In his letters he described being a lift boy for the wealthy as a thing of privilege. The sea is just a hundred feet away with gardens full of colourful flowers I never knew existed. There is nothing like the cool sea breeze at night—it sings me to sleep. The marble-lined walls and floors of the main hall in Sea Face Terraces are so magnificent, so smooth . . . He left out the part about where the lift boys lived, which was essentially next to a garbage pit. The residents of the building dropped their refuse in the tiny inner courtyard that was next to where the three lift boys slept. Rats were a problem. The senior employees, such as the custodians and watchmen, had much nicer accommodation—they stayed in the back of the building, sharing a small, old garage space.
In his letters, despite his efforts to not mention his loneliness, his longing for home, Reza wondered if his mother was able to sense it.
He was looking forward to his full month off. All three lift boys took a month off yearly to visit their villages, and Reza’s turn was coming up. He would return with a brand-new football.
The football. The ninth floor. Anush Sharma.
His heartbeat quickened and Reza sat up. There was something he was not remembering. But what was it? Something just out of reach—like reaching for a low-hanging mango that he could barely graze. He’d just been given a brand-new football, which he kept hidden near his bedding. Where was it now? Had the other two lift boys found it? If so, they would claim it as theirs. They were both older than Reza.
It occurred to him he had not missed a day of work till now. What would happen? Would he be sacked? Be out on the streets? Forced to return to the village? There was no work there except seasonal farm work, which was dangerous and paid little. His father could help him with that. But Reza had sworn never to speak to him again.
The curtain opened. It was Akil, the night watchman.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Alright.”
“Listen,” he whispered, “the sahib is on his way. He will most likely offer you some money. The more you act in pain, the more you’ll get.”
Reza didn’t know what Akil was talking about. But the idea of getting money was important enough not to interrupt.
Akil sat on the edge of Reza’s bed and leaned closer. He reeked of beedis and whispered, “Your father’s debt isn’t paid off yet. Whatever you get from the sahib, I will take half.”
“But the debt is almost paid in full,” Reza said. The whole reason Reza had gotten the job at Sea Face Terraces was because his father had got drunk one night and gambled away the family savings to Akil, who was home on vacation. Reza’s father couldn’t pay the debt so Akil had suggested that Reza work at Sea Face Terraces for a year and pay it back. After that, he’d be able to keep his full income. It seemed like a fair deal to all: Reza got a job in the city at a beautiful building by the ocean, Akil collected his debt, and Reza’s father could keep drinking.
“I will take half,” Akil said, squeezing Reza’s arm. “I got you the job. Do you know how lucky you are? Do you know how many poor Muslim boys like you would slit your throat to be in your shoes?”
They heard the footsteps of fine shoes clacking down the hall. Reza could tell by the confident but slow gait that it was someone important. Akil stood up in deference, like a soldier. The curtain opened and Sharma sahib stood there.
“Leave us,” he said to Akil.
“I am like the boy’s uncle. We are from the same village,” Akil said meekly, looking at the floor.
Sharma sahib said nothing and Akil quickly did as he was told.
Sharma sahib looked at Reza for a while. Reza made sure never to raise his gaze.
“You alright?”
“Ha, ji, yes, sir.” Very rarely did the residents speak to the lift boys. When they did it was usually to ask if the vegetable walla or milk walla or post walla had come that day. A sahib had never asked him a question about himself. It felt strange, unnatural. Reza wanted to ask, What am I doing here? What happened? But to ask a sahib questions like that was too impertinent. Especially a Hindu sahib.
He remembered what had happened a couple of years ago to his father’s friend who’d spoken up against a nearby zamindar. No one was sure exactly what the friend had done or said to this landowner. He was reported missing, his body found days later in a ditch. Reza and his cousins got a quick look before being shooed away by local police. The man’s face was unrecognizable. Stomped out. Obliterated. The rest of his body was similarly trampled. As though he were a cockroach. Bits of maroon and brown from his insides spewed out of his decomposing body and mixed into the dirt and mud while flies droned. The man was only discernible by his yellow paisley-patterned head scarf. Reza remembered the policemen stood smoking, talking, shooing the children away, as though it was nothing more than a dead rat. Rumours abounded in the village that the local police, who were all fed by the zamindar, had ordered the police to murder the man. Some said the man had tried to rape the zamindar’s daughter, or just brazenly looked at her too many times; a few had suspicions that the zamindar had gotten the man’s sister pregnant, and the man wanted some money from the zamindar. Reza’s father maintained his friend’s innocence. Not long after the body was found, Reza’s father was drunk for a solid month. It was the beginning of his long stretches of being away from home, drinking to excess, and abusing his wife and family.
Reza was only ten at the time but never forgot how easily blood and flesh could disintegrate into the earth. It made him queasy, and unlike some of his friends, he didn’t stick around for more glimpses of the corpse.
Varoon Sharma sahib said, “It was a senseless accident. Would you like a new job? Learn a new skill? Earn more money?”
What accident? Reza didn’t know what to say and kept his gaze on the floor. To be able to send more money home, have a real job, and not live next to the garbage pit might be a good thing. He nodded his head.
“Good,” said Sharma sahib, giving Reza an envelope. “This is for you and your family. You can start working whenever you feel better.” Then he left.
Reza opened the envelope to find a wad of hundred-rupee notes. More money than he’d ever seen.
Akil returned, sat on the bed, looked in the envelope, and began counting. He smiled like a street dog at a king’s feast and said to Reza, “Well done.”
Reza was about to tell Akil about his good fortune in receiving a better job but then decided against it as Akil might claim some of that income too.
Akil licked a finger, recounted his half of the bills, and said, “The doctor says you should be feeling better in a few days. I’m going to buy some cigarettes. You want a sweet paan or something?”
Reza shook his head. Akil left with a spring in his step.
Reza felt an itch near his left eye and went to scratch it but was surprised to find the eye bandaged. He looked around the room and spotted a small mirror. His reflection confirmed it, Reza thought the bandage made him look like a criminal bandit. When he pressed the white padding there was a sting of pain.
It all came rushing back to him. The courtyard. The fireworks. The Roman candle. Anush Sharma.
What had happened to his eye? It would be fine. Wouldn’t it? He pressed at the bandage again, gently, but it was still painful.
He understood at once what the money was for. His left eye. It was gone.
- 4 -
1984
MORNING FOG SAT HEAVY ON the hills as a lone pond heron waded in a creek. It was so focused on fishing that it failed to hear a rustle thirty feet away. A small rock whizzed by, grazing its neck, and the heron took flight.
The group of boys standing behind Anush groaned with disappointment, but a part of Anush was secretly relieved that the rock had missed its target. Slingshots were contraband on the boarding school grounds, but the fifty-two acres of Bharat Academy provided plenty of hiding places. Anush and the other boys had spent the morning searching for rocks along the creek. Each rock they spotted was evaluated for its size, shape, and
weight; the smoother and denser the rock, the better the aim.
There were a good deal of woodpeckers, thrushes, orioles, herons, nightjars, owls, and hawks on the grounds that the boys used for target practice, which was strictly forbidden. The penalty for being caught was a lashing by the headmaster: a tall, menacing man with thick glasses who seemed to trawl the school grounds for no other reason than to find boys breaking the Bharat Academy rules of conduct so he could administer punishment.
It was a cool and misty Sunday morning and the five hills of Panchgani, the area the town was named after, collected thick mists in the morning at this time of year. At night, the temperature dipped so low that the boys had to wear double sweaters to bed and even then they could hear each other shivering in their bunks. Sometimes you could see your breath, especially after drinking a hot cup of chai, or soup—which wasn’t often; the soup was frequently stone cold, while the chai was hot but with only a hint of sugar, making it undrinkable.
Being a new student, Anush had had his share of hazing when he first arrived a few months ago. The worst was the bullshit sandwich: two pieces of bread with a thin layer of buffalo dung. But to earn the respect of the older boys, or at least keep them off his back, he knew he couldn’t show he was intimidated. He’d noticed a handful of boys at Bharat Academy who were continually bullied and he didn’t want to end up being lumped with them. Scrunching up his eyes he took a bite as the crowd of boys around him cheered. After a few chews, one of the older boys commanded, “Swallow it, bhain chod! ” Anush had never been called a sister fucker before. His impulse was to retaliate; that’s what his father would have done. Varoon Sharma didn’t let anyone intimidate him. But Anush was the newcomer with no friends. Many of the boys were older than him. As he continued eating the bullshit sandwich, the crowd erupted with wild hoots and hollers and applause. He passed the test, ensured his place among the boys, but for days after, no matter how much water he gargled with, he could still taste dung at the back of his throat.
Even though it was only a half-day’s journey by train, the heat of Bombay seemed an eternity away. Panchgani was a hill station that the British had used in the summers to retreat from the torridity; over the past forty years it had become a quaint town with a number of well-regarded boarding schools, a few hotels, and little else. The lush landscape was home to a wide variety of flora, including some alien species brought by the British. Silver oaks and poinsettias were a common sight, as were a plenitude of wild birds and animals.
A few boys had ventured ahead and were calling, “We hit it! We hit it!”
Anush and the others ran to see. A small black-and-gold oriole was lying on the ground, feebly flapping its wings. The boys gathered around it, pushing and shoving each other, arguing over what to do. Some wanted to give it room to fly; a few wanted to step on it, either to put it out of its misery or to satisfy an adolescent barbaric curiosity. Eventually, after one last haphazard twitch of its wings, the bird died.
Even though he hadn’t hit the bird, Anush felt somewhat culpable. An older boy patted the back of the boy who shot the oriole, congratulating him. Not wanting another bullshit sandwich, Anush did the same.
He hated Bharat Academy most of the time. His father had said, “You will grow to like it. I promise.” With his less than stellar report card and the fireworks incident, Anush had had little choice but to go. He often thought of the night of the fireworks. After bidding an early farewell to his VIP guests, Anush’s father had called Paresh over. Anush had hoped his cousin would share the blame with him, but after both boys received a few stinging slaps to the face, Paresh cried and pissed his pants, confessing, “Anush’s Roman candle hit the lift boy.” Anush said, “But it was an accident” so many times he almost believed the lie himself.
Paresh was sent home and Anush was given a few more burning slaps to the face before the ambulance arrived. By then, half the building had already gone downstairs to see what the fuss was about. Anush remained upstairs, crying in the arms of his mother while his father and the colonel dealt with everything downstairs. Paresh had joined the crowd, and the next day, before flying to Canada, he told Anush how tense it had been when the ambulance came. Some were saying it looked like the lift boy might not even live. Rumours and gossip spread quickly among the crowd. It didn’t take long for the truth to be contorted. All kinds of stories were being bandied about as the lift boy was put onto a stretcher. The next day Anush even overheard a boy in the courtyard tell another: “Anush Sharma gouged the lift boy’s eye with a broken bottle!” People in the building were clucking their tongues and shaking their heads. “What a tragedy,” they said. Someone pointed out, “The lift boy is barely thirteen. What will happen to the poor child? Become a beggar in the streets?”
Anush overheard his parents discussing various boarding schools. At night, when his mother would tuck him into bed, Anush would clutch her and plead, “Please, please, please don’t send me away.” For the rest of the summer Anush could feel people in the building looking at him with disdain behind his back. He hated it. He could tell what they thought: a spoiled only child who lived in the largest flat on the top floor at Sea Face Terraces, who took delight in blinding poor, defenceless, loyal workers. Paresh, the little bhain chod, had fucked off to Canada, and Anush was left to bear the guilt and humiliation by himself. One night, his mother finally said to him while lying in his bed and tracing circles on his back, “ Bharat Academy is a lovely place. If you behave and work diligently, your father will let you come home. He loves you more than you know.” Anush was glad he was facing away from her and that the room was dark—she hadn’t noticed his tears. His father had not spoken to him since the fireworks incident. It was a silence that Anush knew was imbued with much disappointment. When the time came, Anush was relieved to be sent to Bharat Academy.
While the rest of the boys now made their way into a dense patch of oak and mango trees, Anush stayed, looking at the dead bird. Above its eye there was a small wound where the rock had hit.
A large hand clasped Anush’s shoulder from behind. He knew instantly it was the headmaster.
“Come with me,” said the towering headmaster. His thick glasses magnified his eyes, making him seem almost deranged.
“But I didn’t do it, I swear!”
The headmaster said nothing but tightened his grip on Anush’s shoulder as he led him towards the school.
What would happen now? A rap on the knuckles? A lashing with the cane? Expulsion? If that was the case, his father would go ballistic and send him to a stricter boarding school, even farther away. Maybe a lashing would be fine. Maybe he’d be lucky and get away with being grounded to the residence hall on Sundays for the rest of the year.
The headmaster led Anush into his office. It smelled of leather and tobacco. Apart from a portrait of the recently assassinated prime minister hanging on the wall with a fresh garland of marigolds, there were also a few framed black-and-white photographs on the walls, most depicting the history of Bharat Academy. According to the photos, at one time it had had a British name and a pleasantly plump British headmaster who seemed much friendlier than the current one. Anush was left standing in the middle of the office. He dared not take a seat without being told to.
Anush was breathing quickly. His heart raced, reminding him of the row of lady fingers rupturing in steady synch.
The headmaster walked briskly back to his chair. “Please, have a seat,” he said without looking at Anush. He took off his glasses and spoke softly, “I’m so sorry to have to inform you of tragic news. Your mother has expired—”
Anush’s first thought was that this was some kind of test, to see how new students dealt with adversity. But he realized that was less likely as the headmaster went on with some difficulty. “Your mother, she—expired in the hospital rather suddenly from a tumour. You will be leaving tomorrow morning on the first train for the funeral.”
This couldn’t be possible. Old people died, sick people died—his mother w
as neither. Part of him was waiting for boys to jump out from behind the desk and shout, Surprise, just kidding!
Was he somehow responsible for this? If he hadn’t pointed the Roman candle at the lift boy, he wouldn’t be here, he’d still be at home with his mother, and this would surely never have happened. The trickle of guilt quickly turned into a torrent.
Your mother has expired kept echoing in his head. He thought of the oriole, how it jerked its wings before it stopped moving, and even though it was completely absurd he couldn’t stop thinking of his mother doing the same with her arms. He felt as though someone had just kicked him in the stomach. The floor seemed to vanish beneath his feet. The earth swallowed him whole as he plunged into darkness.
- 5 -
1984
IN HINDU CREMATION CEREMONIES, THE eldest son becomes the chief mourner when a parent dies. While some Hindus bestow that duty on the youngest son when the mother dies, in Anush’s case it didn’t matter, since he was the only child; the onus to lead the cremation ceremony fell on him. But never having been to a cremation, Anush was unfamiliar with the rites and rituals he had to perform.
When he arrived home from boarding school, he barely recognized his home. There were nearly a hundred people packed shoulder to shoulder, mostly distant relatives from his mother’s side, half of whom he didn’t even know. His father—to whom he hadn't spoken since the fireworks incident—was an only child too, and had no living relatives in Bombay. And Anush’s dadaji, his grandfather, had died when Anush was a baby. A small photograph of him hung in the mandir room where his mother had prayed. It made Anush anxious to think that all he had of his mother now were photos as well. Worse was the vague notion that the emptiness he felt now might grow bigger than he could imagine, that it might eventually engulf him.
An Extraordinary Destiny Page 3