He flinched. “Philomena. Don’t be silly. I was just thinking of you—you know, your reputation and all.”
“Are you a politician or a Mafia man, that my reputation will be hurt if people know I’m going out with you? Come on, yaar. It’s not like we’re nine-year-olds or something. Anyway, Adi, I’m a frank, open person. I’m telling you, I cannot live like a thief. If you can’t handle that, I’ll just leave this very minute. Either you’re proud to be with me or you’re not. Besides, darling, I think it’s your reputation you’re worried about, not mine. Dating a non-Parsi and all.”
“Not at all, not at all,” he replied, shaking his head vigorously. “Not being a Parsi has nothing to do with it.” And it was true. He had already decided that if his mother ever resented the fact that Philomena was a Catholic, he would play his ace. “Mummy, listen,” he would say. “So Philomena isn’t a Parsi. But this chokri is so good for me, I haven’t touched a drop since I’ve met her.” Which was not a lie. The urge to drink had dropped away from Adi like an old coat that no longer fit. And Philomena seemed to have exorcised Saraswati from his life, too.
Philomena brought back to life some part of him that the encounter with Saraswati had snuffed out even before it had fully bloomed. He marveled at how easily she awoke the dead parts of him. That day in the Chinese restaurant, he told her, “Darling, I am so proud of you, you have no idea. If I was hiding you, it was only because I don’t want anybody to steal the treasure I have found. But if you want people to know, if you don’t mind their stupid gossip, I don’t care.” To his astonishment, he found that he believed what he had said.
He began spending Friday evenings playing cards with her friends. He was amazed at how comfortable he felt with this boisterous, youthful group of people, at how easily they accepted him. His uncle and aunt made good-natured comments about how little they were seeing of their nephew these days and were rewarded by his happy, shy smile. He knew he would have to bring Philomena home sometime soon, but he was eager not to rush things, afraid of anything or anybody interrupting his period of hard-earned bliss. Some evenings, Adi and Philomena would go to Apollo Bunder after work and sit by the banks of the sea for hours. Or he would take her to Chowpatty Beach and they would find a secluded spot to neck furiously on the brown sands. Despite his incredible longing for this woman who gave herself so fully to him, Adi always managed to keep himself from going too far. When he made love to Philomena for the first time, it would be in a real bed with clean white sheets, he decided.
So he was stunned when, after a spell of frustrated necking, Philomena turned to him and said, “Adi, this waiting is getting too hard, men. Can we not get a hotel room or something?”
He stared at her. Where he came from, women who asked for sex were considered to be whores, loose women of poor character. It was the man’s job to keep asking for it, to beg, plead, and cajole, until he succeeded in wearing the woman down. For a second, he was offended, as if Philomena had somehow stolen his role and his lines. But then he felt incredibly lucky and happy. A woman loved him enough to want to sleep with him. Instead of whimpering or cowering from him, a woman had openly, frankly expressed her lust to him. She had thought of herself as his equal and not as his victim.
That Saturday, they checked into a hotel on Juhu Beach. From their room, they could hear the tossing and turning of the sea. The sound steadied Adi, made him feel as though what they were about to do fit in with the natural order of things.
It was only his second time with a woman, the first having been the unhappy episode with Saraswati. Somehow, Philomena seemed to grasp how fragile and insecure the man she held in her arms was. In contrast, she seemed experienced and confident, guiding him, leading him on. He closed his eyes and told himself to concentrate on the wonderful things Philomena was saying and doing to him. But perversely, he kept seeing Saraswati’s blank face in front of his eyes. Adi’s body was hot, but his heart was ice-cold. Philomena was warm, passionate, trusting—everything that Saraswati had not been. She removed her clothes hastily, eagerly, and then undressed him— something that Saraswati had not done. Philomena talked during sex, told Adi how much she loved him, wanted him—something that Saraswati hadn’t. The hotel room was cool, clean—unlike the fetid, steamy hut on the south side of Nari’s fields. Their bed was soft, wide, solid—unlike the narrow, hard cot where he had destroyed Saraswati. But when it was all over, at the moment immediately after his climax, Philomena made the same sobbing sound back in her throat that Saraswati had. Or at least that’s how it sounded to his hot, fevered ears.
Nothing to do now but to go through the motions. Nothing to do but smile and say, Darling, that was so good, hope you enjoyed it, too. Nothing to do but pretend to be spent and toll onto your side and take an afternoon nap. Nothing to do but to be wide awake, to feel a single line of sweat trickle down your face and know that you are doomed. To admit to yourself that even love cannot save you. To know that your sin is too great, the stain too deep, that even this sweet, generous, bighearted girl breathing next to you cannot save you from your old nemesis. To know that Saraswati is here, in this room, souring it with her presence, her blank dark eyes staring accusingly at you, ruining your only shot at happiness. To know that an illiterate peasant woman has finally managed to destroy you, you, the son of a landowner.
His mouth was so dry, all he could think about was that he needed a drink. He was suddenly irritated by Philomena’s heavy presence next to him, as if he wanted her to read his mind and disappear. To leave this room, this hotel, his life.
He took her home as soon as he could tactfully do it. If she noticed his unease during the cab ride home, she didn’t comment on it. After he dropped her off, he continued in the same cab to the bar he hadn’t visited in months.
He went through the motions with Philomena for a few more days, answering her worried questions about his remoteness with a false heartiness. “Darling, what’s wrong? You’re not having any regrets, are you?” she asked him during a coffee break.
“No, of course not,” he said, looking away from her. “It’s just, I don’t know, maybe I’m getting a cold or something. I better go directly home from work tonight.”
He turned away from the suddenly knowing look on Philomena’s face. And he was unable to look her in the eye when he called off the affair a week later. They were sitting in a private cubicle in their favorite Irani restaurant—the same cubicle where he used to take her over their lunch break to neck. “Something has come up,” he mumbled. “I have to break off this affair, right now.”
“ ‘This affair’? Is that what we’ve been having, an affair?”
He stared mutely at the cup of tea he had ordered, unable to look up.
Philomena laughed a contemptuous laugh. “Come on, men. Don’t be such a damn coward. Nothing’s come up, unless it’s the fact that you’ve been coming to work drunk. Yah, don’t think I haven’t noticed your breath, stinking like a sewer. Or how you’ve been hiding from me like a little schoolboy. What it is is that you’re just like all the other men. I was right after all. You had what you wanted from me, in that hotel room, and now that you’ve tasted the cherry, you want to go rinse your mouth. Saving yourself for some nice, virginal, innocent Parsi girl that your mummy will pick for you, eh?”
He looked at her then, his eyes flashing. “I’m not like all the other men,” he said. “It’s not like that, not what you’re thinking at all. I still respect you, love you even. …” He stopped, frightened by the look on her face.
“My mummy always said, ‘When a man talks about how much he respects you, beware.’ Because, you coward, if you respect someone, you don’t have to say it, men. You just do. You Parsi boys are the most hypocritical of them all. You try to act all sophisticated and free, but underneath, you all are more old-fashioned than the Bhendi Bazaar Muslim with his four wives.”
He opened his mouth to protest, but she had risen from her chair and stood towering over him like a mountain—proud, imper
ial, wrathful. “I really thought you were different from other men,” she said, her mouth twisting bitterly. “But you turned out to be a boy, just like the rest of them.” For a moment, she looked as if she might cry, and his stomach clenched. He thought he would do something violent, smash some plates if she cried, the pain of hurting yet another woman too hard for him to handle. But instead, she pulled herself tall and spat silently on the tilted floor near her feet. He flinched, but it felt right, somehow, that for once, a woman would spit at him, rather than the other way around. Then she was gone. A month later, she accepted another job. He never saw her again.
That had been a year ago. He had spent the time since the breakup with Philomena cultivating his only hobby—alcohol. Once again, Adi’s neighbors in Wadia Baug got used to his sad, drunken steps going up the stairs late at night. Children sensed something unbalanced about him and often burst into tears at the sight of him; women swore that there was something fishy about him; teenagers snickered at him behind his back; their fathers felt a blend of pity and disgust for him. “Some jadoogar has cast a spell on that Adi, I swear,” Dosamai said to anyone who would listen. “What naatak-tamaasha that boy does. Should’ve been a movie star, with all his drama. Imagine, a Parsi acting like a common drunk.”
Still, in their own way, the members of Wadia Baug kept an eye out for their resident drunk. When his uncle and aunt went to spend a week in Kerala, Adi went home each evening, to find a plate of mutton cutlets or biryani left at his door. Rusi Bilimoria and Soli Contractor once treated him to a meal at a restaurant and spent the evening counseling him against drinking. And if any of the non-Parsi thugs who loitered around the neighborhood made fun of Adi as he staggered home, his neighbors were quick to see it as an insult against the entire Parsi com. Then they would alternate their fury against Adi for conducting himself in a manner that allowed these illiterate gaatis to make fun of him and against the gaatis who dared harass a Parsi.
As if he had conjured him up, Adi saw Soli Contractor approaching him. “How goes it, bossie? You ready to go home soon?” Soli asked. “Fine, fine,” Adi lied. “Everything’s okay. I was just needing some air. I was wondering, Soli Uncle, are you leaving soon? If so, can I get a lift home?”
“Jimmy’s made special arrangements for the Wadia Baug people to go home together. He’s chartered a minibus or something,” Soli informed him. “But he’s wanting some of us oldies and baldies to wait until the other guests leave. Says he has a surprise for us. So if you don’t mind waiting …”
Despite his earlier desire for privacy, Adi suddenly knew he could not face the thought of riding home alone in a cab. “I’ll wait,” he said. “That is, as long as Jimmy Uncle doesn’t mind me tagging along.”
Soli Contractor peered closely at the bloated, once-handsome face of the youth before him. He felt a wave of pity run through him. What a waste, he thought to himself. What a bleddy waste of a young man. “I’m sure Jimmy won’t mind, deekra,” he said mildly. “After all, you’re part of the Wadia Baug family.”
Adi looked away. “Thanks,” he mumbled, wishing that Soli would stop staring at him.
There was a sudden barrage of whistles and catcalls. “C’mon, Soli,” a voice called. “We’re all here waiting for you to open our surprise.”
“I swear, yaar, he’s worse than a blushing bride,” another voice said.
Adi rose unsteadily and began walking toward the group. Soli gripped the younger man’s arm in an effort to steady his drunken gait. “Adi, if you’re ever needing a friend to talk …” Soli began.
They had been down this path before. “Soli Uncle,” Adi said, his voice sounding harsh even to his ears, “I told you, everything’s okay. Please.”
Soli stiffened. “Achha, okay.”
When they reached the group, Soli caught a flicker of annoyance on Jimmy Kanga’s face as he looked at Adi. Jimmy did not have much time or patience for Adi, Soli knew. But the next moment, the smile that had been etched on Jimmy’s face all evening long was back.
Jimmy gave Soli a quick hug and presented him with a box covered in pink satin. He noticed that every couple had a similar box perched on their laps. “Soli, in commemoration of my son’s wedding, Zarin and I would like you to have this. It is nothing much, simply a token of our love and appreciation for all of you and the role you have played in all three of our lives.”
Pulling Adi along, Soli found an empty chair and began opening his gift.
Nine
It was a photo album.
They sat in a half circle, this group of middle-aged men and women, hunched over the albums resting on their laps. Sheroo and Bomi Mistry stared at the cover, which said, Memories of Wadia Baug. Tehmi was a few chairs away from them, holding her copy of the album primly in her lap. Mehernosh and Sharon sat holding hands, their dark hair standing out like a lighthouse in this sea of gray. They, too, had an album in their laps. In their midst sat Jimmy and Zarin Kanga, looking as pleased and excited as children. “Some of these pictures we hadn’t looked at in over thirty years,” Jimmy was saying. “Most of the credit for assembling them should go to Zarin. This was her idea, actually. I’m just pleased the copies turned out so well.”
Out of force of habit, Rusi Bilimoria wiped his hands on his pants before touching the book and turning to the first page. He let out a guffaw, which was immediately echoed by the others. The first picture was of a very young and very dirty Jimmy sleeping next to a very young and very dirty pig. “Let me see,” Coomi murmured, and pulled the album closer, so that it now rested on both their laps. For once, Rusi did not mind this enforced closeness with his wife. It felt good actually, this warmth from Coomi’s arm as it brushed against his. “Oh, those were the days,” Soli chortled as he looked from the picture to Jimmy. “We should have sold this picture to the opposing lawyers when our bara sahib was arguing before the Supreme Court.”
“So this is the pig that almost prevented my being born. Interesting little fellow—I mean the pig,” Mehernosh said, grinning at his father.
Coomi turned another page. Two photographs here. Both of them group pictures of the time they’d all gone to Poona for the weekend. How absurdly, perilously young we all looked, Rusi thought. How confidently we were looking at the eye of the camera, as if we felt capable and strong enough to face down life itself. He cast a swift glance around and found it hard to reconcile this gray-haired gathering of hunched men and women with the handsome, upright people in the photograph. For a minute, his heart cried out at the injustice of it all, the unfairness of growing old. What a waste it seemed, if all the hard work, the economic successes, the sexual conquests, the pursuit of drearms, the nights spent seated by desire or ambition ended in a sad soup of double chins and weak bones and feeble flesh. And as if the outer, superficial changes—the shriveling up of the flesh, the bending of the back, the frailty of the limbs—weren’t painful enough, there were the inner changes—the wretched shrinking of courage, the dimming of the eyes, the pessimism of the heart, the failure to dream, the terrifying fear of tomorrow. That is the true growing old, Rusi thought, and the outer changes are simply a manifestation of hearts that have turned yellow and fibrous with age.
He could sense Coomi’s impatience as she sat beside him. “Ready?” she asked, and without waiting for a reply, she turned another page. And a few more memories tumbled out. There was a picture of Soli standing on his hands at Bombay Gymkhana and grinning hideously at the camera. Rusi looked at the squat, muscular youth with thick dark hair and searched in vain for a glimpse of the bald old man who was sitting across from him. The only thing they had in common was that big smile and a spirit that remained irrepressible. Rusi felt a surge of affection for Soli. That Mariam treated him so shabbily, he thought. Soli had known betrayal at such a young age. The few other relationships he had been involved in since Mariam had also ended badly, Rusi knew. And yet, miraculously, some part of Soli had remained alive to the promise of the world. Once, Rusi had accompanied Soli to a Bee
thoven concert at Homi Bhaba auditorium and saw a side to Soli he had never seen before. Soli, whom Rusi thought of as a good-hearted buffoon, sat still and transposed, a look on his face that suggested that he had just seen the face of God. Looking at Soli now, the top of his bald head gleaming under the lights, Rusi resolved to ensure that Soli responded to Mariam’s letter. Like a monster under a child’s bed, the past had to be faced up to, Rusi decided. He himself was a good example of the consequences of not dealing with the past. For a moment, he felt the silence that stretched long and thin between him and Coomi snap like a rubber band against his heart.
More pictures. Of Jimmy sweating under the hot Bombay sun, improbably dressed in a leather jacket and scowling like Brando. (“What was that, Jimmy? A costume for a play?”) Of Bomi and Sheroo—the first of their gang to get married—at their wedding reception, Bomi winking at the camera and holding two fingers like a gun to his forehead. (“You gadhera, Bomi. How come I never saw this picture before? Acting like I chased you, instead of the other way around. Even at your own wedding, you had to be a joker?”) Of Coomi, slender and beautiful in her black graduation robe. (“I tell you, yaar, Coomi was always the brainy one in the group. Ae, Coomi, remember how that Professor Sinha was all lattoo-fattoo over you in college? Used to forget his lectures when you’d walk in.”) Of a grinning Rusi in a white shirt and khaki shorts, dangling upside down from a tree at Victoria Gardens, while Sheroo stood next to him, holding her head in a gesture of exaggerated horror. (“There’s Rusi and his sugarcane legs. Look, the twigs on the tree are fatter than his legs.”)
Then, as if someone had pulled a switch, the joking stopped. The turning of a page had revealed two other pictures, ones that many of them had spent years trying to forget. Cyrus Engineer stood in the middle of the group of adoring boys, squinting at the camera and leaning on his cricket bat, looking for all the world like a young prince. The midday sun lit up the brown hair that fell on his forehead and his grin was as wide as a continent. Even seen through the prism of time, it was clear that Cyrus was beautiful. Below that was a picture of Cyrus and Tehmi sitting under a tree at the cricket maidan where Cyrus used to coach the Wadia Baug team. His white cricket clothes stained with the red-brown dust of the field, Cyrus sat with his head on Tehmi’s shoulder, his eyes intense and bright as they faced the camera. Even to a casual observer, it was clear that Cyrus was very much in love with the woman in the picture. “Wow. Who’s that dreamboat with that girl?” Sharon Kanga asked, failing to recognize the fresh-faced woman in the picture. Several sets of eyes turned cautiously toward Tehmi, who sat looking at the picture with a sad, mysterious smile on her face. Just when they thought she would let Jimmy answer the question, Tehmi spoke up. “That’s my Cyrus,” she said. “He was—is—my husband. He died. A long, long time ago.”
Bombay Time Page 26
