Just at that moment, Anush’s mother opened the door to hear him call the lift boy an asshole. She glared at Anush before walking to the lift with the football. “For you,” she said to the lift boy.
“But, Ma!” Anush cried. It was unfair punishment; the football was brand new, barely broken in. How could she just give it away?
The lift boy opened the gate but was perplexed and didn’t accept the gift until Anush’s mother threw the football at him and he had no choice but to catch it. Anush’s mother shot her son a look of disappointment before returning to their flat and slamming the door shut.
Entering the lift, Anush turned his back to the lift boy and made a show of checking his hair in the mirror. He didn’t want to let the lift boy see how upset he was about losing his football.
Maybe he could talk to his father later and get the football back. His mother had been entirely unfair. Sure, he might have lost his temper, but it wasn’t as though it was unwarranted. The stupid lift boy had provoked him, and Anush was certain his mother hadn’t witnessed that. So he kept his cool—not an easy thing to do in a tiny lift in the middle of summer with nothing but a minuscule overhead fan, which rotated so slowly you could watch a full revolution if your eyes went around fast enough.
Anush nonchalantly flicked at his hair, trying to make it look like Amitabh’s. (Even though the only available tickets to his new film, Coolie, were on the black market for four times the original price, he’d begged his mother for tickets and seen the film three times already at the Regal Cinema.) As they stood with their backs to each other, Anush noticed in the mirror that the lift boy was silently laughing to himself and realized he’d have to endure the bastard’s tacit smirk every day. The smirk that said, I got your football! He wanted to wallop the lift boy but he knew he’d be unjustified and be reprimanded by his father, who’d just become building president. His muscles stiffened and he clenched his fists. As soon as the lift boy opened the door on the ground floor, Anush fled through the marbled corridor to the back courtyard to meet his cousin Paresh.
All the boys from Sea Face Terraces and the building behind it, where Paresh lived, took advantage of the shade at this time of morning to play cricket on the grassy lawn of the courtyard. Some of the boys were sitting on the concrete ledge now, trying to pick teams, while intermittently punching each other in the arm, arguing over which cricket player on the national team was the best. A few other boys were warming up with cricket bats and balls, hurling insults at one another. A kind of game had begun—whoever could invent the best insult got a round of cheers. As Anush walked towards them, he heard one of them say, “You’ve got a donkey’s dick up your ass and you’re braying because you like it!” There was laughter with some applause.
One of the boys spotted Anush and said, “Where’s your football, Anush?” which led to a few of the others repeating the question like a poorly rehearsed chorus.
Anush wanted to thrash the boy and yell a line from his and Paresh’s favourite film, Sholay (also starring Amitabh): Kuttay! Kamineh! Mein tera khoon pi jaaonga! Dog! Scoundrel! I’ll drink your blood! But there was nothing to gain from showing his frustration. The boys in the courtyard would only revel in the idea of the spoiled, rich only child who lived in the largest penthouse flat in the building losing his brand-new football to a lowly lift boy—it was a whole summer’s worth of teasing. Anush kept his distance from the boys and kept looking for Paresh. While walking to the other side of the courtyard, Anush said, “Get your own football.” By the swing set there was a thicket of bushes with wild flowers, at the centre of which grew three large palm trees. It was a spot where Paresh and Anush often met.
Anush bent down and made his way through the purple and pink hydrangeas to his cousin and said, “What are you hiding here for? You got a skin mag or something?” One of the boys from Sea Face Terraces had recently visited America and had brought back a Playboy magazine, which he’d smuggled down to the courtyard to show some of the other boys, charging them half a rupee each.
Paresh didn’t answer. Anush grew irritated as he worked his way through the thicket of green, continuing into the thorny part of the garden, where he found Paresh holding a large brown paper bag.
“Don’t tell me I got all scratched up for nothing,” Anush said.
Paresh smiled, pulling out a large stash of fireworks from the bag. Anush’s eyes widened as he saw strings of lady fingers, aerial shells, fountains, ground spinners, and Roman candles. It was the motherlode. Anush and Paresh had never lit fireworks this big, which were deemed too dangerous for children.
“My uncle gave me these as a going-away present,” Paresh said. He was moving to Canada soon. Neither of them knew anything about Canada, except that it was big and cold and on top of America on the map. They were best friends and not being able to see each other every day was too strange, so they avoided talking about it.
Some of the boys from the other end of the courtyard became curious and began to make their way towards the bushes. Not wanting to share their stash, Anush and Paresh quickly stuffed the fireworks back into the bag. As they emerged, one of the boys started singing, “Anush and Paresh sitting in a tree, K-IS-S-I-N-G . . .” It drew raucous laughter and applause. Anush wanted to punch him in the face, but the boy was bigger than him. Sensing that it might escalate into a quarrel and risk exposing the fireworks, Anush restrained himself and kept walking, his fists clenched.
- 2 -
1983
AFTER DINNER, SHRIKAND WAS SERVED. It was Anush’s favourite dessert, creamy and sweet with hints of saffron and cardamom. As it was a special occasion, the dish arrived topped with freshly slivered pistachios rather than the usual almonds. The VIP guests bestowed compliments on the meal while Anush’s mother and father smiled graciously. Apart from the colonel—an old friend of his father, Anush had no idea who the guests were, but by the way his father had fretted over everything from what the servants would wear to how the furniture was to be arranged—things he usually paid little attention to—Anush knew they were, indeed, very important people.
While the adults talked and laughed at the table, Anush couldn’t stop thinking how he’d have to endure the lift boy’s stupid smirk all summer. It galled him that someone of no consequence, a minion, a menial attendant, would have the upper hand on him.
To calm himself, Anush thought of the fireworks he and Paresh would soon set off. Would they be caught? Large fireworks were banned in the courtyard, except at Diwali. His father had warned Anush that bad behaviour would not be tolerated, that he’d have to set a good example for the other boys. “No more fights, no more broken windows with cricket balls, no more mischief in the courtyard. Along with the privilege of living in the largest flat in the building and being the son of the building president comes responsibility . . .” Anush could see, sitting at the dinner table with the VIPs, that the rumours and jealous whispers around the building about his father becoming a richer and more important man might be true.
More than once, Anush had overheard his father say, “Anju, you’re spoiling him.”
Anush finished his shrikand quickly as he was afraid one of the other boys from the building might find Paresh (who was a bit of a pushover) and convince him to set off the fireworks without Anush.
Running down the long corridor to the front entrance, Anush surreptitiously took his father’s lighter from the front hall table. It would be easier, safer, to light the fireworks with it rather than matches. His father wouldn’t even notice it was gone. Anush would return it within ten minutes.
Not wanting the lift boy to ruin his evening, Anush decided to take the stairs. At this time of the evening the servants of Sea Face Terraces were setting up their bedding for the night on the middle landings in between floors. Anush did his best to avoid stepping on their mattresses and sheets, but he was in a hurry and couldn’t avoid every single one. A washer woman between the sixth and fifth floors cursed at Anush as he stepped on the edge of her thin mattress. He sto
pped on the next floor landing and considered going back to apologize but realized he was wasting precious time.
Anush had never lit a real firework before. He was only allowed to light mini ground shells and small firecrackers, like the impressive-sounding but measly Black Cobra, which was nothing more than a small button that, when lit, sprouted into a paltry black worm. During Diwali he’d watched the older boys from the building light rows of lady fingers and throw them so they exploded like machine-gun fire, or stick an aerial rocket in an empty Thums Up cola bottle, light it, and scamper away before the lit wick reached the main charge and detonated the rocket into flight, sending it upwards at a breakneck speed so that all you could see was a thin, straight streak of lightning zip into the air, fizzle, and disappear into the darkness. It was incredible to have the power to put into motion something so exhilarating. To make the impossible possible. It seemed magical.
When Anush reached the ground floor, he could hear the ocean waves crashing on the black rocks. There was a slight breeze, making the air seem not quite as heavy with humidity as earlier in the day. Anush ran across the grass of the back courtyard, towards the garden with its hydrangeas and blue dawns, which seemed to emit a stronger scent after sunset.
Paresh hissed, “Where the hell have you been?”
“Sorry, yaar, couldn’t get away.”
The two courtyard lights weren’t bright enough to illuminate the entire garden and it was dark where the boys were standing, where the palm trees and bushes kept them concealed. Anush stole a glance at the kitchen window nine floors above to make sure it was dark. His parents and the guests would be in the drawing room by the balcony on the front side of the building, with the ocean view. He reassured himself that they wouldn’t be able to hear the fireworks. But some of the children who’d laughed at Anush and Paresh earlier that day had windows that faced the back courtyard—they’d be in for a show. They wouldn’t dare laugh at Anush or tease him about the lift boy getting his football.
But Anush and Paresh only had two, maybe three minutes to detonate as many fireworks as they could before an adult from the rear of the building would notice and beckon the night watchman. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Anush was aware that if he were to be caught it’d be a huge embarrassment for his father. He might be sent to bed early for a few nights. But his father might secretly be pleased that Anush had taken the initiative to light fireworks usually reserved for the older boys. Wasn’t it a sign of maturity? Exactly the kind of thing he said his son lacked?
Anush and Paresh discussed their plan several times, making sure there wasn’t a flaw. If the night watchman came, they would make a quick escape into the building directly behind Sea Face Terraces, where Paresh lived. His parents were out for the evening so they’d retreat there.
The boys started setting up the empty Thums Up cola bottles that Paresh had brought for the aerial rockets.
“I’ll light the first three,” Paresh said, putting three in a group.
“No,” Anush said, spacing them apart. “It’ll look better if they’re farther apart.”
They argued about how and where to set the ground fountains and spinners, which would supply the brightest spectacle. Lastly they set up the long string of lady fingers. It was the longest they’d seen. This row of red sticks would be detonated at the end and make the most noise. All those watching would get a show they’d never forget.
Back at the base of the palm trees they went over the whole sequence of lighting the fireworks before beginning.
“I’ll light the first shell,” said Paresh.
“No way, I’ll do it. I’m older,” Anush said.
“I found them.”
“I got my father’s lighter,” Anush said, implying that his courage in stealing it should be justly rewarded.
They continued arguing. Paresh could be such a little whiner. He kept pointing out that he’d soon be moving away to Canada and therefore should have the honour.
Wanting to get things underway, Anush passed the lighter to his younger cousin. “You better be careful your dick doesn’t freeze and fall off in Canada.”
The ground fountain shimmered brilliantly, spewing showers of sparks ten feet high. The boys were impressed. The fireworks were of good quality, not shoddily made as was the case sometimes at Diwali, when high volumes of product were sold and the quality suffered. They took turns lighting spinners, which whirred and whizzed in circles as incandescent sparks flew out from every opening. Anush lit his aerial rockets and made it back to their home base by the palm trees just in time to watch them take off with a quiet whizzz. They flew up sixty feet simultaneously, and as quickly as they’d lit up the night sky around them they disappeared. Anush and Paresh lit a few more fountains and spinners, laughing at themselves for jumping at the unexpected sound the spinners made. Anush’s heart raced. They were both elated, giggling with delight, running out whenever a fountain or spinner was dying down to light a fresh one. Anush lit his three aerial rockets and sprinted back to the base of the palm trees to see them soar up in beautiful arcs. Three flashes of blue lightning in a dark sky. He noticed his forearms were scratched and bleeding a little from the thorns in the bushes, but he was so euphoric he felt no pain. After Paresh lit his aerials, they were both back at their base, ready for the finale—the two massive Roman candles.
Anush didn’t admit to Paresh that he was nervous about lighting the Roman candles. They’d seen older boys light them, and it seemed that the courage of a boy was truly tested when he was holding a Roman candle. Some boys who acted tough ended up being cowards when they lit Roman candles in their hands, dropping them and scurrying away as the charges detonated and the sparked stars shot out from the tube lying on the ground. Some were so afraid that they would place them in bottles and run away to watch from a distance. But the bravest ones held the tube firmly in their hands while the stars propelled from it like bullets.
Both Anush and Paresh had their Roman candles pointed away from them towards the opposite end of the courtyard. Paresh lit his first. For five long seconds nothing happened. And then the first star fired out: a red comet, and then the next, and on and on. Anush gingerly lit his, holding the Roman candle out as far away from his body as he could. Paresh lit the long wick of the lady fingers on the ground after his Roman candle had emptied. Anush’s hand was still outstretched, holding the Roman candle, his body knotted tight. The first star from his Roman candle seemed to take an eternity. Maybe it was defective. When it finally fired, the first star took off with a screaming hiss and reached the other end of the courtyard with reckless speed, sparkling against the cement wall. These candles, especially Anush’s, were the best they’d seen, packed with plenty of powder, giving the stars incredible velocity. The string of lady fingers went off like intermittent machine-gun fire while the courtyard was ablaze with shimmering sparks from the ground fountains and the Roman candles. As the second star detonated from Anush’s Roman candle, he noticed something shift in his peripheral vision. It was the lift boy coming towards them. Anush pointed the Roman candle at the lift boy and another star fired.
Through the noise of the exploding lady fingers, Anush could barely hear the lift boy’s cries of pain, but he did see him on the ground, writhing, clutching his face. The night watchman from the building yelled at Anush and Paresh. Anush dropped his Roman candle, which continued firing. Paresh went the route they’d discussed, but Anush became flustered, and by habit found himself dashing into Sea Face Terraces through the back entrance and up the stairs, running quicker than he ever had, his heart racing as fast as the rupturing row of lady fingers that were still going off in the courtyard. On the ninth floor Anush stopped to catch his breath, doubling over for air. What had happened to the lift boy?
I just wanted to scare him, he kept thinking. It was an accident. He kept rewinding to moments earlier. How could I have aimed the Roman candle from so far and hit him? But he had aimed it. No matter how many times he went over it he couldn’t go
back in time, and as his desperation grew, he realized what was done couldn’t be undone. As he heaved for breath, he knew something, somehow, had irrevocably changed.
- 3 -
1983
THE PILOW AND SHEETS ON the bed that Reza was lying in were so white that he thought he was dreaming at first. The sterile smell of medicine was foreign and slightly discomforting. A curtain hung to his right. He had never been in a room like this before, let alone on a proper bed raised off the ground.
Where was he? Why was he here? His head hurt and his stomach rumbled. He was ravenous.
A lady carrying a tray and wearing a white nurse’s cap pulled the curtain open. Reza sat up, thinking she would berate him. Beds like this were for rich people. He noticed a tube attached to his arm. The lady said, “Lie down, lie down,” easing him back down, making sure the tube remained in his arm.
“Where am I?” he asked.
She looked at him as though he’d just asked the stupidest question. “In the hospital,” she said, adjusting his bedsheet and then giving him a glass of water and two pills. “Take these.”
He put the yellow pills in his mouth and began to chew. They were the foulest thing he’d ever tasted. Worse than the time he and his brother found old jalebis behind a sweet shop.
“Don’t chew them!” she said. “Just swallow with water.”
He did. She left, annoyed.
He wished he were home. Reza hadn’t been to his village in nearly a year. Since he could barely read or write, every month he would pay Akil, a night watchman at Sea Face Terraces, to write a letter, dictating his thoughts. Reza imagined his mother and his brothers and sister all huddled outside their hut while his uncle, Nabil chacha, read the letter out loud. Despite having to work six, sometimes seven days a week, the job wasn’t too difficult, Reza said. He left out the part about having to adjust his sleep schedule to the night shift every second or third week. He also didn’t mention how most of the residents paid no attention to him, carrying on conversations in the lift as though he were invisible. Over the months, Reza had picked up some Marathi, Punjabi, even a bit of Bengali. When the residents spoke of private affairs in the lift, they whispered in English, a language foreign to Reza.
An Extraordinary Destiny Page 2
