There was a short, awkward silence. Nudged by Zarin, Jimmy finally broke it. “Tehmi, I’m sorry if this was a mistake. I meant this to be a tribute. Cyrus was such an influence in my—”
“Oh, no. No. No mistake.” A pause. “In fact, I’m proud of Cyrus being included in a group of such fine people.” And Tehmi smiled, a quick, shy smile that made the others gasp with surprised pleasure.
Rusi saw that smile and felt a pang of regret. Tehmi had always been the quiet sort, but he and the others had been genuinely fond of her in the days when Cyrus was alive. How could they have abandoned her so after his death? Wadia Baug was populated with so many lost souls, and here was another. He thought back to his own complicity in Tehmi’s becoming a recluse. Could he and the others have made a difference? Had they given up too easily, been too put off by Tehmi’s bad breath and bad temper? After that encounter in the street, when he had first gotten a whiff of Tehmi’s problem, Rusi had made several more attempts to get in touch with Tehmi. But each time he rang Tehmi’s doorbell, Dinabai answered the door and made excuses for why her daughter could not receive him. The old woman seemed grateful for Rusi’s efforts, but something in her eyes also told him that it was futile to try to reach Tehmi. And tell the truth, Rusi now said to himself. Weren’t you also relieved when Tehmi refused to talk to you? Weren’t you afraid that the stench of her breath would make you turn your head away and thereby hurt her again? Thinking back, Rusi also remembered another thing. After a few weeks, Khorshed Bilimoria had pulled her son aside and told him to stop going over to Dinabai’s house so often. “I know your intentions are good, Rusi,” she said. “And I know you are just a boy. But you know how our neighbors are. I don’t want any tongues wagging about you and the young widow.”
Rusi looked up at the starless sky and took another sip of his scotch. I have been unable to help too many people in my life, he thought. Unlike Jimmy, whose Midas touch rubbed off on those he came in contact with. From the poor Parsi families in Udwada that he took care of to his wife, Zarin, Jimmy made people happy. That was exactly what Rusi had wanted from his own life. The ambitions of his youth— the desire for a successful business, his hopes for a large family—had all sprung from a central desire to create happiness in his tiny corner of the world. What others had seen as personal ambition was not personal at all. But none of it had worked out the way he had planned. He had not been able to help Tehmi. Coomi, he was sure, believed that he had destroyed her life. And by marrying Coomi, he’d brought disharmony and grief into his mother’s life. In fact, the only person he’d been able to help was Binny. She was his one true success story. In order to help Binny, he had to kill himself, but never mind. He had stuck a knife into his own heart, but that same knife had also cut Binny’s from the misery of Bombay. He had set her free. Free to fly, free to climb. Free to have the life fate did not decree for him.
As if he had conjured her up, Binny was peering at him from the pages of the album. He let out a splutter of delight. “Look, it’s my Binny,” he said, his finger circling the outline of her sweet face. Beside him, he felt Coomi smile at the image of their seven-year-old daughter. It was a picture of Binny dressed as a cowboy for a costume party at Jimmy’s home. Binny stood scowling at the camera, her hands on her hips, ready to draw a gun. The expression on her face made Rusi smile, and he looked up, to see a similar look on all his friends’ faces. “That Binny. Always was a ham,” Sheroo said. Then, as if to make sure her words were not misunderstood, she added, “God, I miss her. Chal ne, Rusi. Call that daughter of yours and tell her to hurry up and give us a little baby. About time Wadia Baug had some new blood. If not for the Lakdawalas and the Vajifdars, we’d have no children in the building.” Taking a quick look around to make sure both families had left the reception, Sheroo continued, “And they are newcomers, after all. Bit stuck-up, if you ask me. Not like the old days, when Binny and Mehernosh used to run in and out of our flats. I tell you, it’s no fun being surrounded by all you boodhas.” Despite her years, Sheroo always prided herself on fitting in with the younger generation.
Bomi took the bait. “Pardon my wife’s ignorance,” he said happily. “She is not knowing that England, where Binny lives, is not located within Wadia Baug. Even if Binny has a baby—which I pray to God she does soon—how will it infuse Wadia Baug with new blood, my dear?” Bomi turned his drunken gaze on Mehernosh. “No, we have to rely on our young stallion here to help us out. It is up to him and Sharon now to come to our rescue. Even though they will be living in Cuffe Parade, their child will be our newest resident. They can drop the baby off with his grandparents on weekends. Though mark my words, Mehernosh and Sharon will be moving back to Wadia Baug before we can say one, two, three. After all, who can resist Wadia Baug’s lovely sights—such as Dosamai peering through her curtains and spying on us all—and its delicious aromas—like those street people using the wall of our building as a urinal? I’m sure Cuffe Parade doesn’t have half the piss that our beloved neighborhood has collected over the years.”
“Chup re, besharam,” his wife chided. “Why do you drink so much, if it gives you diarrhea of the mouth?” The others chuckled at the familiar bantering between Bomi and Sheroo.
Coomi spoke up now. “Say what you will, Sheroo’s central point is valid. It would be nice to hear the pitter-patter of young feet in the building. It’s been too long since I was running around behind Binny. Mehernosh, I just hope you and Sharon don’t make us wait as long as our Binny has.”
Mehernosh smiled. “We’ll try not to disappoint all of you, Coomi Auntie,” he said lightly as he squeezed Sharon’s hand. “After all, we aim to please.”
“Sukhi re, sukhi re,” Sheroo murmured. “Long live both of you.”
Rusi drained the last of his scotch, and, ever the attentive host, Jimmy immediately signaled to his driver. “Ae. Hari, go in and bring another bottle of scotch and some more soda, will you? Come on, go fatta-faat. Bring out some cold drinks for the ladies also.” Hari walked around the small circle, refilling everyone’s glasses. Rusi lifted his glass to take another sip, but Coomi had turned another page of the album, and his hand remained frozen halfway up to his lips. He stared at the picture of Coomi and him.
He remembered that windswept day at the beach. He and Coomi had walked the length of the beach that day, planning their wedding, laughing and hugging each other at the thought of what happiness awaited them. We had really believed our own words, our own prophesies, he now realized with wonder. That much was obvious just looking at the photograph. He looked at himself dispassionately, as if looking at the picture of a stranger. He noticed the proud angle of his head, the arrogance of his gaze, the clear, unlined brow, the starch in his back. How could he have stood so tall? As if he’d had two extra vertebrae in those days. Above all, he noticed his eyes, which burned like coal in the cavern of his face. They were the eyes of a man who was not afraid of what lay around the bend. These eyes did not dart nervously; they did not wish they could look around corners or gaze into a crystal ball. These eyes were rooted in the present and they looked life in the face. These eyes, he now thought, which had not known what lay in store for them, what disappointments and trials they would witness. They were the eyes of a child. And for a second, he felt both envy and irritation at the boy he had been.
But there was another person in the photograph: Coomi. Despite himself, he noticed how beautiful Coomi had been, took in the arched eyebrows, the sharp features, the strong white teeth, the long, dark hair that framed her face. But what took his breath away was the love and tenderness on Coomi’s face. She was gazing up at him, her face shiny with love and passion. Her right arm was at his waist, drawing him close to her as they stood with their upper bodies fused together. Rusi felt the sting of tears at the back of his eyes. He had not seen that look on Coomi’s face in so long. He felt a sudden urge to see that look just one more time, to feel loved and cared for one more time. He knew it was dangerous to think this way, but for a moment he gav
e in to that urge, permitted himself to think of what it would take for them ever to be that gentle with each other again. But nothing came to mind. Instead, he thought of the woman he had been chatting with earlier this evening. What was her name? Sharmila, that was it. Rusi had reservations about talking to an attractive woman at Mehernosh’s wedding, had known that he was donating his head on a silver platter to Dosamai’s gossip factory, but he didn’t care. He liked the way Sharmila paid attention to what he said, liked the assessing, curious look in her eyes. He had a feeling that if he told her he would like to see her again, she would say yes. This, despite the fact that he had told her that he was married. But he knew he would never see her again. He was too old and too tired to start an affair, had nothing to offer a woman except a laundry list of failures.
“It’s not fair,” he heard Coomi say, and for a guilty moment, he felt that she had read his thoughts. But Coomi was addressing the crowd. “It’s not fair that we were once so young and now all we have to deal with are heart problems, and hernia operations and arthritis. I tell you, I’ve visited three people at Parsi General in the last month alone. No, it’s not fair that we were once so young. I mean, look at us—we were actually beautiful once. Now it’s hard even to imagine that.”
“But we’re still beautiful,” Soli replied, so softly that the others were not sure if he’d spoken. “We’re just beautiful in a different way. It’s like … Beethoven was composing music even after he went deaf, you know? And some of his later work is so magnificent. … Abe Uncle used to say that the sorrow of his disease and old age just made his music even richer. … And so it is with us.”
“Who’s Abe Uncle?” Jimmy asked, ready to pounce on Soli for his uncharacteristic profundity. It was hard for Jimmy to take Soli seriously. “What are you blabbering about, old man?”
But Soli stayed serious, his gray eyes blurry.
And Rusi felt as if he understood both Coomi and Soli—understood the outrage of the one, the lashing out against time with the fury of the cheated; and understood the wisdom of the other, the acceptance of limitation, the transcendence of time. Both Coomi and Soli had said something true and from the heart, and he was grateful. All evening long, ever since he had heard that disturbing story about Kashmira, Rusi had felt restless, slashed by conflicting, contradictory emotions. The scotch had done its job and left him feeling expansive but desperate, as if the planet were a giant alarm clock and only Rusi could hear its relentless ticking. He wanted to save all of them, this entire collection of broken hearts and arthritic fingers and sagging skin that surrounded him, these men and women whom he loved and feared at the same time. And some of them old enough that every gathering like this was charged with poignancy, with menace. Nobody knew how many of them would be around the next time they met for a happy occasion. Nobody knew whether the next time they met would be for a happy occasion.
He caught himself. That’s morbid thinking, he told himself sternly. Everyone in this group is healthy and strong. This is what Binny always accuses you of doing, thinking negative thoughts. Stop it. Stop it now. But out of his swirling sentimentality, there arose one clear goal: He wanted to distill some of his thoughts until they were as pure as the scotch he was drinking and then present this gleaned truth like a bouquet of roses to Mehernosh. All the lessons he had learned, all the things he could not say to Binny on the phone, he now wanted to say to Mehernosh. Mehernosh was just a few months younger than his Binny, after all. Although Jimmy Kanga was younger than Rusi, Jimmy had wasted no time in marrying Zarin or in having their first and only child. Naturally, Rusi thought to himself with a sad smile. Men like Jimmy don’t ever wait for anything. They don’t need to. And now they were all here at Mehernosh’s wedding. Binny had married Jack in England, a small secular wedding, which he and Coomi had attended. He had wanted to throw a lavish reception for his daughter when she and Jack had visited Bombay the following year, but Binny wouldn’t hear of it. “You know how I am, Dad. I’d die if I had to play queen for a day. Never mind, that’s just an expression. Anyway, Jack’s mom would kill us if she heard we allowed you to throw us a party after we’d refused her pleas. No, if you like, the four of us can go someplace quiet and celebrate.” But Rusi knew that Binny’s refusal was at least in part because of his financial situation. She simply did not want him to spend his money on her. Faced with joint opposition from Binny and Jack, Rusi had given in. There would be no wedding reception in Bombay for his only child. He would fold up yet another dream.
And yet, the lingering feeling of shame and disappoinrment remained, like a fish bone in the throat. Every rime he attended a wedding, there was a moment when he saw Binny and Jack in the place of the bride and groom. Rusi knew that Parsi custom would not permit Binny to have a religious ceremony with a non-Parsi, but he would have liked to have had a reception. Binny and Jack could have sat up on a stage decked with flowers and Rusi could have strutted around like a proud peacock, slapping backs and shaking hands.
But none of this came to pass. Instead, there was this hollow feeling at Mehernosh’s wedding, the shame of envying a decent man like Jimmy and resenting him for his good fortune. But there was also an avuncular pride in Mehernosh, an excitement at the promise of his future. Mehetnosh was a sweet, intelligent boy and, like many Wadia Baug residents, Rusi was delighted when Mehernosh returned from America. It felt like a victory of sorts, a body snatched from the jaws of the monster that had swallowed up so many Parsi children. Mehernosh had been inside the belly of the beast but had remained unmoved by its glitter and promise. That alone was cause for celebration and wonderment. Suddenly, Rusi felt like celebrating.
He was not a man used to speaking in public; therefore, Rusi was surprised to hear his voice say Mehernosh’s name. “Mehernosh,” he said. “There’s something that I want to say to you and to your new bride. Some words of wisdom from an old man, if you will.” He ignored the good-natured groans and exaggerated cries of “Oh no” and “Cut off his drinking quota, right this minute.” He felt Coomi stiffen by his side, as if she was afraid that what he was about to say would implicate her in some way. Jimmy, too, had a guarded expression on his face and looked ready to pounce if Rusi said anything that would cast a shadow over the evening he had so carefully sculpted. But Rusi ignored them all and stared resolutely at Mehernosh.
“I am not an educated man, Mehernosh,” he began. “You already know more and have traveled farther and risen higher than I ever will. But I have one advantage over you. I’m older. Yes, looking at me with my loose skin and ugly face, it may be hard to believe that I’m calling old age an advantage. But although time takes away a lot, it also leaves you with something. I would not be bold enough to call that something wisdom. But the truth is, you can’t live as long as I have and not learn a few things.” Beside him, he felt Coomi relax. As he took a short sip of his scotch, his hand brushed up against hers and he felt a shot of warmth run through his body.
“Mehernosh, what I’ve learned is simple—that life moves faster than we do. During all the time that we while away by telling jokes, standing at street corners, going to dances, sleeping eight hours at night, life is still moving, like a river we cannot keep up with. That river does not wait for us to build a bridge across it; it just keeps doing what it must. That is the nature of rivers—to flow. So, it is important not to waste time, not to waste a day or a minute of a day. Important to put all the time we’ve been given to good use. That’s what I believed as a young man and what I still believe today.”
He paused for a minute, forcing his drunken brain to move down the labyrinth he had built for himself. “But here’s the paradox,” he continued. “If we don’t do any of the things that seem wasteful, that seem like we are squandering time, then life itself becomes meaningless. Telling jokes, walking the beach, falling in love—these are the things a man remembers at the end of his life. If he’s done enough of these, then he dies a rich man. If he hasn’t, he dies empty-handed, even though his bank account may
be full. And this, Mehernosh, it took me a long time to learn. In some ways, I’m still learning this lesson.”
There was an embarrassed silence, born out of an unspoken consensus that Rusi had been too naked, had infused an occasion of gaiety with an ill-fitting solemnity. Sheroo spoke up to rescue Rusi. “Wab, wah. All these years I was thinking Rusi was a businessman, and actually he’s our philosopher-king. I’m calling you Mr. Aristotle from now on, Rusi.”
The others laughed. “Come, let’s finish looking at the rest of the album. Only two more pages left,” Jimmy said hurriedly.
Rusi knew he was on the verge of losing his audience. He had a feeling of great letdown, knowing that his words had revealed neither the expansiveness of his thoughts nor the pounding of his blood. He wanted to say so much more, wanted to describe to all of them this wonderful feeling of connection that was sweeping over him. How, as he sat here, he felt hooked up to the universe, how his blood felt as if it could flow directly into the Arabian Sea and his heart felt like a continent waiting to be discovered. He wanted to describe to them the seamless blending of his mind with the outside world—how sometimes he felt as if there were no boundaries between what happened on the outside and what went on inside his head. Some days, he felt as if his head were a globe. Every war ever fought and every peace waged; every heart broken and every flesh made whole; every child ever born, every man who ever died—all of history distilled into his own life. But how to say all this without it sounding absurd? Me-hernosh was already looking at him with an expression of grave concern. Soli had opened and shut his mouth several times, as if he were trying to rescue his friend from a burning building but didn’t know how. Zarin had a tight, embarrassed smile on her face, while Bomi was searching to catch someone’s eye so that he could let out a loud guffaw. Rusi looked at Coomi out of the corner of his eye, but her face was expressionless.
Bombay Time Page 27
