Breathless in Bombay

by Murzban Shroff

  Deep in thought, he reached the seafront. The sweet, fresh air of Marine Drive did nothing for his mood. He envied the couples who sat with their backs to the city, their shoulders hunched, gazing at the sea. He stared at the people in their cars. How comfortable they looked, how well looked after, like they knew where they were headed. The walkers, too, he envied. They had nothing to shed but physical weight. Not the weight of a troubled conscience.

  Reaching home, he made up his mind to have a light dinner and retire. It was important that he go to sleep early, before the demons of regret came knocking, before they came to taunt him, making him realize there was no other way he could have chosen.

  His wife received him at the door. “Why are you so late? Where have you been?” she asked agitatedly. She brought him a glass of water, and as he drank, his eyes fell on the furrows above her eyebrows. He realized there was something nagging at her mind.

  After he’d showered and changed into his home clothes, she began speaking to him, her words spilling out in a flurry. “Bhabhiji called this morning. She wanted to know when we could take them shopping—for jewelry and for saris. I thought she meant just her and her daughter, but she was talking about all their aunts, nieces, and cousins. She said they were one close-knit family, so they’d expect gifts as well. Hey Ram, I thought. So much expense: how will we afford it? We are not business people like them. We don’t have black money hidden in our cupboards. Of course I didn’t tell her that. I just said I would check with you and let her know. I don’t know what to say. I am so worried. This wedding will wipe us out. And we still have Kahini to think about.”

  She started crying, and instinctively his arm went around her. “Sudha, my Sudha,” he said. “Don’t worry. We will manage. We will cope. I have made some arrangements. We can’t let Disha down, in front of her in-laws. Trust me, we will manage.”

  The sobbing subsided, and after a while Sudha looked at her husband. “I know you are clever, but I can’t help worrying. I know how hard you have worked for this money, how carefully you have invested it. And, now, it will all go—just like that. It’s not fair, not fair at all.”

  “No Sudha, it is fair, if it’s for our little girl. We have to give her a chance. Things are not what they were in our days. Today everything is measured in terms of money. Later no one should say to her, ‘Your parents scrounged; they cut corners.’ Let us do our best for her. That’s the least we can do for our child.”

  And because Sudha was touched by her husband’s thoughts, and because she knew him to be a proud, doting family man, and because she had a world of faith in him, she started crying again. But this time she wore a smile, an embarrassed sort of a smile. “So, what do I tell them?” she asked, wiping her tears with her sari.

  He thought for a while before saying, “Saturday is fine. I will have the money by then.”

  Next morning he went to the office early. He opened a new file in his computer and slowly and methodically typed out his report. He printed it out, using two sheets of paper, and placed these in a plastic folder. With this and the proposals under his arm, he walked down the corridor. He stood outside Archrekar’s door and knocked. He didn’t wait for a reply; he just walked in.

  There was someone else with Archrekar; he had his back to the door and was slumped in his chair with the familiar air of one used to the place. It was Rathod, head of retail. Madhulikar despised him, for Rathod was a lazy intellectual who had sold his soul to the devil. It was rumored that Rathod’s personal wealth stood at rupees six crores. He had bungalows in Lonavala and Matheran, a farmhouse in Panvel, and a beach house in Alibaug. All this had come from heading retail, from deciding how much of fuel was gas and the rest, well, additives.

  “Why, sir, if you are busy—” Madhulikar said, backing toward the door.

  Archrekar rose. “No, Srini, come in. Mr. Rathod was just leaving.”

  Rathod looked surprised. Stiffly he excused himself and left.

  Madhulikar seated himself and began. “I have been through the proposals, sir, with a fine-tooth comb, and from what I see, it is an open-and-shut case. In fact, there is no question about it.”

  “Yes, go on, Srini.”

  “You see, sir, it’s not as if we are favoring one party over another. . . .” He paused. “But we have to be fair.”

  “Yes, of course, but what is your opinion, Srini? I want to know!” Archrekar was frowning heavily. Could he have misconstrued that last chat with Srini? Would the fool follow his conscience, like he had all these years?

  “Ah, my opinion, sir? It is based on many factors. Location, space, bank securities, creditworthiness, experience, but mostly, there is one factor that is most important.” He noticed that Archrekar was sitting on the edge of his chair, leaning over. His palms were locked, he was grinding his thumbs, and under his desk one leg flickered nervously.

  “Yes, yes, Srini, I am sure you have done your homework, but have you taken into account what I said?”

  Madhulikar pretended to look shocked. “Of course, sir. You are my senior. I must give careful consideration to your suggestions. But like I was saying, there is one important factor, the main factor in choosing the party. Without this, all other factors are useless.” He smiled at Archrekar, who for some reason did not smile back. The fool! The bastard! He was going to double-cross them. He was going to cut them out of the biggest deal of the year. Archrekar knew he shouldn’t have trusted Madhulikar.

  “Safety, sir! Safety is the most important factor. No point having a gas station if it is not safe. That is why I think Lodha is the best. His location is inside. No chance of a calamity there. Imagine if there is an accident close to the highway, near a gas pump, what a disaster it can be. That itself disqualifies the others.”

  Archrekar leapt up. “Excellent thinking, Srini. Excellent! By God! It never struck me, but, yes, safety is so important. That should be the main factor.” He looked at Srini admiringly. What a fine fellow, what a good mind, and what a strong line of reasoning. If only he would work with them more often. Oh, what a waste he had been—all these years.

  “I have prepared a full report, sir, explaining why this proposal is ideal. If it is off the highway, people can stop, relax, and take lunch. Maybe there can be a cafeteria at the side, or a restaurant . . . some restrooms, some recreation for children, like a cybercafe or video games. So much scope for expansion, sir, as the traffic increases. We can even have a garage, with a separate section for trucks and a separate section for cars and light vehicles. And a motel, which would be lucrative.”

  “Perfect, Srini, perfect. I think it makes so much sense.”

  Now was the time to make his pitch, Madhulikar thought. He dropped his voice and spoke.

  “I hope Lodha appreciates this, sir. I hope he respects our confidence and lives up to our expectations.”

  Archrekar looked astonished. Why, yes, Madhulikar was soliciting. There was no doubt he was ready to play ball.

  “You are meeting him today, aren’t you? At his club?” Archrekar said slyly.

  Now it was Madhulikar’s turn to look astonished. “Oh, you know about that, sir. I thought, just to clarify—”

  “No harm, no harm, Srini,” Archrekar said softly. “You have taken so much pain with the report, nothing wrong if you put a price on it. It’s good work, I can tell you that, and I wouldn’t ask for anything less than five lakhs if I were you.”

  Madhulikar coughed. “Well, sir, I was thinking more like ten. After all, he is going to benefit lifelong.”

  Wow, thought Archrekar. Srini sure was making up for lost time. Well, good for him—always place for a good mind on their team.

  “I am sure he will see it that way too, Srini. I know Lodha to be most accommodating. And don’t worry, not a word of this will leak out. We have dealt with him in the past.”

  Madhulikar wondered about the “we,” all who were involved—Archrekar, the directors, Rathod of course, the Regional Head, the Surveyor, the General Manager, and,
most likely, the Chairman. He wondered why the Chairman needed to be corrupt. At his level, everything was paid for: car, house, trips abroad, club expenses, children’s education, medical expenses, etc. Enough is never enough, Madhulikar thought, and mankind must always hunger for more, want more than what their stomachs could take. Well, in his case, the first bribe would be the last.

  He went back to his desk and tried to examine his feelings. Strangely, he felt nothing. Just emptiness, a deep, dark vacuum beyond a sense of loss. He also felt a little puzzled. Was it really that easy? What use education, struggle, toil, manners, diligence, hope, planning, refinement, realization, if eventually that was all there was to it—to fall in line and progress?

  The day dragged on. He busied himself with various matters: arranging a dealer conference in the North, where sales had dropped, the sponsorship of a cricket match where engine oils could be advertised, planning a sales promotion for coolants, all the activities that went with it.

  He did things listlessly, feeling that everything he did was contaminated.

  Soon it was time for lunch, and Chandrashekar, his friend from accounts, came to call him. Over lunch, they would whisper about the syndicate, about the Babu barrah takkas—their latest deals, payoffs, trade-offs; their out-of-turn promotions, postings, and transfers, which they bought. When they’d tire of that, they would talk about investments, safe ones in banks and mutual funds, which could get them that additional .5 percent or 1 percent, depending on the period of maturity. They’d be content with that—clean talk about clean money, without the easy 12 percent, without the games and machinations of the Babu barrah takkas—and they’d walk tall and proud, indifferent to the slime all around, indifferent to the sneers that would follow, the voices that would hiss, “Fools, backward fools!” behind their backs.

  But that day there was no appetite—not for chitchat, nor for food. Madhulikar was grappling with a big gloom in his mind, and it seemed to have spread to his stomach, for he asked Chandrashekar to proceed without him.

  His friend was persistent. “What, Srini? Come no, for my sake. I have so much to tell you.”

  It was hard to refuse his affable friend. So Madhulikar accompanied him to the lunchroom, where the executive cadre ate. Standing in line, waiting to get to the buffet table, Madhulikar felt a sense of monotony. Again he felt part of a crowd: no different, nothing special.

  The lunchroom was crowded and noisy. Over the rattle of plates and cutlery, there were the sounds of laughter, chatter, and chairs being dragged.

  A long, white table lined the side of the room. On it were dishes of food, with burners glowing underneath, and stacks of plates and cutlery at the side. The dishes had been uncovered and were smoldering with aromas. The NPRC employees waiting in line peered into the dishes curiously and, lifting the spoons at the side, served themselves generously.

  Madhulikar took a plate and filled it sparsely: a little dal, a spoon of sabji, a splattering of curd, and two small chapatis. He moved to the side and was waiting for Chandrashekar to serve himself when he felt a friendly prod. He turned, and to his horror he saw Archrekar and, behind him, Rathod. Both were smiling broadly. Both looked like evil apparitions without their horns, searching for the perfect trinity.

  Helping himself to a mountain of rice, eyes fixed on his plate, Archrekar smiled and said, “Eat well, Srini; eat well. Why is your plate so bare?”

  And not to be outdone, Rathod added, “Ha, ha, and don’t forget the dessert. I believe today’s is extra sweet.”

  Then, to Madhulikar’s horror, they both winked at him, the broad wink of friendship, of acceptance. And as Madhulikar smiled back weakly, he felt a churning in his stomach. His hand that was holding the plate went limp. The water from the curd rushed to the side, to the edge, and some dal spilled and mingled with it, and the mixture threatened to spill over and stain his nicely ironed trousers. But Madhulikar didn’t seem to realize this. He felt like a Babu barrah takka: small, insidious, and unworthy. He mumbled something about what there was being enough. Eat less, want less, stay healthy, live longer. Now where did that come from? he wondered. His father probably!

  Quickly he dragged Chandrashekar away—to a table in the far corner of the room, out of the noise and commotion. He sat there like a recluse, plucking at his chapati, dipping it into the dal and curd, tasting nothing, hearing nothing. He kept thinking how he would face Chandrashekar once he’d taken the bribe—how he’d sit through those conversations, pass judgments on others, judgments cast in steel. Could he cancel out those years of friendship just like that? Could he opt out of conversations, making some excuse that he himself did not believe in? And was it just friendship that had brought them together? Or something more precious, more binding, something that shone like a piece of coral in this sea of slime?

  In between mouthfuls, Chandrashekar kept jabbering, “Be careful, Srini; be careful. I don’t trust those two. They are up to something, I tell you. They will stick something onto you. Please be careful, my friend.”

  Looking at his friend, wide-eyed and frantic, Madhulikar stopped eating and said with a smile, “You care so much, Chandu. Sometimes I wonder why I am worth so much affection. What is it that makes you care?”

  In his heart, Madhulikar knew the answer. It was probably the same answer his wife or his daughters would have given. Or any of his nephews and nieces who came to him for advice. Any of them could have told Madhulikar what he wanted to know. But it would be nice to be reminded who he was, what he stood for, and what he meant to the world he lived in. Sometimes that made all the difference.

  JAMAL HADDI’S REVENGE

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  JAMAL HADDI WAS FASCINATED by the wall in front of him. He was impervious to the noise behind, which came out of drunken conversation, drunken ribbing, and drunken oaths from men who had no other purpose but to down their grievances in the watery brown brew that was served to them with mechanical indifference by overworked, tyrannized boys between the ages of fifteen and twenty.

  In the cramped, squalid liquor den that was his daily refuge, Jamal Haddi focused his attention on the wall and its occupants. A translucent oily brown lizard fastened its eyes on an unsuspecting baby moth no more than four inches away. The moth was ignorant; the lizard was still, very still. The beady eyes of the reptile were riveted on its winged quarry, and occasionally a flickering tongue spelt out its poisonous intent. Jamal Haddi was rooting for the lizard. With the full brunt of his drunkenness, he wanted the lizard to get its prey.

  “Go on, chipkali,” said Jamal in his mind. “Eat to your belly’s full. Don’t spare the moth. Don’t spare it your fury. Don’t let it live a second longer than it deserves.” The moth had no business being there. It was too thin, frail, and out of place in a place like this. It should have known that. Besides, the moth wasn’t a survivor. In Jamal’s book of life, only the strong would prevail; only they had the right to live. Now, the lizard was a survivor. You could tell. By the way it looked: unflinchingly hungry. By the way it clutched the wall: with crocodile legs. By the way it moved in and destroyed: caring not for beauty, nor for justice. Ah, what pleasure Jamal felt when it finally lurched forward. In one swooping motion, it sprang at the moth and crunched it away with eager, imperceptible teeth. Ah, how he enjoyed that; how much personal triumph he felt, for he, Jamal Haddi, hated all things of beauty, especially when they forgot their place.

  It was good that the lizard came into his mind and distracted him, for he, on his sixth glass of hooch, was grappling with a monster in his mind. Kunta, his wife, was cheating on him. No, “cheating” was too good a word. If that’s what it was, it would have proved at least that she had some respect, that she wished to protect him from the truth. But here she was shamelessly giving herself away. She didn’t even care to hide the ritual, the preliminaries of seduction, the slow doing up of herself that, stroke by stroke, broke Jamal Haddi down.

  Evenings, the lipstick would come on, then the eye shadow. From behind the cu
rtain in their dingy hut she would emerge, having adjusted her sari to display more of her flattened stomach and portions of her dark hips. God, how much navel would she show? Be reasonable, woman; be reasonable! Jamal would think. Okay, he needed the money she brought home. He needed it after he had lost his job with the municipality. In one sweep, they had gotten rid of all the temporary sweepers, like they were rubbish on the streets, the same rubbish that Jamal Haddi used to sweep before the city awoke, sometimes dislodging it with his leg and with a silent curse.

  In his own way, Jamal had been proud of his work. He made the city livable, and sometimes, with a little luck, he found something in the garbage that was worth selling. Dumri, the pawnbroker, gave him a standard two rupees for it, which bought Jamal an extra half glass at Gulabi’s adda, the liquor den at the end of the slum. With the retrenchment, the money had stopped coming in. His support system had been cut off, and Jamal Haddi found himself at home, useless, ineffective, craving alcohol and release from a crushing reality.

  The first few days at home were difficult. Two demons rose in his mind: the demon of poverty and the demon of addiction. Both demons fought for precedence and expressed themselves as fits of savage anger: anger against the municipality for dispensing with him, anger against Kunta for wasting money schooling the children. Educating the boy was understandable, but why the girl? What good would the education be if it led her to the kitchen?