Mumbai Noir

by Altaf Tyrewala

  One would think we were trained for a more profound purpose.

  “What … what happened? Tell me,” Pandey asks.

  From the milkman’s blue shirt down to the rose in the vegetable-lady’s bun—I exclude nothing. “These same things happened the morning Paresh-bhai …” I trail off.

  “Are you absolutely sure?” Pandey asks.

  “Yes,” I reply. I glance at him. “Don’t look at me that way. You know I’m no seer.”

  Pandey mutes the fearful awe in his eyes.

  One morning several months ago, right about this time, Paresh-bhai, the second-floor resident, had hailed a taxi. Right about then a passing truck burst one of its tires. The vehicle buckled, skidded across the road, and mowed down Paresh-bhai like a stalk of walking, talking human weed.

  That morning, when I heard Paresh-bhai squeal, I was studying the red rose in the vegetable-lady’s hair. And before that I was watching the third-floor boy park his bike. And before that I was awed by the pigeon roosted precariously on the lamppost. And before that … on and on, identically, unmistakably.

  “We must do someth—”

  “No!” I cut Pandey off.

  What could we do? Signs had lined up like the dots children join to complete a picture. I have tried not to look at things. But if a watchman won’t watch, what else will he do? I have tried to ignore patterns, only to learn I have no control over memory—it remembers everything: beautiful or ugly, consequential or not. Some days I dream of working in a mine. I imagine myself chipping off rocks deep underground, where there will be nothing to see and no designs to remember. But today, someone is going to die. And, unfortunately, I know.

  I know.

  “Mishra, what are you doing!” Pandey cries out.

  I have placed a blob of white lime on my left palm and sprinkled flakes of tobacco on it. Pandey doesn’t notice till I begin grinding the mixture with my right thumb.

  I roll the paste into a ball and jam it between my lower lip and teeth.

  Pandey watches with shock. “That’s too much! You’ll be stoned for hours!”

  “That’s the whole idea,” I say—to be out of my mind for hours; hopefully, by then, whoever is to die will have died.

  The narcotic blend stuns my mouth.

  My salivary glands shut down. White lime slithers across my gums. Tobacco flakes fuse with my teeth. And then …

  And then cautiously, little by little, saliva begins trickling in again. Once spit meets lime, tobacco flakes dance. The uproar of intoxication numbs my senses in seconds.

  Now I am only a thing standing by the gate. The person in me won’t be back for a while.

  The Sunday morning grows busier. People start to go in and out the gate of Sea View Apartments. Pandey begins calling out to residents as they come and go. “Take care, sir! Take care, madam!”

  What a fool. As if you can tell people not to die.

  “Mishra!” Pandey nudges me urgently. Through my blurred vision I can sense a huge orange object zooming toward us. Its edges are glinting. When it is almost upon us I … I raise my trembling hand and salute.

  Whew! It was only the seventh-floor resident’s Santro on its way out.

  Several more false alarms ring through the day. Each time Pandey winces and runs to save some child or woman or man who he fears might be run over by a reversing water-tanker or might fall into an open gutter.

  By late afternoon, I stop slurring and swaying.

  “Welcome back,” Pandey says.

  I spit out the narcotic cud. My senses may have cleared, but with clarity comes a physically excruciating sense of dread.

  Pandey retreats into the security cabin, this time for lunch. No tobacco, alcohol, or drugs for him. Pandey’s opiate is food.

  Standing alone at the gate, I survey the scene: at eye level, the cemented compound; overhead, the wind-beaten twelvestory building; outside, the street with nonstop traffic; and people everywhere—all these people oblivious to constantly lurking death.

  “Aahhrrrp!” Fifteen minutes later Pandey announces his return with a loud burp. He bounds up beside me like an excited animal. “Anyone die?”

  I look at his wide-eyed, eager face. Hadn’t he considered the possibility?

  “What if it’s you?” I ask.

  An intense wave of terror passes over his face.

  And then he says, “What if it’s you?”

  I chuckle tiredly.

  In five more hours, at seven p.m., our duty will end.

  The wait begins.

  Two-fifteen.

  Two-thirty.

  Three p.m.

  At three-thirty, Baadal, the cycle-mounted tea vendor, rides into the gate veering to the right to counter the can slung on the left side of his bike.

  He leaps off swiftly, rests the bike on his bony hip, and pours us two cups of tea. Pandey takes his. He refuses to hand me mine. The petty man. Baadal pours a cup for himself. We start slurping at the syrupy brew.

  “Someone is going to die today,” Pandey blurts. He glances at me with a vicious triumph.

  Baadal continues to drink the tea.

  “You heard what I said or no?” Pandey raises his voice. “I said someone is going to die today!”

  “Ya, so? Someone dies every day,” Baadal says.

  He takes our money, mounts his cycle, and goes away.

  “Stupid punk,” Pandey mutters under his breath.

  A hot breeze sweeps through the compound of Sea View Apartments.

  A silence descends upon us.

  Pandey and I stand side by side without a word.

  The afternoon’s dead heat stills the air. Now every movement around us, even the tiniest of motions, takes on an unbearable gravity. That coin slipping from someone’s hands. The downward spiral of that sparrow.

  “Ui …” Pandey makes a strange guttural sound.

  I look at him.

  He is shortening his neck. Widening his eyes. Ballooning his cheeks.

  “What happened?”

  Pandey runs to the side of the security cabin. I hear him heave. Hoowyack! And then I hear the splash of vomit hitting the tarmac.

  Pandey takes a bottle of water from the cabin. He gargles his mouth and clears his nose. When he returns he looks exhausted, harassed.

  “Bad food?”

  He doesn’t answer. He takes up the guard position.

  “Pandey?”

  “You’re a bastard,” he says. He doesn’t look at me. His throat sounds sore from the heaving. “We can’t do anything.

  What’s the point of knowing something if we can’t do anything?”

  “Why’d you vomit?”

  “I couldn’t take it,” he says. He looks at me, then looks away. “The tension was too much for me.”

  Vapors from his vomit reach us. Now even I could vomit.

  “I just want this to end, Mishra,” Pandey says. “I’ve been waiting since morning. You’ve spoiled my whole day. Now I just want someone to die. I’ve had enough.”

  Four-thirty.

  Four-forty-five.

  Five.

  Five-ten.

  Five-fifteen.

  Five-twenty.

  Five-twenty-one.

  Five-twenty-two.

  Five-twenty-three.

  Five-twenty-three.

  Five twenty-three.

  Pandey sees me tapping my watch. “What?”

  “It stopped!” I shout. I knock on the dial. “I was just looking at my watch! The second hand suddenly stopped!”

  I remove the watch from my wrist. I tap the dial several times. When I press it to my ear I hear a tomblike silence.

  “Let me see.” Pandey takes the watch. He mimics my motions. He hands it back. “The second hand is on twenty-three.”

  “Very strange,” I say.

  I hold the watch at a distance. This old metallic object suddenly seems dangerous, like a treacherous best friend. I throw the watch on the ground. After a moment’s hesitation, I bring my heel do
wn on it. Hard. Over and over and over. The dial is destroyed beyond recognition. I kick the heap of junk aside.

  “You could have saved the strap,” Pandey says.

  He doesn’t wear a watch. And now, neither do I. Without time, without hope, terrified and anxious, we stand with parted legs, raised necks, and hands locked behind our backs. But Pandey and I forget that we are to neither smile nor frown. Instead, we do both. Smiling, frowning, as we struggle to conceal a knowledge too significant to remain hidden, each of our faces contorts into an amused, quizzical grimace. Like schoolmasters who’ve shat their pants.

  Residents of Sea View Apartments start emerging from the building for their Sunday-evening constitutionals. As they walk in and out the gate, Pandey and I are given odd stares, strange glances, lingering looks. A child points at us and starts to cry. The child’s mother looks at Pandey and me. She gasps and hugs her child.

  “Act normal,” I whisper to Pandey.

  “What? How?”

  “Smile. Just smile,” I say. I force my lips into a smile. I glance at Pandey. His grimace gives way to a sad, constipated grin.

  Residents form groups of twos and threes in the compound. Something is being discussed very seriously. Worse, Pandey and I are being looked at repeatedly.

  A man breaks away from the group of residents and approaches the gate. “Mishra! Pandey!”

  “Ji, sir?” I say.

  “Haan, sir?” Pandey says.

  “What’s the problem?” the man demands. “You two are scaring everyone! Have you seen your faces? What happened?

  Why do you look so scared?”

  I peer at Pandey, hoping he will say something. But he is staring at the ground. As usual, it’s all up to me. “No, no problem, sir. We are just doing duty.”

  The man studies my face closely. “Why are you smiling like that, Mishra?”

  Now more residents, about fifteen to twenty of them, approach the gate.

  “What happened?” a woman asks the man who approached us first.

  “I don’t know,” the man says. “These two won’t tell. Look at their faces.”

  “Mishra, Pandey,” another man says. “What is the matter? Your faces are pale!”

  A woman yells, “Call up their head office! Their supervisor will make them … Oh my god!”

  Pandey’s legs have given way. He has collapsed on the ground.

  I am jostled aside as the residents rush to nurse Pandey. He is thrashing his head side to side.

  Someone throws water on his face. Pandey comes to and sits up. A doctor in the group checks his eyes. “It’s okay,” the doctor announces, “he’s all right!”

  Pandey nods in agreement.

  The residents of Sea View Apartments crowd around Pandey. Now they must have an explanation. “Don’t be afraid, son, tell me what’s wrong,” an old woman says.

  Pandey starts to weep. He buries his face in his hands and begins heaving. The old woman caresses his head. “Shh, it’s okay, just tell us what’s wrong …”

  Pandey raises his teary face. He looks at me. He points his finger and shouts, “Don’t ask me, ask him! Ask him!” And then he turns inconsolable.

  Nineteen sets of eyes glare at me. My face starts to twitch.

  A man says, “Mishra!”

  “Mishra!” two women shout simultaneously.

  Another man says, “Better say something, Mishra! Tell us what’s going on here!”

  Pandey is shaking his head to warn me. But silence is no longer an option.

  “Someone is going to die today,” I say.

  The residents issue a collective, “Haan?”

  “This morning a baba was passing outside the gate. He prophesied that today someone from this building was going to die.”

  A stunned silence. A dog barks. A bus rumbles by.

  “Hmm,” a man interjects.

  Residents look at each other with raised eyebrows. They don’t seem angry anymore. Their faces have a pensive, injured expression.

  Now I am shaking and dry-heaving like Pandey. I too am weeping. “I don’t want anyone to die …” I say. “Since morning Pandey and I have been worried … going out of our minds …

  who will die … will that sir die … will that madam die … who will die … ?”

  Residents are clucking their tongues and shaking their heads in pity.

  The old woman who pacified Pandey now squeezes my chin. “Mishra beta, it is all destiny. No one can predict death. What is going to happen, happens.”

  “No, maaji,” I say. “You are just saying this, but death is the worst thing to happen. No one ever wants to die …”

  “I want to!” an old man says. Everyone looks at him and he smiles nervously. “I mean, not right now, but I’m not afraid of death.”

  “See?” The old woman nods and smiles. She expects me to be comforted by what that man said.

  I smile back weakly.

  What if I told these people the truth? There was no babavaba. It’s me—I’m the harbinger of bad news, I’m the one who looks at everything and remembers everything and peers too deeply into the vault of reality.

  A middle-aged man steps forward and smiles kindly. “Arrey, brother, death is not something to be afraid of.”

  I nod.

  “He doesn’t seem too convinced,” a young woman points out.

  And then, when I thought the day couldn’t get stranger, events take a turn for the bizarre. The kindhearted residents of Sea View Apartments take it upon themselves to convince me of the insignificance of death. First, a show of hands is called for to see who isn’t afraid of dying. All nineteen residents gathered around the gate raise their arms.

  The old woman nods and smiles at me. “See?” she says.

  I smile back weakly.

  The young woman points out that I still don’t seem convinced.

  Next, all the residents are asked to describe how they would like to die. When they speak, they address me. “With a bang! Bam! I wouldn’t even want to know!” “No, not me, I’d like to know in advance.” “I want to go in my sleep, like my mother.” “I want a heart attack.” “I have cancer, so it’s not like I have a choice.” “Really? What kind?” “Liver.” “I want to die on stage.” “I at work.” So on and so forth, till all the residents have had their say. After the last person describes how he would like to die, everyone looks at me, smiling, nodding encouragingly. The old woman has taken to stroking my sideburn. “See?” she says, “nothing to be sad about. No one minds dying.”

  Unfortunately, the effect these morbid testimonies have on me is contrary to what was intended. Not only does my dread deepen, I now begin doubting the sanity of these men and women. “I appreciate all this,” I say, “thank you. I am sorry for spoiling your Sunday evening. I will pray for you all. I will pray for your safety and for a long life for all of you. God willing, no one will die.”

  The old woman’s face droops and she pulls her hand back. The residents seem irritated.

  “Are you bloody stupid or something?” a man standing near me says. His face is flushed.

  “N-no, sir,” I stutter. “I … I just said I will pray that—”

  “Oh shut the hell up!” the man says. “That’s what we’re trying to tell you. There’s nothing to be afraid of. There’s nothing to pray for. It’s okay to die.”

  I try to smile. “No, I know, sir. I understand. Nothing to be afraid of. Nothing to pray for. I’m sure no one will die.”

  The man clenches his jaw. “You are really pissing me off, pal!” he shouts.

  A woman standing beside him pats his shoulder. “Cool it, na!”

  The old woman exhales noisily and shakes her head at me. I look around. Everyone seems disapproving.

  I say, “But why is he getting so angry? I am not saying anything! I am agreeing with him. There is nothing to be afraid of. Nothing to pray for. Anyway, I’m sure no one will die.”

  “Unnhh!” The man tugs at his hair. “Stop saying that! Stop saying that!
I’m sure no one will die. I’m sure no one will die. Why are you even saying that? So what if someone dies!”

  Now this is too much. “But I don’t want anyone to die!”

  “Aaaarrggghh!” the man shouts. He jumps forward and grabs me by the elbow. “You come! Bloody come with me!”

  He starts pulling me and I look around for help. But the others are too stunned to react. The man drags me to the road outside the gate.

  Now we are standing on the road, on the very spot where Paresh-bhai was crushed by the truck. Buses, cars, taxis, and scooters are whizzing past just a few feet away from us.

  The residents have followed us out. All eighteen of them are milling behind me and the angry man clutching me by the elbow.

  I lose my cool. “Sir, just let go of my arm. Don’t make a scene. You are overreacting. I didn’t say anything wrong, okay?

  Let me get back to duty. I’m sure no one will die.”

  “Again?” the man screams.

  He slaps me hard on my left cheek.

  And the next moment, letting go of my arm, he dives forward in the path of an oncoming BEST bus.

  * * *

  A balcony door slamming in the wind + Bus 65 passing outside the gate + someone shouting Tunnu + an itch on my left thigh = the arrival of a parcel from abroad.

  A catfight across the road + a crying child + a woman in a magenta sari + the eight-floor resident’s Palio entering the gate = a stranger trying to trespass into Sea View Apartments.

  Children playing in the compound + the sixth-floor resident returning home early + a dog and bitch fornicating behind a parked car = Baadal veering into the gate, keeling over, and spilling his entire can of tea.

  A girl in a black miniskirt + three crows perched on the first-floor window + a traffic jam + the sound of laughter = a seismic tremor.

  I could go on. I also remember, for instance, the chain of events leading to a brawl on the street, a storm, and a pain in my chest. Some days I want to gouge my eyes out and silence my ears with molten lead. Maybe then all this remembering will cease. Or maybe then, and this is what I fear, my memory will latch on to some other unknown sense.