The story was now clearly finished, but none of the boys showed any sign of dispersing. “Tell us about more matches that Savukshaw played in,” they said.
“More nothing. This was his greatest match. Anyway, he did not play cricket for long because soon after the match against the MCC he became a champion bicyclist, the fastest human on two wheels. And later, a pole-vaulter – when he glided over on his pole, so graceful, it was like watching a bird in flight. But he gave that up, too, and became a hunter, the mightiest hunter ever known, absolutely fearless, and so skilful, with a gun he could have, from the third floor of A Block, shaved the whisker of a cat in the backyard of C Block.”
“Tell us about that,” they said, “about Savukshaw the hunter!”
The fat ayah, Jaakaylee, arrived to take the chartered accountant’s two children home. But they refused to go without hearing about Savukshaw the hunter. When she scolded them and things became a little hysterical, some other boys tried to resurrect the ghost she had once seen: “Ayah bhoot! Ayah bhoot!” Nariman raised a finger in warning – that subject was still taboo in Firozsha Baag; none of the adults was in a hurry to relive the wild and rampageous days that Pesi paadmaroo had ushered in, once upon, a time, with the bhoot games.
Jaakaylee sat down, unwilling to return without the children, and whispered to Nariman to make it short. The smell of frying fish which had tickled Nariman’s nostrils ventured into and awakened his stomach. But the story of Savukshaw the hunter was one he had wanted to tell for a long time.
“Savukshaw always went hunting alone, he preferred it that way. There are many incidents in the life of Savukshaw the hunter, but the one I am telling you about involves a terrifying situation. Terrifying for us, of course; Savukshaw was never terrified of anything. What happened was, one night he set up camp, started a fire and warmed up his bowl of chicken-dhansaak.”
The frying fish had precipitated famishment upon Nariman, and the subject of chicken-dhansaak suited him well. His own mouth watering, he elaborated: “Mrs. Savukshaw was as famous for her dhansaak as Mr. was for hunting. She used to put in tamarind and brinjal, coriander and cumin, cloves and cinnamon, and dozens of other spices no one knows about. Women used to come from miles around to stand outside her window while she cooked it, to enjoy the fragrance and try to penetrate her secret, hoping to identify the ingredients as the aroma floated out, layer by layer, growing more complex and delicious. But always, the delectable fragrance enveloped the women and they just surrendered to the ecstasy, forgetting what they had come for. Mrs. Savukshaw’s secret was safe.”
Jaakaylee motioned to Nariman to hurry up, it was past the children’s dinner-time. He continued: “The aroma of savoury spices soon filled the night air in the jungle, and when the dhansaak was piping hot he started to eat, his rifle beside him. But as soon as he lifted the first morsel to his lips, a tiger’s eyes flashed in the bushes! Not twelve feet from him! He emerged licking his chops! What do you think happened then, boys?”
“What, what, Nariman Uncle?”
Before he could tell them, the door of his flat opened. Hirabai put her head out and said, “Chaalo ni, Nariman, it’s time. Then if it gets cold you won’t like it.”
That decided the matter. To let Hirabai’s fried fish, crisp on the outside, yet tender and juicy inside, marinated in turmeric and cayenne – to let that get cold would be something that Khoedaiji above would not easily forgive. “Sorry boys, have to go. Next time about Savukshaw and the tiger.”
There were some groans of disappointment. They hoped Nariman’s good spirits would extend into the morrow when he returned from the Memorial Library, or the story would get cold.
But a whole week elapsed before Nariman again parked the apple of his eye outside his ground-floor flat and beeped the horn three times. When he had raised the hood, checked the oil, polished the star and swung into the “Colonel Bogie March,” the boys began drifting towards A Block.
Some of them recalled the incomplete story of Savukshaw and the tiger, but they knew better than to remind him. It was never wise to prompt Nariman until he had dropped the first hint himself, or things would turn out badly.
Nariman inspected the faces: the two who stood at the back, always looking superior and wise, were missing. So was the quiet Bulsara boy, the intelligent one. “Call Kersi, Viraf, and Jehangir,” he said, “I want them to listen to today’s story.”
Jehangir was sitting alone on the stone steps of C Block. The others were chatting by the compound gate with the watchman. Someone went to fetch them.
“Sorry to disturb your conference, boys, and your meditation, Jehangir,” Nariman said facetiously, “but I thought you would like to hear this story. Especially since some of you are planning to go abroad.”
This was not strictly accurate, but Kersi and Viraf did talk a lot about America and Canada. Kersi had started writing to universities there since his final high-school year, and had also sent letters of inquiry to the Canadian High Commission in New Delhi and to the U.S. Consulate at Breach Candy. But so far he had not made any progress. He and Viraf replied with as much sarcasm as their unripe years allowed, “Oh yes, next week, just have to pack our bags.”
“Riiiight,” drawled Nariman. Although he spoke perfect English, this was the one word with which he allowed himself sometimes to take liberties, indulging in a broadness of vowel more American than anything else. “But before we go on with today’s story, what did you learn about Savukshaw, from last week’s story?”
“That he was a very talented man,” said someone.
“What else?”
“He was also a very lucky man, to have so many talents,” said Viraf.
“Yes, but what else?”
There was silence for a few moments. Then Jehangir said, timidly: “He was a man searching for happiness, by trying all kinds of different things.”
“Exactly! And he never found it. He kept looking for new experiences, and though he was very successful at everything he attempted, it did not bring him happiness. Remember this, success alone does not bring happiness. Nor does failure have to bring unhappiness. Keep it in mind when you listen to today’s story.”
A chant started somewhere in the back: “We-want-a-story! We-want-a-story!”
“Riiiight,” said Nariman. “Now, everyone remembers Vera and Dolly, daughters of Najamai from C Block.” There were whistles and hoots; Viraf nudged Kersi with his elbow, who was smiling wistfully. Nariman held up his hand: “Now now, boys, behave yourselves. Those two girls went abroad for studies many years ago, and never came back. They settled there happily.
“And like them, a fellow called Sarosh also went abroad, to Toronto, but did not find happiness there. This story is about him. You probably don’t know him, he does not live in Firozsha Baag, though he is related to someone who does.”
“Who? Who?”
“Curiosity killed the cat,” said Nariman, running a finger over each branch of his moustache, “and what’s important is the tale. So let us continue. This Sarosh began calling himself Sid after living in Toronto for a few months, but in our story he will be Sarosh and nothing but Sarosh, for that is his proper Parsi name. Besides, that was his own stipulation when he entrusted me with the sad but instructive chronicle of his recent life.” Nariman polished his glasses with his handkerchief, put them on again, and began.
“At the point where our story commences, Sarosh had been living in Toronto for ten years. We find him depressed and miserable, perched on top of the toilet, crouching on his haunches, feet planted firmly for balance upon the white plastic oval of the toilet seat.
“Daily for a decade had Sarosh suffered this position. Morning after morning, he had no choice but to climb up and simulate the squat of our Indian latrines. If he sat down, no amount of exertion could produce success.
“At first, this inability was no more than mildly incommodious. As time went by, however, the frustrated attempts caused him grave anxiety. And when the failure stretched
unbroken over ten years, it began to torment and haunt all his waking hours.”
Some of the boys struggled hard to keep straight faces. They suspected that Nariman was not telling just a funny story, because if he intended them to laugh there was always some unmistakable way to let them know. Only the thought of displeasing Nariman and prematurely terminating the story kept their paroxysms of mirth from bursting forth unchecked.
Nariman continued: “You see, ten years was the time Sarosh had set himself to achieve complete adaptation to the new country. But how could he claim adaptation with any honesty if the acceptable catharsis continually failed to favour him? Obtaining his new citizenship had not helped either. He remained dependent on the old way, and this unalterable fact, strengthened afresh every morning of his life in the new country, suffocated him.
“The ten-year time limit was more an accident than anything else. But it hung over him with the awesome presence and sharpness of a guillotine. Careless words, boys, careless words in a moment of light-heartedness, as is so often the case with us all, had led to it.
“Ten years before, Sarosh had returned triumphantly to Bombay after fulfilling the immigration requirements of the Canadian High Commission in New Delhi. News of his imminent departure spread amongst relatives and friends. A farewell party was organized. In fact, it was given by his relatives in Firozsha Baag. Most of you will be too young to remember it, but it was a very loud party, went on till late in the night. Very lengthy and heated arguments took place, which is not the thing to do at a party. It started like this: Sarosh was told by some what a smart decision he had made, that his whole life would change for the better; others said he was making a mistake, emigration was all wrong, but if he wanted to be unhappy that was his business, they wished him well.
“By and by, after substantial amounts of Scotch and soda and rum and Coke had disappeared, a fierce debate started between the two groups. To this day Sarosh does not know what made him raise his glass and announce: ‘My dear family, my dear friends, if I do not become completely Canadian in exactly ten years from the time I land there, then I will come back. I promise. So please, no more arguments. Enjoy the party.’ His words were greeted with cheers and shouts of hear! hear! They told him never to fear embarrassment; there was no shame if he decided to return to the country of his birth.
“But shortly, his poor worried mother pulled him aside. She led him to the back room and withdrew her worn and aged prayer book from her purse, saying, ‘I want you to place your hand upon the Avesta and swear that you will keep that promise.’
“He told her not to be silly, that it was just a joke. But she insisted: ‘Kassum khà – on the Avesta. One last thing for your mother. Who knows when you will see me again?’ and her voice grew tremulous as it always did when she turned deeply emotional. Sarosh complied, and the prayer book was returned to her purse.
“His mother continued: ‘It is better to live in want among your family and your friends, who love you and care for you, than to be unhappy surrounded by vacuum cleaners and dishwashers and big shiny motor cars.’ She hugged him. Then they joined the celebration in progress.
“And Sarosh’s careless words spoken at the party gradually forged themselves into a commitment as much to himself as to his mother and the others. It stayed with him all his years in the new land, reminding him every morning of what must happen at the end of the tenth, as it reminded him now while he descended from his perch.”
Jehangir wished the titters and chortles around him would settle down, he found them annoying. When Nariman structured his sentences so carefully and chose his words with extreme care as he was doing now, Jehangir found it most pleasurable to listen. Sometimes, he remembered certain words Nariman had used, or combinations of words, and repeated them to himself, enjoying again the beauty of their sounds when he went for his walks to the Hanging Gardens or was sitting alone on the stone steps of C Block. Mumbling to himself did nothing to mitigate the isolation which the other boys in the Baag had dropped around him like a heavy cloak, but he had grown used to all that by now.
Nariman continued: “In his own apartment Sarosh squatted barefoot. Elsewhere, if he had to go with his shoes on, he would carefully cover the seat with toilet paper before climbing up. He learnt to do this after the first time, when his shoes had left telltale footprints on the seat. He had had to clean it with a wet paper towel. Luckily, no one had seen him.
“But there was not much he could keep secret about his ways. The world of washrooms is private and at the same time very public. The absence of feet below the stall door, the smell of faeces, the rustle of paper, glimpses caught through the narrow crack between stall door and jamb – all these added up to only one thing: a foreign presence in the stall, not doing things in the conventional way. And if the one outside could receive the fetor of Sarosh’s business wafting through the door, poor unhappy Sarosh too could detect something malodorous in the air: the presence of xenophobia and hostility.”
What a feast, thought Jehangir, what a feast of words! This would be the finest story Nariman had ever told, he just knew it.
“But Sarosh did not give up trying. Each morning he seated himself to push and grunt, grunt and push, squirming and writhing unavailingly on the white plastic oval. Exhausted, he then hopped up, expert at balancing now, and completed the movement quite effortlessly.
“The long morning hours in the washroom created new difficulties. He was late going to work on several occasions, and one such day, the supervisor called him in: ‘Here’s your time-sheet for this month. You’ve been late eleven times. What’s the problem?’ ”
Here, Nariman stopped because his neighbour Rustomji’s door creaked open. Rustomji peered out, scowling, and muttered: “Saala loafers, sitting all evening outside people’s houses, making a nuisance, and being encouraged by grownups at that.”
He stood there a moment longer, fingering the greying chest hair that was easily accessible through his sudra, then went inside. The boys immediately took up a soft and low chant: “Rustomji-the-curmudgeon! Rustomji-the-curmudgeon!”
Nariman help up his hand disapprovingly. But secretly, he was pleased that the name was still popular, the name he had given Rustomji when the latter had refused to pay his share for painting the building. “Quiet, quiet!” said he. “Do you want me to continue or not?”
“Yes, yes!” The chanting died away, and Nariman resumed the story.
“So Sarosh was told by his supervisor that he was coming late to work too often. What could poor Sarosh say?”
“What, Nariman Uncle?” rose the refrain.
“Nothing, of course. The supervisor, noting his silence, continued: ‘If it keeps up, the consequences could be serious as far as your career is concerned.’
“Sarosh decided to speak. He said embarrassedly, ‘It’s a different kind of problem. I … I don’t know how to explain … it’s an immigration-related problem.’
“Now this supervisor must have had experience with other immigrants, because right away he told Sarosh, ‘No problem. Just contact your Immigrant Aid Society. They should be able to help you. Every ethnic group has one: Vietnamese, Chinese – I’m certain that one exists for Indians. If you need time off to go there, no problem. That can be arranged, no problem. As long as you do something about your lateness, there’s no problem.’ That’s the way they talk over there, nothing is ever a problem.
“So Sarosh thanked him and went to his desk. For the umpteenth time he bitterly rued his oversight. Could fate have plotted it, concealing the western toilet behind that shroud of anxieties which had appeared out of nowhere to beset him just before he left India? After all, he had readied himself meticulously for the new life. Even for the great, merciless Canadian cold he had heard so much about. How could he have overlooked preparation for the western toilet with its matutinal demands unless fate had conspired? In Bombay, you know that offices of foreign businesses offer both options in their bathrooms. So do all hotels with three stars o
r more. By practising in familiar surroundings, Sarosh was convinced he could have mastered a seated evacuation before departure.
“But perhaps there was something in what the supervisor said. Sarosh found a telephone number for the Indian Immigrant Aid Society and made an appointment. That afternoon, he met Mrs. Maha-Lepate at the Society’s office.”
Kersi and Viraf looked at each other and smiled. Nariman Uncle had a nerve, there was more lépate in his own stories than anywhere else.
“Mrs. Maha-Lepate was very understanding, and made Sarosh feel at ease despite the very personal nature of his problem. She said, ‘Yes, we get many referrals. There was a man here last month who couldn’t eat Wonder Bread – it made him throw up.’
“By the way, boys, Wonder Bread is a Canadian bread which all happy families eat to be happy in the same way; the unhappy families are unhappy in their own fashion by eating other brands.” Jehangir was the only one who understood, and murmured: “Tolstoy,” at Nariman’s little joke. Nariman noticed it, pleased. He continued.
“Mrs. Maha-Lepate told Sarosh about that case: Our immigrant specialist, Dr. No-Ilaaz, recommended that the patient eat cake instead. He explained that Wonder Bread caused vomiting because the digestive system was used to Indian bread only, made with Indian flour in the village he came from. However, since his system was unfamiliar with cake, Canadian or otherwise, it did not react but was digested as a newfound food. In this way he got used to Canadian flour first in cake form. Just yesterday we received a report from Dr. No-Ilaaz. The patient successfully ate his first slice of whole-wheat Wonder Bread with no ill effects. The ultimate goal is pure white Wonder Bread.’
“Like a polite Parsi boy, Sarosh said, ‘That’s very interesting.’ The garrulous Mrs. Maha-Lepate was about to continue, and he tried to interject: ‘But I –’ but Mrs. Maha-Lepate was too quick for him: Oh, there are so many interesting cases I could tell you about. Like the woman from Sri Lanka – referred to us because they don’t have their own Society – who could not drink the water here. Dr. No-Ilaaz said it was due to the different mineral content. So he started her on Coca-Cola and then began diluting it with water, bit by bit. Six weeks later she took her first sip of unadulterated Canadian water and managed to keep it down.’
Tales From Firozsha Baag Page 16
