As might be supposed, Pesi was the despair of his parents. Over the years Dr Mody had become inured to the initial embarrassment in each new place they moved to. The routine was familiar: first, a spate of complaints from indignant parents claiming their sons bugree nay dhoor thai gaya — were corrupted to become useless as dust; next, the protestations giving way to sympathy when the neighbours saw that Pesi was the worm in the Modys’ mango.
And so it was in Firozsha Baag. After the furor about stoning-the-cats had died down, the people of the Baag liked Dr Mody more than ever. He earned their respect for the initiative he took in Baag matters, dealing with the management for things like broken lifts, leaking water tanks, crumbling plaster, and faulty wiring. It was at his urging that the massive iron gate, set in the stone wall which ran all around the buildings, compound and backyards, was repaired, and a watchman installed to stop beggars and riff-raff. (And although Dr Mody would be dead by the time of the Shiv Sena riots, the tenants would remember him for the gate which would keep out the rampaging mobs.) When the Bombay Municipality tried to appropriate a section of Baag property for its road-widening scheme, Dr Mody was in the forefront of the battle, winning a compromise whereby the Baag only lost half the proposed area. But the Baag’s esteem did nothing to lighten the despair for Pesi that hung around the doctor.
At the birth of his son, Dr Mody had deliberated long and hard about the naming. Peshotan, in the Persian epic, Shah-Nameh, was the brother of the great Asfandyar, and a noble general, lover of art and learning, and man of wise counsel. Dr Mody had decided his son would play the violin, acquire the best from the cultures of East and West, thrill to the words of Tagore and Shakespeare, appreciate Mozart and Indian ragas; and one day, at the proper moment, he would introduce him to his dearest activity, stamp-collecting.
But the years passed in their own way. Fate denied fruition to all of Dr Mody’s plans; and when he talked about stamps, Pesi laughed and mocked his beloved hobby. This was the point at which, hurt and confused, he surrendered his son to whatever destiny was in store A perpetual grief entered to occupy the void left behind after the aspirations for his son were evicted.
The weight of grief was heaviest around Dr Mody when he returned from work in the evenings. As the car turned into the compound he usually saw Pesi before Pesi saw him, in scenes which made him despair, scenes in which his son was abusing someone, fighting, or making lewd gestures.
But Dr Mody was careful not to make a public spectacle of his despair. While the car made its way sluggishly over the uneven flagstones of the compound, the boys would stand back and wave him through. With his droll comments and jovial countenance he was welcome to disrupt their play, unlike two other car-owners of Firozsha Baag: the priest in A Block and the chartered accountant in B who habitually berated, from inside their vehicles, the sons of bank clerks and bookkeepers for blocking the driveway with their games. Their well-worn curses had become so predictable and ineffective that sometimes the boys chanted gleefully, in unison with their nemeses: “Worse than saala animals!” or “junglee dogs-cats have more sense!” or “you sataans ever have any lesson-paani to do or not!”
There was one boy who always stayed apart from his peers — the Bulsara boy, from the family next door to the Modys. Jehangir sat on the stone steps every evening while the gentle land breezes, drying and cooling the sweaty skins of the boys at play, blew out to sea. He sat alone through the long dusk, a source of discomfiture to the others. They resented his melancholy, watching presence.
Dr Mody noticed Jehangir, too, on the stone steps of C Block, the delicate boy with the build much too slight for his age. Next to a hulk like Pesi he was diminutive, but things other than size underlined his frail looks: he had slender hands, and forearms with fine downy hair. And while facial fuzz was incipient in most boys of his age (and Pesi was positively hirsute), Jehangir’s chin and upper lip were smooth as a young woman’s. But it pleased Dr Mody to see him evening after evening. The quiet contemplation of the boy on the steps and the noise and activity of the others at play came together in the kind of balance that Dr Mody was always looking for and was quick to appreciate.
Jehangir, in his turn, observed the burly Dr Mody closely as he walked past him each evening. When he approached the steps after parking his car, Jehangir would say “Sahibji” in greeting and smile wanly. He saw that despite Dr Mody’s constant jocularity there was something painfully empty about his eyes. He noticed the peculiar way he scratched the greyish-red patches of psoriasis on his elbows, both elbows simultaneously, by folding his arms across his chest. Sometimes Jehangir would arise from the stone steps and the two would go up together to the third floor. Dr Mody asked him once, “You don’t like playing with the other boys? You just sit and watch them?” The boy shook his head and blushed, and Dr Mody did not bring up the matter after that.
Gradually, a friendship of sorts grew between the two. Jehangir touched a chord inside the doctor which had lain silent for much too long. Now affection for the boy developed and started to linger around the region hitherto occupied by grief bearing Pesi’s name.
II
One evening, while Jehangir sat on the stone steps waiting for Dr Mody’s car to arrive, Pesi was organizing a game of naargolio. He divided the boys into two teams, then discovered he was one short. He beckoned to Jehangir, who said he did not want to play. Scowling, Pesi handed the ball to one of the others and walked over to him. He grabbed his collar with both hands, jerking him to his feet. “Arré choosya!” he yelled, “want a pasting?” and began dragging him by the collar to where the boys had piled up the seven flat stones for naargolio.
At that instant, Dr Mody’s car turned into the compound, and he spied his son in one of those scenes which could provoke despair. But today the despair was swept aside by rage when he saw that Pesi’s victim was the gentle and quiet Jehangir Bulsara. He left the car in the middle of the compound with the motor running. Anger glinted in his eyes. He kicked over the pile of seven flat stones as he walked blindly towards Pesi who, having seen his father, had released Jehangir. He had been caught by his father often enough to know that it was best to stand and wait. Jehangir, meanwhile, tried to keep back the tears.
Dr Mody stopped before his son and slapped him hard, once on each cheek, with the front and back of his right hand. He waited, as if debating whether that was enough, then put his arm around Jehangir and led him to the car.
He drove to his parking spot. By now, Jehangir had control of his tears, and they walked to the steps of C Block. The lift was out of order. They climbed the stairs to the third floor and knocked. He waited with Jehangir.
Jehangir’s mother came to the door. “Sahibji, Dr Mody,” she said, a short, middle-aged woman, very prim, whose hair was always in a bun. Never without a mathoobanoo, she could do wonderful things with that square of fine white cloth which was tied and knotted to sit like a cap on her head, snugly packeting the bun. In the evenings, after the household chores were done, she removed the mathoobanoo and wore it in a more conventional manner, like a scarf.
“Sahibji,” she said, then noticed her son’s tear-stained face. “Arré, Jehangoo, what happened, who made you cry?” Her hand flew automatically to the mathoobanoo, tugging and adjusting it as she did whenever she was concerned or agitated.
To save the boy embarrassment, Dr Mody intervened: “Go, wash your face while I talk to your mother.” Jehangir went inside, and Dr Mody told her briefly about what had happened. “Why does he not play with the other boys?” he asked finally.
“Dr Mody, what to say. The boy never wants even to go out. Khoedai salaamat raakhé, wants to sit at home all the time and read story books. Even this little time in the evening he goes because I force him and tell him he will not grow tall without fresh air. Every week he brings new-new story books from school. First, school library would allow only one book per week. But he went to Father Gonzalves who is in charge of libr
ary and got special permission for two books. God knows why he gave it.”
“But reading is good, Mrs Bulsara.”
“I know, I know, but a mania like this, all the time?”
“Some boys are outdoor types, some are indoor types. You shouldn’t worry about Jehangir, he is a very good boy. Look at my Pesi, now there is a case for worry,” he said, meaning to reassure her.
“No, no. You mustn’t say that. Be patient, Khoedai is great,” said Mrs Bulsara, consoling him instead. Jehangir returned, his eyes slightly red but dry. While washing his face he had wet a lock of his hair which hung down over his forehood.
“Ah, here comes my indoor champion,” smiled Dr Mody, and patted Jehangir’s shoulder, brushing back the lock of hair. Jehangir did not understand, but grinned anyway; the doctor’s joviality was infectious. Dr Mody turned again to the mother. “Send him to my house on Sunday at ten o’clock. We will have a little talk.”
After Dr Mody left, Jehangir’s mother told him how lucky he was that someone as important and learned as Burjor Uncle was taking an interest in him. Privately, she hoped he would encourage the boy towards a more all-rounded approach to life and to the things other boys did. And when Sunday came she sent Jehangir off to Dr Mody’s promptly at ten.
Dr Mody was taking his bath, and Mrs Mody opened the door. She was a dour-faced woman, spare and lean — the opposite of her husband in appearance and disposition, yet retaining some quality from long ago which suggested that it had not always been so. Jehangir had never crossed her path save when she was exchanging civilities with his mother, while making purchases out by the stairs from the vegetablewalla or fruitwalla.
Not expecting Jehangir’s visit, Mrs Mody stood blocking the doorway and said: “Yes?” Meaning, what nuisance now?
“Burjor Uncle asked me to come at ten o’clock.”
“Asked you to come at ten o’clock? What for?”
“He just said to come at ten o’clock.”
Grudgingly, Mrs Mody stepped aside. “Come in then. Sit down there.” And she indicated the specific chair she wanted him to occupy, muttering something about a baap who had time for strangers’ children but not for his own son.
Jehangir sat in what must have been the most uncomfortable chair in the room. This was his first time inside the Modys’ flat, and he looked around with curiosity. But his gaze was quickly restricted to the area of the floor directly in front of him when he realized that he was the object of Mrs Mody’s watchfulness.
Minutes ticked by under her vigilant eye. Jehangir was grateful when Dr Mody emerged from the bedroom. Being Sunday, he had eschewed his usual khaki half-pants for loose and comfortable white pyjamas. His sudra hung out over it, and he strode vigorously, feet encased in a huge pair of sapaat. He smiled at Jehangir, who happily noted the crow’s-feet appearing at the corners of his eyes. He was ushered into Dr Mody’s room, and man and boy both seemed glad to escape the surveillance of the woman.
The chairs were more comfortable in Dr Mody’s room. They sat at his desk and Dr Mody opened a drawer to take out a large book.
“This was the first stamp album I ever had,” said Dr Mody. “It was given to me by my Nusserwanji Uncle when I was your age. All the pages were empty.” He began turning them. They were covered with stamps, each a feast of colour and design. He talked as he turned the pages, and Jehangir watched and listened, glancing at the stamps flying past, at Dr Mody’s face, then at the stamps again.
Dr Mody spoke not in his usual booming, jovial tones but softly, in a low voice charged with inspiration. The stamps whizzed by, and his speech was gently underscored by the rustle of the heavily laden pages that seemed to turn of their own volition in the quiet room. (Jehangir would remember this peculiar rustle when one day, older, he’d stand alone in this very room, silent now forever, and turn the pages of Nusserwanji Uncle’s album.) Jehangir watched and listened. It was as though a mask had descended over Dr Mody, a faraway look upon his face, and a shining in the eyes which heretofore Jehangir had only seen sad with despair or glinting with anger or just plain and empty, belying his constant drollery. Jehangir watched, and listened to the euphonious voice hinting at wondrous things and promises and dreams.
The album on the desk, able to produce such changes in Dr Mody, now worked its magic through him upon the boy. Jehangir, watching and listening, fascinated, tried to read the names of the countries at the top of the pages as they sped by: Antigua…Australia…Belgium…Bhutan…Bulgaria…and on through to Malta and Mauritius…Romania and Russia…Togo and Tonga…and a final blur through which he caught Yugoslavia and Zanzibar.
“Can I see it again?” he asked, and Dr Mody handed the album to him.
“So what do you think? Do you want to be a collector?”
Jehangir nodded eagerly and Dr Mody laughed. “When Nusserwanji Uncle showed me his collection I felt just like that. I’ll tell your mother what to buy for you to get you started. Bring it here next Sunday, same time.”
And next Sunday Jehangir was ready at nine. But he waited by his door with a Stamp Album For Beginners and a packet of 100 Assorted Stamps — All Countries. Going too early would mean sitting under the baleful eyes of Mrs Mody.
Ten o’clock struck and the clock’s tenth bong was echoed by the Modys’ doorchimes. Mrs Mody was expecting him this time and did not block the doorway. Wordlessly, she beckoned him in. Burjor Uncle was ready, too, and came out almost immediately to rescue him from her arena.
“Let’s see what you’ve got there,” he said when they were in his room. They removed the cellophane wrapper, and while they worked Dr Mody enjoyed himself as much as the boy. His deepest wish appeared to be coming true: he had at last found someone to share his hobby with. He could not have hoped for a finer neophyte than Jehangir. His young recruit was so quick to learn how to identify and sort stamps by countries, learn the different currencies, spot watermarks. Already he was skilfully folding and moistening the little hinges and mounting the stamps as neatly as the teacher.
When it was almost time to leave, Jehangir asked if he could examine again Nusserwanji Uncle’s album, the one he had seen last Sunday. But Burjor Uncle led him instead to a cupboard in the corner of the room. “Since you enjoy looking at my stamps, let me show you what I have here.” He unlocked its doors.
Each of the cupboard’s four shelves was piled with biscuit tins and sweet tins: round, oval, rectangular, square It puzzled Jehangir: all this bore the unmistakable stamp of the worthless hoardings of senility, and did not seem at all like Burjor Uncle. But Burjor Uncle reached out for a box at random and showed him inside It was chock-full of stamps! Jehangir’s mouth fell open. Then he gaped at the shelves, and Burjor Uncle laughed. “Yes, all these tins are full of stamps. And that big cardboard box at the bottom contains six new albums, all empty.”
Jehangir quickly tried to assign a number in his mind to the stamps in the containers of Maghanlal Biscuitwalla and Lokmanji Mithaiwalla, to all of the stamps in the round tins and the oval tins, the square ones and the oblong ones. He failed.
Once again Dr Mody laughed at the boy’s wonderment. “A lot of stamps. And they took me a lot of years to collect. Of course, I am lucky I have many contacts in foreign countries. Because of my job, I meet the experts from abroad who are invited by the Indian Government. When I tell them about my hobby they send me stamps from their countries. But no time to sort them, so I pack them in boxes. One day, after I retire, I will spend all my time with my stamps.” He paused, and shut the cupboard doors. “So what you have to do now is start making lots of friends, tell them about your hobby. If they also collect, you can exchange duplicates with them. If they don’t, you can still ask them for all the envelopes they may be throwing away with stamps on them. You do something for them, they will do something for you. Your collection will grow depending on how smart you are.”
He hesitated, and opened the cupboard agai
n. Then he changed his mind and shut it — it wasn’t yet time for the Spanish dancing-lady stamp.
III
On the pavement outside St Xavier’s Boys School, not far from the ornate iron gates, stood two variety stalls. They were the stalls of Patla Babu and Jhaaria Babu. Their real names were never known. Nor was known the exact source of the schoolboy inspiration that named them thus, many years ago, after their respective thinness and fatness.
Before the schoolboys arrived in the morning, the two would unpack their cases and set up the displays, beating the beggars to the choice positions. Occasionally, there were disputes if someone’s space was violated. The beggars did not harbour great hopes for alms from schoolboys but they stood there, nonetheless, like mute lessons in realism and the harshness of life. Their patience was rewarded when they raided the dustbins after breaks and lunches.
At the end of the school day the pavement community packed up. The beggars shuffled off into the approaching dark, Patla Babu went home with his cases, and Jhaaria Babu slept near the school gate under a large tree to whose trunk he chained his boxes during the night.
The two sold a variety of nondescript objects and comestibles, uninteresting to any save the eyes and stomachs of schoolboys: supari, A-1 chewing gum (which, in a most ungumlike manner, would, after a while, dissolve in one’s mouth), jeeragoli, marbles, tops, aampapud during the mango season, pens, Camel Ink, pencils, rulers, and stamps in little cellophane packets.
Patla Babu and Jhaaria Babu lost some of their goods regularly due to theft. This was inevitable when doing business outside a large school like St Xavier’s, with a population as varied as its was. The loss was an operating expense stoically accepted, like the success or failure of the monsoons, and they never complained to the school authorities or held it against the boys. Besides, business was good despite the losses: insignificant items like a packet of jeeragoli worth ten paise, or a marble of the kind that sold three for five paise. More often than not, the stealing went on for the excitement of it, out of bravado or on a dare. It was called “flicking” and was done without any malice towards Patla and Jhaaria.
Swimming Lessons Page 9