Bombay Time

by Thrity Umrigar

  Fear and some vestige of national pride made his voice sound harsher than he intended. “What homeland? India is your homeland. This is where you were born, where you were going to school, getting a job, having friends, going to picnics and parties. That way, as a Parsi, I, too, can claim that our original homeland was all of Persia— what is now Iran, Iraq, Israel, everything. Zoroastrianism was the religion of the whole area, you know. We were the original settlers. But do you see us going to the Shah of Iran and asking for our homeland? Do you see us Parsis asking those Arabs to give us a new country?”

  “And do you see you Parsis losing six million of your own people in the Holocaust?” Mariam said fiercely. “Six million dead bodies just because one German bastard was sick in the head?”

  Soli stared at Mariam. He had never seen her like this. Something had happened to her while in Goa, something that had changed her in a way that put her out of his reach. Suddenly, he was battling for his life, for his future happiness. “Mariam, I’m not arguing with you. What happened in Germany was the worst kind of sin. God will never forgive those Germans, that much, I know. But darling, all those millions who died, how are they your people? You didn’t even know them. Your mummy and daddy and your brothers and me—we are your people. All those who love you. And if you marry me, my mamma and my friends will become your people. And nobody will be hurting you here, I promise. After all, they will have to fight me first. India is your country, Mariam. You are a pucca Bombayite, born and bred here.”

  “Soli?” she said slowly. “What if I asked you to leave everything and everybody you know here and come with me to Israel. Would you do it?”

  He looked shocked. “Now Mariam, be reasonable. My whole life is here. Who will look after my mamma when she is old if I go away? And what would I be doing in Israel anyway, among all those bearded Jews? I’ve never even left Bombay, let alone going to Israel.”

  “But you expect me to leave my parents and David and Solomon and stay on. I love you very much Soli, but I can’t marry you. Something happened to me last week that I can’t explain. It’s almost as if my love for you has expanded to include millions of others. And yes, you’re correct, they’re strangers to me, but in a way they’re also my family. We were always raised to think of ourselves as Bombayites first, but Nizzim Uncle says that’s a mistake. That’s how Hitler won, he says, because the Jews thought of themselves as Germans, even when nobody else did. There is a new country being built for Jews and by Jews. I want to be part of it.”

  His face turned dark with rage. “And what is India, then, just a dirty handkerchief for blowing your nose and then throwing away? It was good enough for you people all these years. And now that we are finally having our freedom, now that the British have returned to their cucumber sandwiches and fish and chips, now at the most exciting time, you all will leave India.”

  “Well, the Jews always were a wandering people,” Mariam said with a sad smile he didn’t understand. For some reason that sad smile, so remote, so timeless in its grief, upset him more.

  “The Hindus always complain that the Parsis don’t act like they belong to India, that they are always having their noses up in the air, but you people are the Parsi’s Parsi,” he said bitterly. Then his face collapsed with pain. “But Mariam, if you were leaving, why all this?” he said, his hand sweeping over the bed. “Why all the kissing and hugging and dating? Were you making a chootia out of me, or what? You didn’t even give me a hint about what Abe Uncle was thinking.”

  “Soli, I swear to you that everything that I’ve told you has happened in the last week. Daddy says he and Mummy have been discussing the move for over a year, but nobody told me a thing. I guess they first wanted to see how David and Solomon would do in Israel.

  “As for what happened in this room—I wish I could tell you that I’m sorry that it did, that I regret it. But I don’t. Soli, you are the kindest, funniest man I have ever met. You have made these last five months magical for me. I am sorry that I seem to come into your life only to hurt you. Believe me, there’s no one in this world whom I want to hurt less. And Soli, promise me this. Never forget that no matter where I’ll be, I’ll carry you in my heart. Always. You must believe me when I say this.”

  It was over. He had lost her a second time. He felt empty, past the point of rage and accusation. He wanted to say something, wanted to hold her in his arms one more time, but he suddenly felt so shy and awkward around her that he hoped she would leave.

  Mariam must have sensed his discomfort, because she said she had to run along. When she stood at the front door with her hand on the knob, he walked over and kissed her lightly on the forehead. Mariam took his right hand in hers, raised it to her lips, and kissed it in such an intense, ritualistic way, that he thought it was some ancient Jewish custom he knew nothing about. It dawned on him how little he knew of Mariam, her religion and her history. He felt ashamed of himself. He should have asked more questions, learned more about her religion. How naive he had been in thinking that love could build a bridge over history.

  And then she was gone. His hand still tingled from where her mouth had been. He felt a mad, animal need to rush down the stairs and plead his case with Mariam again. He could not lose her like this, so easily, with so little of a fight. Surely there were some words that he could say that would make her realize what she was giving up. But when he thought of the specific words, nothing came to mind. He felt exhausted and spent. He had a sudden image of being seven years old and at school. An older bully was twisting his hand behind his back while Soli bit his lip from the pain. They were both engaged in a silent contest of wills. Pain filled Soli’s body, but the older boy would not slacken his grip. Finally, bending over until he was down on one knee, his mouth tasting of salt, Soli cried out, “I give up.” Immediately, the grip slackened and he felt better.

  He went to the window and opened the curtain. Mariam was hurrying away, without a look back. “I give up,” he whispered to her receding form. Then, again: “I give you up.”

  When he turned back to face the room, it seemed shabbier than it had an hour ago. He noticed the peeling paint, the cracks in the floor tile, the frayed corners of the lamp shade. A fly buzzed around where the tandoori chicken lay open and untouched. He heard his own footsteps as he walked toward the bed. He sat down at its edge. The bed still bore Mariam’s imprint, and absently, he ran his hand lightly against it.

  Then Soli Contractor put his head in his hands and wept. He wept as he had not wept since he was thirteen years old and he saw his father’s still form laid out in white, knowing that in a few moments this big jovial man would be pecked at by vultures. He cried for himself and for Mariam, for the couple they might have been, for the children they would never have. He cried for his poor mamma, who would go to her grave asking for a daughter-in-law. He cried for the six million anonymous strangers whom Mariam had called her people. He cried for India, for losing a family as fine as the Rubins, and he cried in rage at Israel for stealing them away from him. He cried for the ghosts of history who had entered and destroyed his life in such a visible way.

  Thinking back to the previous time he had been in this room, when Mariam and he had transformed it from a run-down apartment into a holy altar, Soli cried some more. He cried for the drops of blood on a blue sheet, which would never be shed again. He cried for the contentment at the sound of running water that he would never feel again. He cried for the singing of the flesh that he would hear no more—for his limp and useless hands, for his passive, tasteless tongue, for his yellow, dulled heart. He cried for the slow, dull trickle of blood in his veins and for his heavy and useless legs, which, disentangled from Mariam’s, could no longer hold him up.

  In the distance, he heard something breaking, like fallen china.

  It was only the sound of his dying heart.

  Seven

  She couldn’t help herself. For the seventh time that evening, Tehmi Engineer looked hurriedly around, making sure that no one was w
atching her. Coomi Bilimoria had been talking to her a few minutes ago but had now moved a few feet away, doing that strange thing with her eyes that only Tehmi seemed to notice. Confident that no one was paying her any attention, Tehmi let her right hand travel discreetly to her left armpit. Shifting her sleeveless blouse ever so slightly, she moved her middle finger in a circular motion until she found what she was looking for.

  A lump. Probably the size of a small grape, Tehmi reckoned. But unlike a grape, this lump didn’t feel soft and squishy. Instead, it was as though a hard pebble had made itself at home under her skin. She had accidentally discovered it while in the shower, about a week ago. But on that day, preoccupied as she was with shopping for a new sari to wear to Mehernosh Kanga’s wedding, she hadn’t given the matter much thought. But that night, she had accidentally touched it while falling asleep, and this time, the hardness of the lump against her fingers had jolted her awake. Curious, she’d pressed down on it, gingerly poking around its edges, ready to wince if the pressure hurt. But the lump was strangely painless. She racked her brains to remember if she had accidentally injured herself, but she couldn’t imagine how she could have hurt herself in such an inaccessible place.

  As the word cancer formed in her brain, she froze. That’s impossible, she’d told herself, 100 percent impossible. But then, the second treacherous thought: Why impossible? Her stomach lurched violently at the thought of being sick, but it wasn’t the illness itself that troubled her as much as the formalities of illness: the visit to her grave-faced family doctor, the mammogram, the referral to a cancer specialist, perhaps a biopsy. Tehmi knew of five Parsi women in the past three years who had had breast cancer. It was an epidemic sweeping through the community, like the influenza epidemic that had crippled her hometown when she was a little girl, three years before her family moved to Bombay. Tehmi felt overwhelmed and tired at the thought of spending the next few weeks in the waiting rooms of doctors’ offices. Also, she thought, whom can I ask to go with me when I visit the doctor? Who will be there for me while I wait for the diagnosis? Automatically, Tehmi’s mind leapt back to the dual tragedies that had befallen her over forty years ago. Those incidents had slowly banished her from the community and sense of engagement that the other residents of Wadia Baug took for granted. In fact, Tehmi was the only Wadia Baug resident who did not mind being the target of Dosamai’s gossip, because it was proof that she existed, that she surfaced occasionally in the minds of people living beside her.

  Lying alone in bed, her finger rubbing compulsively against the newly discovered lump, the loneliness that Tehmi’s forced exile had bestowed upon her threatened to overpower her. Who would sit with her for long hours if she needed chemotherapy? Who would visit her in the hospital if she needed surgery? Who would take care of her when she returned home? What would be worse, she wondered—if her neighbors continued to avoid her as they had done in the decades since the day she learned that grief had its own peculiar stench, or if they suddenly came to her rescue, their newfound compassion a taunting reminder of the long, barren years when it had been lost? Which would be harder to bear, the sting of pity or the slap of indifference? The pain of continued exile or the pain of a prodigal’s return home?

  Then again, it could be nothing. Tehmi also knew of women who’d spent weeks believing they were staring death in the face, only to have death remove its mask to reveal a child’s gleeful grin. It could all turn out to be so harmless, like stepping onto solid ground after a scary Ferris wheel ride.

  Toward dawn, she had made up her mind: She would do nothing— yet. She would simply keep an eye on this strange fruit growing in her body, hope that it would disappear as suddenly as it had appeared. And if it didn’t—well, she was sixty-three years old. She had already lived several times as long as Cyrus had. She had taken up space on this planet, drunk its water, eaten its fruits and grains, feasted on its animals, for over six long decades. Enough was enough. No need to be so pathetically invested in life. She remembered seeing Amy’s chest after her mastectomy, the snakelike scar that ran across a chest as flat as the Deccan Plateau. She had forced herself to make one of her rare hospital visits to see Amy after her surgery because Amy had sent food for Tehmi and her mother for a week after Cyrus’s death, and one thing about Tehmi, she never forgot a kindness. But seeing Amy with those plastic drain bottles coming out of her like drooping wings made Tehmi wish she had not gone. And when the sick woman unexpectedly asked her if she’d like to see the scar, some mixture of pity and morbidity made her say yes.

  It was a mistake. The scar reminded her of why she had turned away from unpleasant things ever since Cyrus’s death, why she had carefully built for herself a sanitary life, a life minus blood, urine, and pus, a life where children did not enter (because, after all, children get older and sometimes even die), where the tearings and brushings and bruisings of human intercourse were kept at arm’s length. Of course, it made for a lonely life, but Tehmi felt she had ample justification for choosing a clean life. Once a woman has witnessed the human body distorted beyond recognition, once she has smelled the distinct, unmistakable smell of charred flesh from a body that used to smell of rose water and eau de cologne, then that woman has the right to turn away from all things ugly, Tehmi believed. And if that turning away required her to sacrifice most of humanity, so be it.

  But some stenches never die. Once inhaled, they stay buried in the guts of the person inhaling them, sending up their ghastly vapors at inopportune times. Thus, Cyrus lived inside of Tehmi even after his death. On one hand, it made her feel close to him, as if he had never really left her. On the other, carrying around a dead man who stunk to the high heavens ensured that few of the living wanted to befriend her. Years ago, she had been confronted with a choice. She chose the dead.

  It was a bright Tuesday afternoon in October, two days after Tehmi’s twentieth birthday. She had been sitting in the Elphinstone College cafeteria with her friend Naju when she looked up and saw a handsome young man walking toward them. With a quick glance, Tehmi took in the straight back, the muscled, sun-kissed arms, the big brown eyes. But most of all, she was mesmerized by the mop of curly dark brown hair that shone like a halo in the afternoon sunlight. “Don’t look now,” she whispered to Naju, “but there’s a real lollipop walking toward us.”

  As if on cue, Naju promptly looked over her shoulder. She let out a groan as the stranger reached their table. “Oh God, that’s no lollipop, Tehmi,” she said loudly. “That’s just my idiotic older brother, Cyrus. This is my friend Tehmi. Say hello to her, Cyrus, and then tell me what historic occasion has brought you here.” Even as she blushed and returned Cyrus’s greeting, Tehmi could now see the resemblance between her friend and the man who stood grinning at his sister.

  “Not even an offer to sit down and have a cup of chai, Naju?” he said in an ironic voice laced with laughter.

  “If I offer you chai, I know I’ll be the one paying for it, you loafer. So first tell me how much money you need to borrow and then I’ll see if I can afford tea.”

  Cyrus pulled up a chair. “Such distrust,” he said in a sad voice, although his eyes gleamed with mischief. “A pity, really, in someone of such tender years. Your poor husband is going to have a tough time. …”

  “Not to worry about my nonexistent husband. I’m more concerned about my very existent brother, who I know hasn’t come all this way to talk about my marriage prospects.”

  Cyrus smiled a slow smile, which made Tehmi’s stomach flip in a way it never had before. Tilting back in his chair, he turned to face Tehmi. “Miss Tehmi, it is, correct?” he said. “Well, Miss Tehmi, I appeal to your sense of fair play. Let us assume, for a moment, that a man does need a small loan. Notice, I said loan, as in something that will be repayed. Let’s say that our man has finished a tough exam at his law college and in order to soothe his weary mind, he decides to take a walk down Colaba Causeway. There, he spots a pair of shoes, made of fine Italian leather. Now, this man could have instea
d gone to the Gateway of India and stared out at the water for a few hours to calm his tired brain. But fate decreed otherwise. It led him by the hand to a pair of fine Italian shoes. Can you blame the man for believing that it is his destiny to own those shoes? But fate, as we know, is cruel. And so it happens that when the poor, wretched man opens his wallet, he finds he is short by a few measly rupees. Then, inspiration strikes. He remembers that his younger sister—the same sister he has done countless favors for, I may add—is at nearby Elphinstone College. The tug of ancient bloodlines pulls him toward her college. He walks as if in a fog. Only she can help him fulfill his true destiny. Only she can—”

  But here, Cyrus’s voice cracked with repressed laughter and the three of them burst out laughing. “Bas, has, Cyrus, even for you, this is too much,” Naju spluttered.

  However, Cyrus was not quite done. “And so, Miss Tehmi,” he resumed. “I’d like you to be the judge. Is it such a sin for a poor law student to ask his prosperous younger sister for a small loan? Especially when it’s for such a good cause? Tell you what, Miss Tehmi. I’ll let you decide my fate.”

  Lust rose like steam within Tehmi. I’d like to decide your fate, you baby doll, she thought. I think you should marry me, myself.

  She turned to Naju. “Come on, yaar. Give him a few rupees.”

  “Bravo.” Cyrus beamed. “Good judgment call, Tehmi. A girl after my own heart. You heard her, Naju. What are you waiting for? Cough up the money.”

  Naju grumbled as she reached into her purse. ‘‘Saala beshara?n,” she said. “Turning my best friend against me. God knows how you do this, but you pulled it off again. Here, this money is just to have you shut up, you rascal.”