Foremost among the flickers was a boy in Jehangir’s class called Eric D’Souza. A tall, lanky fellow who had been suspended a couple of times, he had had to repeat the year on two occasions, and held out the promise of more repetitions. Eric also had the reputation of doing things inside his half-pants under cover of his desk. In a class of fifty boys it was easy to go unobserved by the teacher, and only his immediate neighbours could see the ecstasy on his face and the vigorous back and forth movement of his hand. When he grinned at them they looked away, pretending not to have noticed anything.
Jehangir sat far from Eric and knew of his habits only by hearsay. He was oblivious to Eric’s eye which had been on him for quite a while. In fact, Eric found Jehangir’s delicate hands and fingers, his smooth legs and thighs very desirable. In class he gazed for hours, longingly, at the girlish face, curly hair, long eyelashes.
Jehangir and Eric finally got acquainted one day when the class filed out for games period. Eric had been made to kneel down by the door for coming late and disturbing the class, and Jehangir found himself next to him as he stood in line. From his kneeling position Eric observed the smooth thighs emerging from the half-pants (half-pants was the school uniform requirement), winked at him and, unhindered by his underwear, inserted a pencil up the pant leg. He tickled Jehangir’s genitals seductively with the eraser end, expertly, then withdrew it. Jehangir feigned a giggle, too shocked to say anything. The line started to move for the playground.
Shortly after this incident, Eric approached Jehangir during break-time. He had heard that Jehangir was desperate to acquire stamps.
“Arré man, I can get you stamps, whatever kind you want,” he said.
Jehangir stopped. He had been slightly confused ever since the pass with the pencil; Eric frightened him a little with his curious habits and forbidden knowledge. But it had not been easy to accumulate stamps. Sundays with Burjor Uncle continued to be as fascinating as the first. He wished he had new stamps to show – the stasis of his collection might be misinterpreted as lack of interest. He asked Eric: “Ya? You want to exchange?”
“No yaar, I don’t collect. But I’ll get them for you. As a favour, man.”
“Ya? What kind do you have?”
“I don’t have, man. Come on with me to Patla and Jhaaria, just show me which ones you want. I’ll flick them for you.”
Jehangir hesitated. Eric put his arm around him: “C’mon man, what you scared for, I’ll flick. You just show me and go away.” Jehangir pictured the stamps on display in cellophane wrappers: how well they would add to his collection. He imagined album pages bare no more but covered with exquisite stamps, each one mounted carefully and correctly, with a hinge, as Burjor Uncle had showed him to.
They went outside, Eric’s arm still around him. Crowds of schoolboys were gathered around the two stalls. A multitude of groping, exploring hands handled the merchandise and browsed absorbedly, a multitude that was a prerequisite for flicking to begin. Jehangir showed Eric the individually wrapped stamps he wanted and moved away. In a few minutes Eric joined him triumphantly.
“Got them?”
“Ya ya. But come inside. He could be watching, man.”
Jehangir was thrilled. Eric asked, “You want more or what?”
“Sure,” said Jehangir.
“But not today. On Friday. If you do me a favour in visual period on Thursday.”
Jehangir’s pulse speeded slightly-visual period, with its darkened hall and projector, and the intimacy created by the teacher’s policing abilities temporarily suspended. He remembered Eric’s pencil. The cellophane-wrapped stamp packets rustled and crackled in his hand. And there was the promise of more. There had been nothing unpleasant about the pencil. In fact it had felt quite, well, exciting. He agreed to Eric’s proposal.
On Thursday, the class lined up to go to the Visual Hall. Eric stood behind Jehangir to ensure their seats would be together.
When the room was dark he put his hand on Jehangir’s thigh and began caressing it. He took Jehangir’s hand and placed it on his crotch. It lay there inert. Impatient, he whispered, “Do it, man, c’mon!” But Jehangir’s lacklustre stroking was highly unsatisfactory. Eric arrested the hand, reached inside his pants and said, “OK, hold it tight and rub it like this.” He encircled Jehangir’s hand with his to show him how. When Jehangir had attained the right pressure and speed he released his own hand to lean back and sigh contentedly. Shortly Jehangir felt a warm stickiness fill his palm and fingers, and the hardness he held in his hand grew flaccid.
Eric shook off the hand. Jehangir wiped his palm with his hanky. Eric borrowed the hanky to wipe himself. “Want me to do it for you?” he asked. But Jehangir declined. He was thinking of his hanky. The odour was interesting, not unpleasant at all, but he would have to find some way of cleaning it before his mother found it.
The following day, Eric presented him with more stamps. Next Thursday’s assignation was also fixed.
And on Sunday Jehangir went to see Dr. Mody at ten o’clock. The wife let him in, muttering something under her breath about being bothered by inconsiderate people on the one day that the family could be together.
Dr. Mody’s delight at the new stamps fulfilled Jehangir’s every expectation: “Wonderful, wonderful! Where did you get them all? No, no, forget it, don’t tell me. You will think I’m trying to learn your tricks. I already have enough stamps to keep me busy in my retirement. Ha! ha!”
After the new stamps had been examined and sorted Dr. Mody said, “Today, as a reward for your enterprise, I’m going to show you a stamp you’ve never seen before.” From the cupboard of biscuit and sweet tins he took a small satin-covered box of the type in which rings or bracelets are kept. He opened it and, without removing the stamp from inside, placed it on the desk.
The stamp said España Correos at the bottom and its denomination was noted in the top left corner: 3 PTAS. The face of the stamp featured a flamenco dancer in the most exquisite detail and colour. But it was something in the woman’s countenance, a look, an ineffable sparkle he saw in her eyes, which so captivated Jehangir.
Wordlessly, he studied the stamp. Dr. Mody waited restlessly as the seconds ticked by. He kept fidgeting till the little satin-covered box was shut and back in his hands, then said, “So you like the Spanish dancing-lady. Everyone who sees it likes it. Even my wife who is not interested in stamp-collecting thought it was beautiful. When I retire I can spend more time with the Spanish dancing-lady. And all my other stamps.” He relaxed once the stamp was locked again in the cupboard.
Jehangir left, carrying that vision of the Spanish dancer in his head. He tried to imagine the stamp inhabiting the pages of his album, to greet him every time he opened it, with the wonderful sparkle in her eyes. He shut the door behind him and immediately, as though to obliterate his covetous fantasy, loud voices rose inside the flat.
He heard Mrs. Mody’s, shrill in argument, and the doctor’s, beseeching her not to yell lest the neighbours would hear. Pesi’s name was mentioned several times in the quarrel that ensued, and accusations of neglect, and something about the terrible affliction on a son of an unloving father. The voices followed Jehangir as he hurried past the inquiring eyes of his mother, till he reached the bedroom at the other end of the flat and shut the door.
When the school week started, Jehangir found himself looking forward to Thursday. His pulse was racing with excitement when visual period came. To save his hanky this time he kept some paper at hand.
Eric did not have to provide much guidance. Jehangir discovered he could control Eric’s reactions with variations in speed, pressure, and grip. When it was over and Eric offered to do it to him, he did not refuse.
The weeks sped by and Jehangir’s collection continued to grow, visual period by visual period. Eric’s and his masturbatory partnership was whispered about in class, earning the pair the title of moothya-maroo. He accompanied Eric on the flicking forays, helping to swell the milling crowd and add to the bro
wsing hands. Then he grew bolder, studied Eric’s methods, and flicked a few stamps himself.
But this smooth course of stamp-collecting was about to end. Patla Babu and Jhaaria Babu broke their long tradition of silence and complained to the school. Unlike marbles and supari, it was not a question of a few paise a day. When Eric and Jehangir struck, their haul could be totalled in rupees reaching double digits; the loss was serious enough to make the Babus worry about their survival.
The school assigned the case to the head prefect to investigate. He was an ambitious boy, always snooping around, and was also a member of the school debating team and the Road Safety Patrol. Shortly after the complaint was made he marched into Jehangir’s class one afternoon just after lunch break, before the teacher returned, and made what sounded very much like one of his debating speeches: “Two boys in this class have been stealing stamps from Patla Babu and Jhaaria Babu for the past several weeks. You may ask: who are those boys? No need for names. They know who they are and I know who they are, and I am asking them to return the stamps to me tomorrow. There will be no punishment if this is done. The Babus just want their stamps back. But if the missing stamps are not returned, the names will be reported to the principal and to the police. It is up to the two boys.”
Jehangir tried hard to appear normal. He was racked with trepidation, and looked to the unperturbed Eric for guidance. But Eric ignored him. The head prefect left amidst mock applause from the class.
After school, Eric turned surly. Gone was the tender, cajoling manner he reserved for Jehangir, and he said nastily: “You better bring back all those fucking stamps tomorrow.” Jehangir, of course, agreed. There was no trouble with the prefect or the school after the stamps were returned.
But Jehangir’s collection shrunk pitiably overnight. He slept badly the entire week, worried about explaining to Burjor Uncle the sudden disappearance of the bulk of his collection. His mother assumed the dark rings around his eyes were due to too much reading and not enough fresh air. The thought of stamps or of Patla Babu or Jhaaria Babu brought an emptiness to his stomach and a bitter taste to his mouth. A general sense of ill-being took possession of him.
He went to see Burjor Uncle on Sunday, leaving behind his stamp album. Mrs. Mody opened the door and turned away silently. She appeared to be in a black rage, which exacerbated Jehangir’s own feelings of guilt and shame.
He explained to Burjor Uncle that he had not bothered to bring his album because he had acquired no new stamps since last Sunday, and also, he was not well and would not stay for long.
Dr. Mody was concerned about the boy, so nervous and uneasy; he put it down to his feeling unwell. They looked at some stamps Dr. Mody had received last week from his colleagues abroad. Then Jehangir said he’d better leave.
“But you must see the Spanish dancing-lady before you go. Maybe she will help you feel better. Ha! ha!” and Dr. Mody rose to go to the cupboard for the stamp. Its viewing at the end of each Sunday’s session had acquired the significance of an esoteric ritual.
From the next room Mrs. Mody screeched: “Burjorji! Come here at once!” He made a wry face at Jehangir and hurried out.
In the next room, all the vehemence of Mrs. Mody’s black rage of that morning poured out upon Dr. Mody: “It has reached the limit now! No time for your own son and Sunday after Sunday sitting with some stranger! What does he have that your own son does not? Are you a baap or what? No wonder Pesi has become this way! How can I blame the boy when his own baap takes no interest…”
“Shh! The boy is in the next room! What do you want, that all the neighbours hear your screaming?”
“I don’t care! Let them hear! You think they don’t know already? You think you are …”
Mrs. Bulsara next door listened intently. Suddenly, she realized that Jehangir was in there. Listening from one’s own house was one thing – hearing a quarrel from inside the quarrellers’ house was another. It made feigning ignorance very difficult.
She rang the Modys’ doorbell and waited, adjusting her mathoobanoo. Dr. Mody came to the door.
“Burjorji, forgive me for disturbing your stamping and collecting work with Jehangir. But I must take him away. Guests have arrived unexpectedly. Jehangir must go to the Irani, we need cold drinks.”
“That’s okay, he can come next Sunday.” Then added, “He must come next Sunday,” and noted with satisfaction the frustrated turning away of Mrs. Mody who waited out of sight of the doorway. “Jehangir! Your mother is calling.”
Jehangir was relieved at being rescued from the turbulent waters of the Mody household. They left without further conversation, his mother tugging in embarrassment at the knots of her mathoobanoo.
As a result of this unfortunate outburst, a period of awkwardness between the women was unavoidable. Mrs. Mody, though far from garrulous, had never let her domestic sorrows and disappointments interfere with the civilities of neighbourly relations, which she respected and observed at all times. Now for the first time since the arrival of the Modys in Firozsha Baag these civilities experienced a hiatus.
When the muchhiwalla arrived next morning, instead of striking a joint deal with him as they usually did, Mrs. Mody waited till Mrs. Bulsara had finished. She stationed an eye at her peephole as he emphasized the freshness of his catch. “Look bat, it is saféd paani,” he said, holding out the pomfret and squeezing it near the gills till white fluid oozed out. After Mrs. Bulsara had paid and gone, Mrs. Mody emerged, while the former took her turn at the peephole. And so it went for a few days till the awkwardness had run its course and things returned to normal.
But not so for Jehangir; on Sunday, he once again had to leave behind his sadly depleted album. To add to his uneasiness, Mrs. Mody invited him in with a greeting of “Come bawa come,” and there was something malignant about her smile.
Dr. Mody sat at his desk, shoulders sagging, his hands dangling over the arms of the chair. The desk was bare – not a single stamp anywhere in sight, and the cupboard in the corner locked. The absence of his habitual, comfortable clutter made the room cold and cheerless. He was in low spirits; instead of the crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes were lines of distress and dejection.
“No album again?”
“No. Haven’t got any new stamps yet,” Jehangir smiled nervously.
Dr. Mody scratched the psoriasis on his elbows. He watched Jehangir carefully as he spoke. “Something very bad has happened to the Spanish dancing-lady stamp. Look,” and he displayed the satin-covered box minus its treasure. “It is missing.” Half-fearfully, he looked at Jehangir, afraid he would see what he did not want to. But it was inevitable. His last sentence evoked the head prefect’s thundering debating-style speech of a few days ago, and the ugliness of the entire episode revisited Jehangir’s features – a final ignominious postscript to Dr. Mody’s loss and disillusion.
Dr. Mody shut the box. The boy’s reaction, his silence, the absence of his album, confirmed his worst suspicions. More humiliatingly, it seemed his wife was right. With great sadness he rose from his chair. “I have to leave now, something urgent at the College.” They parted without a word about next Sunday.
Jehangir never went back. He thought for a few days about the missing stamp and wondered what could have happened to it. Burjor Uncle was too careful to have misplaced it; besides, he never removed it from its special box. And the box was still there. But he did not resent him for concluding he had stolen it. His guilt about Patla Babu and Jhaaria Babu, about Eric and the stamps was so intense, and the punishment deriving from it so inconsequential, almost non-existent, that he did not mind this undeserved blame. In fact, it served to equilibrate his scales of justice.
His mother questioned him the first few Sundays he stayed home. Feeble excuses about homework, and Burjor Uncle not having new stamps, and it being boring to look at the same stuff every Sunday did not satisfy her. She finally attributed his abnegation of stamps to sensitivity and a regard for the unfortunate state of the Modys’ dome
stic affairs. It pleased her that her son was capable of such concern. She did not press him after that.
IV
Pesi was no longer to be seen in Firozsha Baag. His absence brought relief to most of the parents at first, and then curiosity. Gradually, it became known that he had been sent away to a boarding-school in Poona.
The boys of the Baag continued to play their games in the compound. For better or worse, the spark was lacking that lent unpredictability to those languid coastal evenings of Bombay; evenings which could so easily trap the unwary, adult or child, within a circle of lassitude and depression in which time hung heavy and suffocating.
Jehangir no longer sat on the stone steps of C Block in the evenings. He found it difficult to confront Dr. Mody day after day. Besides, the boys he used to watch at play suspected some kind of connection between Pesi’s being sent away to boarding-school, Jehangir’s former friendship with Dr. Mody, and the emerging of Dr. Mody’s constant sorrow and despair (which he had tried so hard to keep private all along, and had succeeded, but was now visible for all to see). And the boys resented Jehangir for whatever his part was in it – they bore him open antagonism.
Dr. Mody was no more the jovial figure the boys had grown to love. When his car turned into the compound in the evenings, he still waved, but no crow’s-feet appeared at his eyes, no smile, no jokes.
Two years passed since the Mody family’s arrival in Firozsha Baag.
In school, Jehangir was as isolated as in the Baag. Most of his effeminateness had, of late, transformed into vigorous signs of impending manhood. Eric D’Souza had been expelled for attempting to sodomize a junior boy. Jehangir had not been involved in this affair, but most of his classmates related it to the furtive activities of their callow days and the stamp-flicking. Patla Babu and Jhaaria Babu had disappeared from the pavement outside St. Xavier’s. The Bombay police, in a misinterpretation of the nation’s mandate: garibi hatao – eradicate poverty, conducted periodic round-ups of pavement dwellers, sweeping into their vans beggars and street-vendors, cripples and alcoholics, the homeless and the hungry, and dumped them somewhere outside the city limits; when the human detritus made its way back into the city, another clean-up was scheduled. Patla and Jhaaria were snared in one of these raids, and never found their way back. Eyewitnesses said their stalls were smashed up and Patla Babu received a lathi across his forehead for trying to salvage some of his inventory. They were not seen again.
Tales From Firozsha Baag Page 10
