Bombay Time

by Thrity Umrigar

  He touched her arm ever so lightly. “I’ll talk to Jimmy tomorrow morning,” he said to her. “I’ll see if I can calm him down. No sense in you worrying about this. Try to forget it.”

  When she spoke again, her voice was so low, he barely heard it over the rattle of the bus. “Tonight, for the first time in my life, I’m glad Binny’s away. This city is getting too unpredictable. Maybe you were right after all to send her away.” Then Coomi turned her face to look out the window, and he knew for sure that she was blinking her tears away. He knew what it had cost her to say those words, and his heart ached for her so badly that it frightened him. He did not want to resurrect his feelings for Coomi. It was much too dangerous. Sympathy, pity, any of these feelings could pierce the glass shield that he had built around his heart. And yet … And yet, who could understand better than he how much Coomi missed her daughter? He had thought that the longer Binny stayed away, the easier the heartache would get. But exactly the opposite was true. As he got older, the thought of spending old age without Binny, of someday dying alone, without his daughter by his side, haunted him. He wondered whether Coomi battled the same thoughts.

  Despite his better judgment, he felt compelled to respond to Coomi’s half apology. “Thank you for saying that,” he said, and heard the tremor in his own voice. “I know how much you miss her. I miss her a lot, too. I console myself by thinking we sacrificed our happiness for our daughter’s sake.”

  Coomi was silent for a moment. Then Rusi heard her say, “Whatever happened between us, we’ll at least always have Binny in common. Nothing can change that.” Rusi’s eyes welled up with tears and he did not trust himself to speak. Before he could respond, he felt Coomi’s hand reaching for his. He stiffened from force of habit, but she did not draw her hand away. Instead, she shyly pulled his hand on her lap as words poured incoherently from her, fast as water from a tap. “What you said to Mehernosh tonight—it reminded me so much of the people we used to be. Nobody there understood what you were saying— not at first anyway—but me. But me. And it made me proud that I understood you, like in the old days. And Jimmy’s thoughtful gift. Watching ourselves in that photo album. Unleashing memories, like a monster that had been tied to a tree. So young we were, so happy. I’m tired of this loneliness, Rusi. I have been much too lonely. And you have, too. Something has to be done about this. Something must be done.”

  He searched desperately for the plaster cast that he normally sealed his heart in, but he couldn’t find it. He told himself not to fall for Coomi’s theatrics, that she would hurt him again as soon as he let his guard down. But Coomi had never before spoken to him with such desperation and sincerity. Or maybe he had just forgotten. In any case, he let his hand relax on her warm lap. As soon as he did that, he was aware of how tense his muscles had been and how god-awfully tired he was. He closed his eyes, trying to keep at bay the thoughts that were trying to flood his brain. There would be plenty of time to deal with them later.

  Suddenly, all he wanted was to be at home. Rusi wanted the bus to speed past these unfriendly streets and deliver him to the relative safety and security of Wadia Baug. His heart lifted at the thought of the old apartment building’s solid presence. For 120 years, it had stood on the same spot, indifferent to the vagaries of life. Rusi wished he could feel that rooted, instead of this wretched, teary feeling he was experiencing. He tried to call up that large and lazy feeling the scotch had conferred upon him earlier in the evening, but the rock that hit Sheroo had shattered his glassy drunkenness. He felt tired and irritable. He wished he was already in his pajamas and asleep in his own bed. He wanted to cover his face with his sheets and shut his eyes, to block out this confusing city, this bewildering life. The more he thought about either one, the less he understood. He was tired of thinking.

  Soli Contractor was saying something in the back of the bus, and his voice shook Rusi out of his reverie. Now, as he looked, Soli was walking to the front of the bus. In his right arm, he was holding the photo album. As Soli walked by Sheroo and Bomi, he nudged Bomi. “How is she?” he asked quietly, and Bomi replied with a halfhearted thumbs-up.

  Soli stood facing them and rocked to the motion of the lurching bus. “Ladies and laddas, there’s something I’m wanting to say before we get home. In the midst of all the commotion, I have forgotten my manners. We all have, I think. Because none of us remembered to thank Jimmy and Zarin for their thoughtful gift.” Soli held up the photo album.

  “No mention, no mention,” Jimmy said from his place across the aisle from Rusi. He could tell that Jimmy was trying hard to capture the lightheartedness he had felt earlier in the evening.

  “But no, something else that I want to say,” Soli continued. “Jimmy, what you have given us is more than a few pictures. You have reminded us of who we are and what we are to one another. You’ve given us ourselves back, our youth and our promise. Our real selves back, minus a few double chins and bald heads, you could say.” From behind the bus, they could hear Adi giggling. Soli smiled, a sudden guileless smile that dislodged some of the sadness from the bus. “You know, wounds heal—and I hope our Sheroo’s injury heals fatta-faat. Yes, wounds heal and scars fade. But memories live forever. And tonight, we carry many happy memories in our hearts, despite what happened. After all, it’s not every day that one of our own gets married. And Zarin and Jimmy, with their magnanimous gesture, have bound us all together even closer. This is what we will remember—this happy, close feeling—when the other, bad memory fades.”

  God bless Soli, Rusi thought. Always trying to make others feel better. Perhaps it took a broken heart to prevent other hearts from breaking. As Soli walked shakily back to his seat, Rusi grabbed his arm. “Well said, bossie,” he murmured. “Let’s talk about the other marnala soon, okay?”

  Bomi, who could not bear to be overshadowed by Soli, cleared his throat. “You know, in some African cultures, it is said that if a female guest is hit by a stone at a wedding, it is a sign of fertility—for the young couple who just got married, of course,” he added. “So at this rate, the stork should be visiting the Kanga residence within nine months.”

  Rusi listened in amazement as Sheroo’s familiar voice penetrated the dark. “God, what a dbaap-master my husband is. Mehernosh, can’t you arrange for Harvard to give him a bachelor’s in bullshit? He’d stand first in his class, my Bomi would.”

  What a people we are, Rusi thought with bemusement. Nothing keeps us down for too long. No wonder our ancestors survived the perilous journey from Persia, no wonder we thrived and prospered in a land to which we came as refugees. The rush of affection that he felt for his fellow passengers temporarily banished the chill he had experienced since boarding the bus. And yet, he knew that something important had happened today and that it was vital to hold on to its memory. And that it would be up to him to be the custodian of that memory, because, left to themselves, the others would be only too happy to forget. But I must not forget, Rusi thought. Somehow, he had to learn to navigate between contentment and complacency, between caution and fear, between the known safety of Wadia Baug and the unknowable world outside its walls. Just as his ancestors had occupied the safe small strip of space between Hindu and Muslim, between Indian and English, between East and West, he had to live in the no-man’s-land between the rage of the stone thrower and the terror of the stoned. But where to begin, he didn’t have a clue.

  And then suddenly, they were home. A murmur went through the bus when Wadia Baug finally loomed in front of them. A gush of relief ran through Rusi. He felt as if he were the survivor of a ship-wreck and the building were a large, majestic ship that would rescue him. Obviously, the others felt the same way. “Oh, thank God,” Bomi whispered. “Home sweet home.”

  Yes, home. Once again, the whiff of urine from the outside wall as the minibus enters the building compound; once again, the tall outline of the six coconut trees inside the compound. And then the short walk through the foyer to their individual flats, the murmured chorus of “
Good night” and “See you in the morning.” The turning of keys and the turning on of lights. For those on the top floors, the long climb up the wooden steps, the steps that usually made their arthritic knees grind in protest. But tonight, no one is complaining. They are just so glad to be home. They are already imagining how good their beds will feel tonight, how wonderful they will feel when sleep finally comes, if sleep finally comes. They are determined to wake up tomorrow having put all this badness out of their minds. Arguing with the butcher and fighting with the milkman will drive all other thoughts out of their heads. In the days to come, they will check in on Sheroo a few times, but other than that, they will concentrate on how wonderful the reception was, how good the food was, how much fun they had had before … before—but they are already beginning to forget. They will hold on to their dreams of Mehernosh just as they will hold on to their photo albums. Yes, they will remember Wadia Baug and they will do their best to forget the city that it is housed in. They will choose memory over imagination. It is less dangerous that way.

  glossary

  Abroo-ijjat: Shame; reputation.

  Achha: Okay, all right.

  Ayah: Nanny.

  Bas: Enough.

  Besharam: Shameless.

  Biryani: Rice dish made with spicy meat and potatos.

  Boodha: Old man.

  Dava: Medicine.

  Deekra: Literally means “son” but often is used as a term of endearment by an older person to address someone younger.

  Dhansak: Quintessential Parsi dish consisting of spicy lentils eaten with caramelized rice.

  Fatta-faat: Immediately; quickly.

  Gadhera: Donkey, fool.

  Guss-puss: Conspiratorial whispering.

  Hijra: Eunuch.

  Inshallah: God willing.

  Jadoogar: Magician.

  Jaldi-jaldi: Hurriedly.

  Kanjoos: Cheapskate.

  Khoollam-khoolla: Openly, with nothing to hide.

  Lattoo-fattoo: Head over heels in love.

  Maaf karo: Forgive me.

  Mamala: Affair; business.

  Paagal: Crazy.

  Samosa: Deep-fried triangular pastry stuffed with mutton or vegetables.

  Su che: What is it?

  Tingal-tangal: Tricks; mischief-making.

  Yaar: Buddy.