Bombay Time

by Thrity Umrigar

  A chastised Mani Engineer stared at her daughter-in-law in shame and awe. “Right you are, Tehmi,” she said at last. “My Cyrus will return home safe and sound this evening. I will light a diva in the agyari for seven days to celebrate his safe arrival.”

  Tehmi knew she needed to go downstairs and use the phone at the Irani restaurant to call someone to go tell her mother that she was okay. But she was strangely reluctant to move, to change this configuration on the floor that she was part of. As long as they did not let the outside world in through the front door, they were safe. Safe in their illusions maybe, safe in the cocoon of denial, but safe nevertheless. Outside lay reality, with teeth and claws as sharp as those of the white tiger from her dreams. Outside lay news that had the potential to destroy lives, news of Cyrus’s fate.

  But eventually, reality rang the doorbell and Dali Engineer got up from the floor to answer its call. It was Cyrus’s boyhood friend Percy, who lived around the corner from the Engineers. “Dali Uncle, oh, please, I’m so sorry. Oh, Dali Uncle, please, give me some good news. Tell me Cyrus has not gone to work today.”

  Dali looked confused. “I’m sorry, deekra. If you are needing to talk to Cyrus, you’ll have to wait until he returns this evening. Of course he’s at work right now. Hope your problem can wait till evening.”

  Percy stared at Dali in mortification. “Dali Uncle … what are you saying? Cyrus at work? Then you haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what, Percy?” Dali said, an edge to his voice.

  But Percy had spotted Tehmi behind Dali, and he lurched toward her, as if hoping that the same question asked twice would produce a different answer. “Tehmi, hi. Listen, Cyrus didn’t go to work today, did he?”

  But then Dali’s legendary temper flared. “Percy, would you stop this nonsense and tell me what’s going on? All of us have had enough excitement for today, what with the earthquake and all. We’ve already said that Cyrus is at work. Now, what’s the problem?”

  Percy raised his voice to match Dali’s, but his had the thin string of hysteria running through it. “That wasn’t an earthquake at all. That was a massive explosion at Bombay Chemicals. Most of the plant is destroyed. If Cyrus is at the factory, he’s dead.”

  Dimly, Tehmi heard the shouting and then the sound of a scuffle. Mani had heard the last part of Percy’s words, and before she could stop herself, she slapped the messenger. There were raised voices, screams, the muffled sounds of women crying. But Tehmi didn’t care. She felt removed from the theater of grief around her, as if she were a visitor from some sunny, magical planet, untouched by the tyrannies of mortal flesh. Leaning against a wall, she felt herself sinking slowly toward the floor.

  Percy caught her just before she hit the floor.

  They had to wait four days before they got Cyrus’s body. And when they finally did, it was scarcely worth the effort, because this ravaged, charred body was not Cyrus. Tehmi’s mother had fought with her tooth and nail about not looking at the body, but Tehmi would not hear of it. “I looked at him while he was alive and I will not send him from this world without looking at his face again,” she said. But she miscalculated. It did not occur to her that she would feel nothing but revulsion for the hideous black face before her, that she would fail to find a trace of the man she loved in the object she saw. The Cyrus she knew and loved had skin kissed by the sun and not lashed by fire. Cyrus had soft curly hair, but the body before her had burned hair stiff as paper. The Cyrus she had married smelled of roses and lavender, but the stranger before her emitted a smell that made her gag. Instead of pity or sorrow, she felt hate. She was unprepared for the sudden blinding anger she felt toward Cyrus for putting himself in this position, for allowing himself to die such an ugly, gruesome, unresisting death. “You let me down, Cyloo,” she whispered as she flinched away from the shriveled piece of flesh before her. “You were supposed to teach me how to laugh, feel joy. Now you have stuck the sharpest knife into my heart. Less than three years of marriage and you have left. How do I laugh now? Now that the teacher has gone away, what is the student to do?”

  They had already started the funeral ceremonies before they were given the body. Tehmi had wanted to wait, holding on to a vain hope that Cyrus was injured but alive, but the elders prevailed. “It’s our Parsi custom, beta” Dali Engineer intoned. “Without the proper ceremonies, my Cyrus’s soul will be left to linger, not reaching its final resting place. Besides, the newspapers say there is no chance that anyone could have survived the blast.”

  All over the city, funerals were being planned. The first blast had been followed by a second, deadlier one. The Engineers never found out if Cyrus had died in the first or second explosion. But for the rest of his days, Dali Engineer prayed that his son had been killed instantaneously, as had scores of other workers.

  Tehmi walked through the week as in a dream. The Engineers insisted that both she and her mother stay at their home until they received news about Cyrus, and she agreed because she was too tired to care. Besides, the thought of facing the Wadia Baug apartment, to which Cyrus had brought so much laughter and sunlight, was unbearable. Friends from Wadia Baug whom Cyrus had collected like trophies came to visit, to stand vigil with Tehmi, but still, she felt utterly alone. “Tehmi,” fifteen-year-old Rusi Bilimoria whispered to her during that period. “You know, everyone always makes fun of me for being such a dreamer, but Cyrus doesn’t. He understands. Besides, I really believe in the power of hope, you know? I feel it in my bones that Cyrus is okay. You keep hoping and praying, promise?”

  Somehow, Rusi’s words penetrated, probably because he referred to Cyrus in the present tense. That’s how she thought of Cyrus, too, and it irritated her no end that everybody else had switched to the past tense in talking about her husband. “That’s okay, Cyloo,” she whispered to herself then. “They may be ready to turn on you, but I’m not ready to give up yet. I’ll make those vultures fight with me for every piece of you, I promise.”

  Of course, those were the good old days. That was before she knew how little flesh there would be left to fight over.

  Looking at Rusi now, still lean and straight-backed, but with eyes that seemed heartbreakingly sad and old, Tehmi felt a gush of affection and gratitude for the gangly, dreamy teenager who had tried so hard to console her during that wretched week. She remembered overhearing what Rusi said to a friend on the day of Cyrus’s funeral. “We shouldn’t be talking of Cyrus’s death; we should be talking about his martyrdom. Our building has lost its crown prince today.” She never told Rusi, but that snippet of overheard conversation put starch in her back that day, helped her go through her twenty-five-year-old husband’s funeral with grace and dignity. Because his words so completely echoed what was in her own heart. She was just grateful that someone else knew the enormity of what was lost, that someone else understood that Cyrus’s was no ordinary death because Cyrus was no ordinary man.

  She wanted to tell Rusi this today, wanted to thank him for his kindness from decades ago, but then she remembered the days that followed and all the things that had happened since. She forced herself to remember that by the first anniversary of Cyrus’s death, all the neighbors and friends disappeared, so that she and her mother were the only ones who left for the agyari at 5:30 A.M. that morning to meet with the Engineers and listen to a half-sleepy dastoor pray for Cyrus’s soul. No one else came; no one visited. It was as if the happy times when Cyrus lived in Wadia Baug had never existed. The odor of her grief had chased them all away.

  Three days after Cyrus’s funeral, she fell into a deep sleep. She had barely slept during the days that she kept vigil for her doomed husband, afraid to miss that dazzling moment when she would receive word that Cyrus was safe, that somehow he had charmed or tricked death into letting him go. But then she slept for eleven straight hours. When she awoke, it was 7:00 P.M., and for a moment, she thought it was early next morning. As her heavy eyes searched in the dark for the clock, she became aware of a terrible taste in her mouth. I
t was not the usual sour taste of sleep. Rather, this was the taste of burned flesh, a taste so pungent and sharp that she was afraid to swallow. Leaping out of bed, Tehmi headed for the bathroom sink. There, she vigorously brushed her teeth, using more toothpaste than ever before. She ran the toothbrush over her tongue, scrubbing so hard that she spat tiny traces of blood. Next, she gargled with warm salt water. But it was of no use. The taste of charred flesh would not leave her mouth.

  Tehmi’s vigorous gargling attracted her mother’s attention. “Su che, deekra?” she asked. “Your throat is hurting or something? Put on some Vicks if it is. So much tension you’ve been under, no wonder you’re not well.”

  Tehmi opened her mouth to correct her mother and the old woman flinched as if she had been slapped with a dead fish. “Baap re, Tehmi,” she gasped. “What is that smell from your mouth? What have you been eating, beta?”

  She stared at her mother. So the taste in her mouth had an odor, could be spotted by others. She wondered if it smelled as bad to her mother as it tasted to her. Instinctively, she covered her mouth before she spoke. “Haven’t eaten anything since that scrambled egg you made this morning,” she mumbled. “That’s why only I’ve been brushing my teeth. My mouth has a horrible taste.”

  Her mother looked worried. “Maybe the egg was rotten. But that was so early this morning. I didn’t even wake you for lunch today. Thought you needed to sleep. Are you having motions, Tehmi? Perhaps it’s indigestion or diarrhea.”

  But she was healthy in every other way. Her mother insisted that she go to a doctor, but Tehmi resisted. Dinabai had already spent too much money on Cyrus’s funeral, and she hated to waste money on a doctor. Besides, Dr. Poonawala would ask to look down her throat, and she was embarrassed to expose him to an odor that made even her own mother cringe. In the weeks that followed, she took to speaking less and less at home and covered her mouth when she did speak. After a few feeble tries, Dinabai did not disturb her as she sat for long hours staring into space or writing in her book. The older woman had herself known deadly grief and she respected its authority. And truth be told, she was afraid of hurting her daughter’s feelings with her involuntarily flinches each time Tehmi opened her mouth. Whatever deadly germ was lodged in her daughter’s mouth gave Dinabai the dry heaves. Despite her best intentions, Tehmi’s mother felt relief when her daughter did not open her mouth for hours.

  Dali and Mani Engineer stopped by two weeks after the funeral to check on their daughter-in-law. They were shocked at the sight that greeted them. Tehmi’s hair was disheveled, her eyes blank. There was a faint dry crust of white around her mouth. Tehmi saw the shock in their eyes and was mortified. She was excruciatingly aware of the damp patches of sweat near the armpits of her dress, her uncombed hair, her uncut black fingernails. Afraid of making them nauseous with what would escape from her mouth, she refused to speak to them, but this only bewildered them further. “Tehmi, deekra, don’t be angry at us, please?” Mani said, misunderstanding her silence. “Only reason we haven’t come sooner is Dali was unwell. But we pray to God twenty-four hours a day to give you strength, believe me.” Tehmi tried to tell Mani with her eyes that she understood, but the occasion called for words. Finally, the Engineers got up to leave, hurt and bewildered by her strange behavior. Tehmi refused to see them out, so Dinabai slipped on a vest over her duster coat and walked them to the main gate. Dali, already racked with guilt, turned to Tehmi’s mother on the way out. “I always liked your Tehmi,” he said. “My objection to their marriage had nothing to do with her, believe me.”

  “I know, I know, Dalibhai,” Dina consoled. “Trust me, Tehmi is not angry at you. Far from it. It’s just that—there’s another problem. Nothing to do with what you’re thinking.”

  “Problem? Any problem, Dinabai, I’m at your service. Tehmi is not just your daughter but our daughter, too. Tehmi is a proud girl; she won’t tell us. But you tell us—what problem is she having?”

  “Bad breath.” The look of incredulity on Dali’s face spurred Dina on. “It’s not a joke. Something has happened to Tehmi. Three days after the last ceremony, she woke up with it. When she talks, it’s a smell so bad that—God forgive me, for she’s my own flesh and blood—even I have a hard time trying not to vomit. It’s made her so quiet, my heart aches. And yet, God save me, I’m glad when she’s quiet.” Dinabai looked ready to cry.

  The Engineers exchanged a glance. Dali cleared his throat. “But Dinabai, surely this is not a serious problem. We can take Tehmi to our family doctor. Probably just needs some strong dava to clear it up.”

  “I tried getting her to go to Dr. Poonawala,” Dina said excitedly. “But what to do, Dali? She refuses to step out of the house.”

  Mani spoke up. “I’ll have Naju talk to her. Better to have someone her own age talk to her. Naju needs to come see her anyway. It … it will be good for both of them.”

  Indeed, it took plain-speaking Naju to get Tehmi into Dr. Poon-awala’s clinic. “What are you going to do, sit in your flat like some old hag, waiting for the problem to go away?” Naju cried in exasperation. “What if it takes weeks to clear up, Tehmi? Why torture yourself and your poor mummy with this horrible smell? Stinks like you swallowed a dead rat or something.”

  Dr. Poonawala prescribed some medication, assured her the problem would be resolved within four days, and expressed puzzlement when she returned a week later. “Let’s try it for another week,” he intoned. “Some cases are more difficult than others.”

  But there was no improvement by the following week. A perplexed Poonawala switched medications. “This powder is ten times as strong as the last one. Should clear it right up. Sorry to have not tried this medicine the first time.”

  The next time she left to visit Poonawala’s clinic, Rusi Bilimoria spotted her as she left Wadia Baug. “Tehmi, wait,” he said, catching up with her. “How have you been? I’ve rung your doorbell many times, but your mummy always says you’re sleeping or not feeling well. Anything I can do to help you, you have only to say.”

  Moved by his words, his warm, intense expression reminding her of Cyrus’s kind, beloved face, Tehmi spoke before she realized what she was doing. “Rusi, hello. Thank you for your concern. I’ve been well, just resting. You know, I’m so—”

  She stopped abruptly, having noticed that Rusi had drawn in his breath sharply and was looking away. Instinctively, her hand flew up to her mouth. “Sorry, so sorry,” she muttered. “Some minor problem I’m having.”

  Rusi, realizing that Tehmi had noticed his instinctive reaction, looked mortified. “No, no, no, I’m sorry,” he murmured. He stared at her, unsure of what to say next, willing his body not to react if Tehmi opened her mouth again. Suddenly, he wished his mother was with him. But Tehmi was done talking. After a few agonizing seconds, she nodded sharply and resumed walking. Rusi walked back home, furious with himself. Surely the smell was not as bad as all that, he said to himself. You behaved liked a bastard. But at the thought of the smell, his stomach heaved again.

  Tehmi arrived at the clinic that day desperate to find a cure for this strange problem—she couldn’t believe it was a disease; there were no other symptoms. She watched Dr. Poonawala closely to pick up on any signs that he was shunning her, but the doctor was a consummate professional. But his quiet, unflinchingly kind manner offended her that day. Of course he can tolerate me, she told herself as she left with yet another prescription. He’s used to working with cadavers and God knows what other foulness. Compared to dead bodies, I probably smell like a rose.

  And then she saw Cyrus’s remains again, smelled again the terrible foul smell of rotting, burning flesh. And it clicked. She was tasting Cyrus in her mouth. It was as if she had inhaled Cyrus that day at the morgue, taken him in through the pores of her skin and now he was lodged inside her, festering, smoldering. She was both repelled and comforted by the thought. It scared and disgusted her to realize what had happened, that somehow what she had seen and smelled at the morgue that day had foll
owed her home, had lodged itself inside her skin, seeped into her bones, danced on her tongue, found its resting place inside her mouth. But it also comforted her to know that Cyrus was still with her, that she could call on him, talk to him whenever she wanted. That she could taste him in her mouth. She felt as if she had tricked death somehow, found a way around the finality of death to hold on to Cyrus. Yes, this was not the Cyrus of her dreams, but if she could not have the Cyrus who smelled of talcum powder, she would at least have the Cyrus who smelled and looked like burned rubber. Cyrus, too, must have missed her so badly, longed for her so very much, to have gone to such lengths to come to her. She felt gratified and humbled at the thought of her dead husband proving his love to her from beyond the grave.

  As she walked, she felt a lifting of the thin, brittle feeling that had grabbed her from the day that Cyrus had not come home. The encounter with Rusi now seemed insignificant, as did her earlier desire to beg Dr. Poonawala for a cure. What did it matter if she lost a friend, one breath at a time? What did it matter who from the building still spoke to her? What did it matter that even her own mother turned away each time she spoke? Cyrus had not abandoned her. He had kept his promise never to leave her. She laughed out loud at the thought. Of course Cyrus had kept his word. When had Cyrus been anything but honest and loyal to her? Now it was her turn. She was only angry at herself for not recognizing earlier the extent of Cyrus’s love for her. How sad Cyrus must have felt when she didn’t recognize him right away, how hurt he must have been each time she swallowed one of Dr. Poonawala’s powders or brushed her tongue with one of his pastes. As if she was trying to kill Cyrus, flush him out of her life, like an unwanted fetus.

  No more. She said the words out loud. “No more.” Said it as her grip loosened on the paper bag containing Dr. Poonawala’s powders. Cyrus over everyone else. Repeated it as she dropped the bag on the sidewalk and kept walking, without looking back. “No more.” In the battle between the living and the dead, it was no contest. Cyrus had come back to her, not abandoned her, not turned away from her. He had chosen her. Now it was her turn to choose him.