‘I agree.’ The breeze had disappeared and Thompson felt itchy under his belt. He was sweating. He wondered how red his nose was.
‘But the King’s word alone won’t be enough. We need the support of the new classes, the businesses.’
‘We’re united in this mission,’ Thompson responded. He raised his left arm in the air and brought it down diagonally, managing to scratch his nose with his sleeve.
‘We need men like you?’
‘Thank you for your kind words,’ said Thompson, in a tone more polite than agreeable. ‘Now if you can please excuse me, I am in the middle of something.’
‘Oh! Yes, of course.’
As soon as Mapel Jones left, Thompson peeped out.
‘Did she speak to you?’
‘No, sir,’ his secretary responded.
‘Good,’ he said. Who knows if the Presbyterian Mission is proving good for the natives? It is certainly doing good for Miss Jones.
7
Pestonjee had arranged for a cow to be delivered to Metro House at ten in the morning. Despite his devotion to minutes, schedules, calendars, plans, Pestonjee could not predict the vagaries of the cow market. Cow-love followed its seasons. It peaked during Eid. The editorial of a leading English newspaper in Bombay offered a reason. In Genesis, Abraham is on the verge of sacrificing his son, Isaac, when an angel intervenes and Isaac is substituted with a ram. For centuries afterwards, Muslims sacrificed rams, goats and lambs. In the past decade however, the cow became an exponentially popular substitute. Cow riots played their part. Legal institutions played theirs. In court, the Hindus said that the Muslims hurt their sentiments by killing cows in the open. The Muslims argued that the Hindus were being intolerant of their religious practices. The judge ruled that cow sacrifice would be allowed in places where cows were killed as a custom. Where cow sacrifice did not prevail, no new ritual would be introduced. Custom is a figment of collective imagination. Within a year, the number of cow sacrifices rose by a multiple of fifteen. A week ago, a rich Hindu landlord paid three times the price to save a hundred cows. Elsewhere, ninety cows were led away to the abattoir. The first fifteen lay dead, the sixteenth was held by four men. She struggled. As the blade rose over her head she shut her eyes. The next moment, she heard the blade clang on the floor. The cow protectors had come and Salim, who was no longer protected by the weight of his heavy blade, took off in the opposite direction. The cow, when she opened her eyes would have thought for an instant that she was in golaka (Krishna’s heaven for cows) but the corpses of the previous fifteen were beside her. The protectors rubbed turmeric on her forehead. Some of it irritated her eyes, but she, along with the rest of the cows, joined the celebration. Meanwhile, the cow rentiers at Crawford market were having a difficult time managing their cow stocks. In the past two weeks, cow raiders had procured three thousand cows from Muslim traders and delivered them to several newly constructed cow shelters. The middlemen incorporated the risk of raids—the prices soared. The next week, the police superintendent issued a stern warning to all the cow protectors: ‘The police are the only protectors in town.’ Immediately, the cows transformed from mothers to meat and the prices fell again. Riots occurred. ‘No private property is to be infringed,’ ordered the superintendent. This time around, ten men lost their lives, while private property and prices remained safe and stable. During Muharram, Muslims demanded more cows. The Hindu landlords had burnt their fingers before and appeared less willing to save any cows, mothers or not. It was not entirely their fault. In the previous round of the game, they had paid three times the price. The act was meant to be symbolic. For the sake of honour, they gambled away their wealth in a night of jingoism. Over time the cow traders became better racketeers. They influenced the Hindus to protect and the Muslims to devour. A lighted match can get out of hand and out of control. This week, no one was in control and no cow was delivered to Pestonjee.
According to Persis, Pestonjee’s wife—she had sown her ambitions in Pestonjee and reaped little more than weeds and their bitterness had permeated her daily life—there were several claimants to the post of a general manager at the British Chewing Gum Company. Pestonjee had seen the empty slot in the office’s organization chart. It was a location on the chessboard unavailable to Young, the consultant, the horse, too agile, too eager, too meddlesome; Banerjee, the accountant, the camel, too indirect; Thompson, the elephant, too secure, the position was beneath him. It was the right game with the wrong animals. Only a cow could checkmate the king. Only a cow, like Narasimha, could annihilate paan. He would deliver that cow.
‘What happened to your promotion Pesi?’ Persis had asked him the previous week.
‘This year Persis. Don’t be impatient.’
‘Impatient! Your one year passes in ten. Do you know what my family says about you?’
‘Your brother’s the talk of the town. Isn’t that enough for them.’
‘He’s running a successful trade in cotton. He’s ten years younger than you. Have you seen his house in Surat?’
‘I’m tired of your bickering, Persis. “Look at Ghadiali”, “look at Dhanji”, “look at my brother”. One day, I swear, I’ll kill myself. Then they will say, “Look at that pestering Persis. Drove him into his grave.” You will have to live with that guilt—’
‘Pesi, you don’t understand!’ Persis interrupted.
‘No! You don’t understand. Every day I walk along the docks and think to myself that I should jump, end it all, finish my chapter. What’s left anyway? Life is a shut shop. The end. Then I think what will happen to you when I am gone. I turn back. What’s the use? One day I will not return. Then you will realize your mistake.’
~
Every evening, on his way home, Pestonjee took a circuitous route—a detour at Apollo Bunder. In the monsoon months, the waves lashed against the stone walls of the promenade. Just when he assumed that the sea had exhausted her strength, a twenty-foot wave would emerge and drench him from head to toe and then return to the sea with his umbrella. The sea had been taking his umbrella since he was a child. How many umbrellas? Leaving behind a drenched boy underneath a dark grey sky. What did she do with them? Did they become antennas that drew lightning from the sky? His black umbrella was whisked away. He felt lighter. The sky was full of silver linings. At times, the lightning would create a path from the clouds to the sea—a passage between the two worlds. If he jumped at the right time, he could make it through. That required luck. Once someone saw a man jump and a lightning strike at the same time. The clouds, in their infinite layers, were lit. A bright passage opened—a gateway to heaven—and the man passed through. He had been walking on this promenade since he was a child. Ever since then, these thoughts. It was as if the sea had crept behind him like an old witch and had inhabited him. It was as if this place was the only permanent fixture in his life. To return to his immutable self, he only had to turn up. The sea had often called out to him, but he resisted, one umbrella at a time. Perhaps, the sea did not call him with her full heart and soul. He had turned up religiously during the most perilous of nights. All it amounted to was that one time when a wave had knocked him out for a few minutes. He held on to the iron railing. That year’s quota was over and he was not in it. Twenty-two swept away to sea and one miraculous survivor who was back on his feet within hours of being whisked into the unsettled waters like an umbrella. This afternoon, at twelve, it was dark. The clouds knocked against each other. The sky and the sea were the same shade of grey. Lightning and thunder followed each other incessantly . an hour ago, the sea was twenty metres below street level, now only five. The clouds were on the ground and none of the boats were visible. Two strong lights appeared over the horizon. They were probably from the big liners that were always anchored at a good distance from the coast. Dusk was several hours away.
~
‘Pesi, please don’t say these things. You know my family. They have high expectations of us. My great-grandfather fought against the East India Co
mpany. Where would we be without him?’ Persis continued.
‘Where would we be? Really! Ha! He threw a dead rat inside a carriage—Ratwala.’
‘So what! Rats, dogs, cows, anything is good in a fight.’
‘He was fighting for the rights of dogs.’
‘How dare you? He was fighting for everyone’s property. Those thieves stole our dogs and sold them for four annas. Do you know how expensive those dogs were? They were English.’
‘Do you want me to throw rats in my office then?’
‘It is impossible to talk to you. Just look at Ghadiali. His son, twenty years younger, is joining an English law firm.’
‘I know that boy. Up to no good. His family is also up to no good.’
‘What “no good”? They work for Jejeebhoy.’
‘We know where that money came from.’
‘It’s legal. The English made money selling opium too. All your talk is inside the house. Go tell the government what they can and cannot sell. Write it in the newspaper. Can you?’
‘That boy is a scoundrel just like his father. Pimps and drug-peddlers.’
‘Now, you will judge. He has a law degree from London and you pass judgments with your BA third-class. Why don’t you join the court? Pass judgments all day! He has just bought a house at Cooper Square, among the English, do you know? Not free housing at Rustom Bagh.’
‘This house may be “free” for you, but it isn’t free for me. I pay rent. It may not be too much, but . if he has such a big house in Cooper Square why does he come here all the time?’
‘Oh, Pesi. You don’t trust anyone. You’re angry even when your own brother visits. He too has stopped coming. The whole world is chasing your wife. The dhobi, Ghadiali, Junior Ghadiali, Daruwala, everyone. They have nothing else to do but run after your wife.’
‘I didn’t say Daruwala—’
‘Even Roshan—’
‘I told you I don’t want Roshan in my house. Doesn’t know how to behave. Last year, during Navroz, he put his hand on Zariwala’s leg. Jumped in her seat, poor lady.’
‘He’s a decent boy. A small problem. Everyone understands.’
‘He’s no boy. He is a full-sized, indecent man. And your great-grandfather. The panchayat had to rub their nose on the commissioner’s shoes because of him. Throwing rats.’
‘It’s because of him that we are fine today. Mohammedans, Hindus, all are converting. How many Parsees are—’
‘Yes! Your great-grandfather is responsible for the Parsee community. Not Wadia, not Davar, not Jejeebhoy. Your great-grandfather. Did he throw rats at the missionaries? You don’t understand anything. If you have been wronged, what should you do? Go to the police. Write in the newspaper. File a petition. No, nothing doing. He is not going to do any of that. What does he do? Throw dead rats. For what? Pariah dogs.’
‘You’re jealous, Pesi. That’s your problem. If you had behaved yourself with my family, we would have been in London today.’
8
‘What is the price of our chewing gum, Mr Pestonjee? Half an anna?’ Thompson twirled his stick.
‘Yes, sir, half an anna, like paan,’ said Pestonjee.
‘Never quite liked it.’
‘I don’t like it either, sir, but Banerjee likes it. One every hour. The corridor—’
‘Those filthy red stains. I knew it was Banerjee . The first time I ate paan I felt like my lungs would explode.’
‘You must have swallowed it whole, sir, instead of spitting—’
‘We haven’t quite taken a fancy to spitting you see.’ Rat-tat-tat-rat-tat-tat . Thompson drummed his stick against the table.
‘We are competing with tea and paan. But chewing gum has many more benefits.’
‘Why is that?’ Thompson asked, continuing the drumming—a rhythm had evolved.
‘Is it a symphony?’
‘I wish. Here it is hard for a man to follow his persuasions. What were you saying?’
‘I was walking home one day. I stopped at the vegetable store. A man, bulging on all sides, stood next to me, reading Bombay Samachar.’
‘What’s your point?’
‘Yes, sir. So, he stood there, reading his paper loudly, like he was the—’
‘I don’t have time for this, Pestonjee.’
‘I am coming to the point, sir. He spits without a care in the world on my new leather chappals. That uncivilized barbarian! Excuse my language, sir, but he had no manners.’
‘It is either uncivilized or barbarian. Does not help to claim both.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘So?’
‘If he were to spit chewing gum, it wouldn’t make such a mess.’
‘Chewing gum does not have tobacco, Pestonjee.’
‘Poor men will still chew it.’
‘Pray, tell me why?’
‘If they are hungry and want long-lasting flavour .’
‘One can always keep paan in his mouth.’
‘But then, the red betel juice will dribble out from the corners of the lips and stain the clothes. If his clothes are stained, his wife will be angry. If his wife is angry, she will beat him. Instead, he can chew gum all day long. Everyone is happy. Also, paan makes one hungry. It’s a digestive after all.’
‘It is a what?’
‘Digestive . digestive . for the stoma—’
‘Children are more disposed towards chewing gum, rather than grown men. We have a small propaganda fund for this. Work on that. Erect a few boards across some of the schools, ten or twelve at first. Make sure the shops stock the chewing gum before the boards go up.’
‘Sir, we should have made paan-flavoured gum instead of mint. Why will anyone waste money on chewing gum when they can steal mint from their parent’s—’
‘It’s not the taste, Pestonjee, it’s the form.’
‘Sir, in that case, why not paan-flavoured chewing gum?’
‘Have you recalled the old label?’
‘Why? Did someone complain about my memory?’
‘Recalled, retrieved.’
‘Sorry, sir. Yes, I did.’
‘Is the new label specific about the contents?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Does not contain animal products. Suitable for vegetarians.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. I want this message on the poster, not on just the label.’
‘Sir, these additions will take up too much space. It’s written quite clearly on the label.’
‘And the caption?’
‘Go Mata Ko Bhata (the chewing gum that the cow mother loves).’
‘Still sounds odd.’
‘Sir, trust me on this. I have spent quite some time on the subject. What better way to get the natives to love our chewing gum than to use a cow? After all, it is the first chewing gum in the—’
‘Tomorrow you will put a pig on the label.’
‘No, the Muslims—who said pig?’ Pestonjee observed Thompson.
‘What are you thinking? No pig,’ Thompson fidgeted uncomfortably. ‘What is that smell?’
‘Sir, I have something that will convince you that the cow is the best ambassador for our product.’
‘What?’
‘Here in the lobby.’
Thompson stepped out of his room. The white cow with red horns stood in the lobby looking at him with great big moist eyes, masticating.
‘What is this nonsense? Is this a joke, Mr Pestonjee?’
‘No, sir. I got her for you. To show you how she chews the cud, just like chewing gum. And prove to you that she deserves to be on our posters. I will open her mouth and show you. Natwarlal! Open her mouth,’ Pestonjee ordered.
‘Sir, she might bite.’
‘Cows don’t bite.’
‘Does she know this?’
‘Just open her mouth.’
Natwarlal put a cloth around his hands and tried to open the cow’s mouth. The cow stood still. Her saliva trickled down his wrist and towards his underarms, making
him wiggle.
‘Now shoot,’ Pestonjee yelled at the photographer, who had been summoned exclusively for this purpose.
‘It’s too dark,’ the photographer responded. He preferred still life. He was unprepared and unenthusiastic about drama.
‘Natwarlal! Get a torch.’
Natwarlal ran to the stationery room and returned with a torchlight. Pestonjee flashed the torch into the cow’s mouth that Natwarlal held open using both hands.
‘Perfect,’ the photographer said.
‘I want her mouth wide open,’ said Pestonjee. Then, turning towards Thompson, ‘Sir, the cow chews all day long. All Hindus love cows. If we use her on our posters, they will love our chewing gum.’ He flashed the torch again. The cow shied away from the light nervously and blundered into the cameraman and his equipment.
‘Stop her! My camera!’ screamed the photographer.
‘First, get her out of here,’ Thompson shouted. ‘Clean up this mess now! I can’t breathe. I want this place spotless before the end of the day!’
Then he left.
Pestonjee, the officer and Natwarlal tugged at the rope around the cow’s neck. She suddenly jerked her neck and sent them sprawling on the floor before lumbering off towards the filing room.
The day’s outbound post was pending. Natwarlal rushed to the dispatch desk to collect envelopes and parcels, then to the storage to fetch his sandals, then over to Banerjee for money for the postage and only managed to catch his breath half a mile away at the post office, two minutes before closing time. When Natwarlal returned, it was half past five, the office was empty and Pestonjee was resting against the door of the filing room. After the mishap with the photographer, he had run after the cow and quickly bolted the door.
‘Is everything okay, sir?’ asked Natwarlal.
‘Come here, you idiot!’
‘Oh no, the cow!
‘Open the door.’
Natwarlal opened the door to the stench of cow dung. In the middle of the room, the cow sat demurely with her legs folded. In her mouth was an old brown file.
‘What is she eating?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
Cow and Company Page 3