dresses, skirts of modest knee length, and their heads were covered with scarves of Chinese silk.

  The priests entered: lush-bearded men with calm faces and learned expressions. They were dressed in white, their mouths covered by white masks, and standing at the door of the prayer hall, they began to pray softly, in rich, nasally resonant tones.

  Silla Mullafiroze sat up front, a white sari draped over her head, watching them sway and chant over the shrouded body of her husband. Outside, in the sylvan surroundings, the birds chirped invitingly and a pleasant breeze stirred. Halfway through the prayers, a dog was brought in on a leash and the face of the deceased was shown to him. The dog sniffed and moved away. The guests released their breath, which they had drawn in sharply, for among the Parsis it was believed that a dog could tell if there were life remaining, some wisp of breath in some vein. Man’s best friend could be trusted more than the coroner, for it was the dog who led the soul to heaven, he who helped cross the bridge between heaven and earth.

  After prayers, four pallbearers hoisted the body onto a stretcher and began their journey uphill. The way to the dakhmas was lush and green. It was lined with bushes of gulmohars, jacarandas, laburnums, pink acacias, and roses, and occasionally a gangly peacock crossed with the air of a fearless landlord. It was rumored that when someone special died, the peacocks would dance in the thickets, dance spiritedly for the freedom of the soul.

  Relatives and friends filed behind the pallbearers and followed the body in a quiet procession. The men walked in twos and threes, holding the ends of their handkerchiefs, to suggest they were united in their grief. The womenfolk were more circumspect; they held up their saris and trudged carefully, so that the embroidered borders would not scrape the ground.

  Silla Mullafiroze chose not to go; her legs wouldn’t take the climb. She stood watching till the procession disappeared. For a while she stood still, absorbing the stature of the trees, the white wooly clouds, the restful flight of birds, and the ominous peace of death, so final and definitive and without reproach. Behind her came sounds of life—of car doors banging, engines starting. Some of the guests were leaving; some of them were being offered rides.

  From the side, a Parsi woman with a round sympathetic face, sorrowful eyes, and plump powdered arms descended and hugged her. “The priests prayed beautifully,” she said to Silla. “Never heard them pray so well. The soul is sure to have begun its upward journey.”

  Without looking at her but with a faint tremor around her chapped painted lips, Silla replied, “Yes, but what about us, the ones down here? We are left alone, you see, in the trenches.”

  In the background, at a distance, stood the Bihari, head hanging, shoulders stooped, arms crossed, fingers entwined nervously. Around his chest was strapped a thermos of dark green felt. In it was the tea he had made for his memsahib, made just the way she liked it, strong, stirred, with strands of fresh mint and two teaspoons of sugar. Later, after the guests left, he would pour it for her, piping hot, and without a drop spilled. But that would be later, when there were just the two of them waiting, with no conversation, no words, no consolations, just the divide of class and community, sullen and almost always insurmountable.

  Once they were gone and she, Silla Mullafiroze, was alone, sitting lost in thought, on one of those long wooden benches outdoors, then he, Yadav, would come up to her. He would stare at her wide-eyed, seeking to understand her minutest thoughts, seeking to fathom her loss. If only he could see some sign of collapse, then perhaps he could unload some of his own grief as well.

  But that wouldn’t happen. Silla Mullafiroze wouldn’t collapse. Instead, seeing the confusion and torment on the Bihari’s face, she would understand slowly what Dinsoo had stood for, why he had died—not from heart failure, as the death certificate had said, but from a national failure to dissolve differences, to overthrow biases, to bridge the divide and keep this diverse country as one. Having understood this, she’d take it upon herself to guard Dinsoo’s legacy—his theory of trust, his motion of full confidence, reposed boldly and unconditionally in his fellow human beings.

  She’d start by allowing Yadav to sleep with the kitchen door open, leaving her own bedroom door unlocked as well. She’d up his salary to two thousand rupees a month, allow him to circle an agarbatti over Dinsoo’s photograph every evening as a mark of respect, and ask him to run to the bank every morning to deposit her share dividends and later to withdraw cash.

  Over three years, she’d get Yadav’s sisters married. Some of the money she’d recover from his salary; the bulk of it she’d waive. The last marriage she’d attend—traveling first by train, then by tonga, and over a kuchha road in a wooden palanquin feeling like the Maharani of Bliss. She’d bless the bride, who’d be adorned with flowers and gold and who’d refuse to look at her out of shyness. And she’d drink from their cups and saucers, which were small, chipped, and stained, rented from a tea stall at the railway station.

  Through this induction into the national stream, the veins of Hindustan, as she termed it, Silla Mullafiroze would feel she had Dinsoo for company. “Onward, my love,” she could hear him say, like he used to when they’d go out riding, or play a fierce game of badminton, or do thirty laps of the Naval pool together. Of course, when her friends at the Willingdon Club heard this, they shook their heads and said, “Poor, poor Silla. She is looking well no doubt, but her mind is certainly affected. Dinsoo’s death has changed her so.”

  METER DOWN

&nbs
p; ♦ ♦ ♦

  THROUGH SLEEPY, sun-soaked eyes Mohitram Doiphade looked at the slim, smartly dressed woman who sashayed down the carpeted exit of the Taj Intercontinental Hotel and clicked, in high metallic stilettos, toward his cab. Shutting his eyes firmly, Mohitram Doiphade began playing the about-to-be-enacted scene in his mind. He had been through it so often that he could visualize the confidence with which she would open the door, the marked disappointment when he refused her fare, the beseeching note in her voice while she pleaded her case, and the pout that came on when he adamantly refused her business. So often had he been through this pantomime that he chose to stay recumbent while she approached, his parched black feet, bare and swollen with corns, sticking out through the window.

  “Bhai sahib,” she purred, in a dainty sort of a way. “Famous Studio, bhai sahib.”

  Without opening his eyes, Mohitram shook his head curtly and flicked his hand in a gesture of annoyance. He could well have been shooing a beggar.

  “Please, bhai sahib,” she pleaded.

  “Told you no, I don’t want to go,” he replied in gruff Hindi, opening his eyes slightly to show sleep and surliness.

  “Take pity, brother. I have to get to a shoot.”

  “Go! Don’t bother me,” he snapped. “If you are a model, you should get yourself a car.”

  “But I don’t know how to drive,” she confessed charmingly, spontaneously.

  “Good! Women shouldn’t drive anyway,” he replied, feeling satisfied for having aired a long-repressed bias.

  “Dukkar! Pig!” she spat, and slammed the door vengefully, shaking him out of his stupor.

  He sat up and glowered. “Your father’s car or what?” he asked.

  “If it were so, why would I have to ask a pig like you?” she retorted, and marched off heatedly.