‘The English are fine without your prayers,’ said a manager at a newly established company.
‘They will be even better if they perform a puja,’ he responded, then added, ‘The English consult us priests periodically. Where does the Hindu legal code comes from?’ This argument convinced the officer. But Panditji knew, the Brahmin priests who were consulted, even in the earlier days of the Company rule, were too few, ten or twelve at most, among the teeming millions. Their trade was on the path of decline. The younger generation priests had no interest. In Bombay, the membership of the Priests Association had fallen with every passing year during the last decade. Most members were irregular in their dues. Earlier, this was grounds for suspension. Now they needed the members more than the money.
When Natwarlal saw Panditji, he didn’t wait for the pandit to climb the stairs. ‘Mr Pestonjee is not in,’ he called although Pestonjee could be seen walking into Thompson’s room. Natwarlal had standing instructions. Saved me the climb, Panditji thought on his way down, although he would have appreciated a drink of water and a minute to rest. Yet, this rationalization was not all fiction. The climb could have been disorienting. Panditji’s nightmares had penetrated his real world. They woke him in the middle of the night. Wide awake he would hear a bell ringing, a ringing reminding him of his earlier days when he was a teacher, not a preacher. He would pinch himself. The ringing wouldn’t stop. A few hours later, his eyes would close again and he would be delivered once more to his nightmares.
It’s three in the afternoon. The school is still in session. The bell rings. Panditji rushes to the door. ‘No one leaves before four,’ he shouts. The students stand still. There, among them, is Eklavya. ‘Did you ring the bell?’ he asks.
‘No,’ Eklavya replies.
‘Show me your hand. Let me see you lie now.’ Panditji holds a thin bamboo cane, its end is sharp, musical, psssh! Eklavya presents his palm. His right thumb is missing. ‘Where’s your thumb?’ he asks.
‘I don’t have it.’
‘Is it ringing the bell?’ he screams at Eklavya.
‘It is,’ Eklavya responds.
‘It is you then! Now give me your left thumb,’ Panditji says, brandishing a knife. Before he gets to Eklavya’s thumb, it detaches itself from his palm. It grows. It is the size of his fist. Panditji’s knife falls from his hand. He tries to grab Eklavya’s bleeding thumb with both hands. But it is too big for his hands. The bell continues ringing. Panditji is sweating. He turns towards the door. The thumb follows. He runs into another classroom. The thumb is behind him. He runs out into the corridor and down the stairs. The thumb is now as big as he is. He’s in the courtyard. It begins to rain and then thunder. Hailstones hit his head. They are not hailstones. They are thumbs. Thousands of dismembered thumbs raining down. Eklavya’s thumb has taken on colossal proportions. It is pushing him down into the ground. The ground splits wide beneath his feet.
Panditji would wake up in a cold sweat. The ringing stopped when he ate. Now, he ate through his waking hours. Within a year his stomach resembled that of Ganesha’s, round and potent.
20
Young was in Thompson’s office presenting the preliminary results of the survey.
‘Why aren’t there any clove-eaters in Mahim?’ Thompson asked.
‘I had that same question in my mind.’
‘Must be a mistake.’
‘We know how it is. However well we try. You can’t blame the enumerators. Their brains can only do so much. You give it your best shot but there’s always something you can’t control. Good things came out of it though. I gathered data on the effects of paan on sanitation. We have it for one month in one location. We can extrapolate these findings and conclude that this is the amount of spitting that goes on near every paanwala in Bombay. Given the volume, these spitters are surely responsible for the clogged drains. Not only that, they are also liable for the plague and all sorts of other diseases caused by unsanitary conditions.’
‘I know where you are going with this. Ingenious. I say we raise the matter with the municipal corporation.’
‘We have the data to support our claim.’
‘I always knew I could count on you. Why don’t you draft a petition?’ Thompson was enthusiastic.
‘Will you talk to someone inside the corporation first?’
‘I know just the person,’ Thompson responded.
The next week the discussion continued.
‘He said it was unfeasible. “Good idea. Not thought through though. The government follows a policy of non-interference on cultural matters,”’ said Thompson.
‘This isn’t cultural. It’s a matter of public hygiene,’ argued Young.
‘The government doesn’t think so. Food habits are cultural.’
‘How terrible is that? Sacrificing the health of all for the habits of a few.’
‘He said that if you show your results to the sanitation department, they might be convinced to introduce a fine for spitting. That should take care of things,’ said Thompson.
‘We should talk to the Parsees. They have considerable influence in the municipal corporation, don’t they?’
‘Influence! They practically run the whole thing.’
‘They must be behind the sanitation regulations too,’ Young replied.
‘I know what they might say, it’s always the same problem, who will enforce it? They are badly understaffed.’
‘Don’t worry about that. The law will fill their pockets many times over. Congratulations! Chewing gum will soon replace paan in the native mouth,’ Young said.
Thompson smiled. Young’s American optimism was contagious. ‘Congratulations to you too. The betel trees have finally found their saviour.’
21
‘Pesi, Roshan is in trouble again.’
‘What did your brother do now?’ Pestonjee asked.
‘He wrote about Mohammed in the papers.’
‘In his own name?’
‘No, yours!’
‘Why don’t people leave Mohammed alone? Twenty years ago, there was another enthusiastic dikra poking his nose into other people’s affairs. What a riot it caused. Why does it matter whose son he was? What did he look like? What did he wear? If the Mohammedans don’t want to see him, why are you interested?’
‘Let them not. There’s nothing wrong in wanting to see people others don’t want to see. We see your mother, don’t we?’ Persis retorted.
‘It’s impossible to talk with you.’
‘Will you help, or should I ask Ghadiali?’
‘Ghadiali, Ghadiali, Ghadiali, Krrrk, krrrk, krrrk,’ Kitkit, their parrot, repeated.
‘Why does Kitkit say Ghadiali all the time?’
‘It’s Ghadiali’s fault. He teases the parrot from his window.’
‘The next time I’ll ask Ghadiali to come over. Let me see how the parrot behaves.’
‘They haven’t met in person. I have told you that before, more than once.’
When Ghadiali arrived, the parrot was silent.
‘See, he doesn’t know Mr Ghadiali,’ said Persis. Pestonjee rolled his eyes at her.
‘Ghadiali . Ghadiali . Ghadiali, Ghadiali, Ghadiali. Krrk, krrk, krrk. Ghadiali. Burjor Burjor . kem cho majama . kem cho majama.’
‘How does he know your first name?’
‘Burjor is not my first name. Who is Burjor?’ asked Ghadiali.
‘Who is Burjor?’ asked Pestonjee.
‘Kitkit hangs in the gallery. How do I know who he listens to?’ Persis responded.
‘Put him in the bedroom then.’
‘He was in the bedroom. Last month you hung his cage in the gallery because he was noisy, remember? Did you call Mr Ghadiali to talk to him about Kitkit or Roshan?’
22
Lallan paanwala made and unmade empires with his nutcracker. When Lallan cracked a betel nut and said, ‘the betel leaf is green’, it meant that the coast was clear for the strikers to return to the street. When Lallan cracked a
betel nut and said, ‘the betel leaf is young’, it meant that the university students would join the workers in the strike. When Lallan cracked a betel nut and said, ‘the betel leaf is red’, it meant that the police had been alerted. The strike would be called off. Lallan sat across from the police headquarters. He could smell the heat. Many policemen were his customers.
‘What are you eating?’ Lallan asked Banerjee.
‘My company has warned me about chewing paan. This helps hide.’
‘How?’
‘It’s called chewing gum, mint-flavoured. No more smell, no more stains.’
‘No smell of cigarettes even?’
‘No.’
‘What about tobacco?’
‘Not even tobacco.’
‘Can you get some for me? My customers have a lot to hide. Not just in the office, at home too. They will thank you for it.’
‘In a month,’ Banerjee responded. ‘For now, it is only available at some shops outside the schools.’
‘Can I try one?’
‘Here. Chew it. Don’t swallow. Spit it out when the flavour runs out.’
‘How much does it cost.’
‘Half an anna.’
‘Half an anna? Really? Can you order some for me?’
‘How many?’
‘One hundred a day to start with. Is that enough? I can tell my friends. Some of them sell much more than I do.’
‘Soon.’
The paanwala chewed the gum for about half an hour. He retained the piece in his mouth, then returned to it. He felt energized. Today, the dullness of the afternoon hour had escaped him.
23
‘If you don’t give me fifty per cent, I will take my business elsewhere.’
Enumerator A reminded the paanwala that it was he who had invented the game and that it was due to his efforts that the paanwala’s clientele had increased tenfold in three new branches in a period of three months.
‘Fifty per cent for sitting there, doing nothing, while I do all the work. I can employ someone.’
‘But you will be a fake. I am the original. I have the records to prove it—here, see this red notebook.’
The paanwala remained silent for about twenty seconds. He knew Enumerator A was right. Before the game became popular, the paanwala had lived poorly. When he arrived in this bustling city, he knew no one. For the first few weeks, he had slept on the pavement. Then Enumerator A arrived. The paanwala’s life changed dramatically. Wasn’t it he who had seized the idea by its neck, transformed it from the clouds to the pavement and infused it with the required capital? Ideas are like small farts. Ideas are like clouds in the sky. Full of water but not everyone can make it rain. Enumerator A deserves nothing. These thoughts abandoned him midway, he changed course again. What if Enumerator A leaves? Didn’t the edifice stand on Enumerator A’s red notebook?
‘Okay, fifty per cent. But, you’ll have to work for it, don’t just rely on my shoulders.’
By the following Friday, Enumerator A and the paanwala had set the ground rules of their partnership. That very day, Young happened to pass by.
‘How come you’re still here? Don’t you know it has been two months since this project was shelved? I see, no one cared to tell you.’
‘Young sir, I’m no longer your employee. I’m a proprietor now.’
‘What stories you weave. Proprietor of what—measuring spitting distances?’ Young turned to the paanwala, ‘You can get rid of him now. No administrator will come after you.’
‘Thank you for your concern, Mr Young. But he is my employee—’
‘We’re partners,’ corrected Enumerator A.
‘Partners! What times do we live in? Any Tom . well, damn it, damn it all!’ Young walked away in a hurry.
24
Why is the ceiling this low? It took Banerjee half a minute to realize where he was. First, that he was alone. Second, that the room was completely red, including the bed, the lamp and the curtains. Third, that the room was hot, despite the dark interiors. What time is it? He got out of bed. He swayed a bit and leaned on the wall to steady himself. He opened the large window. The light hit him with such audacity that he had to shut the window quickly and sit on the floor. His head ached. He vomited. Then retreated unsteadily back to bed. Within an hour, he rose a second time. Without negotiation, he stepped on the floor and opened the window again. He was on the first floor. Below dhoti-clad men were beating wet clothes on grey stone slabs. Large drums stood next to the slabs, some containing water, others being used to soak clothes and sheets, most of them white. Clothes fluttered on thin ropes. On the left, a long line of tethered donkeys, some brayed impatiently. Dhobi Ghaut! He stepped back and opened the door on his right. A narrow corridor led to a staircase, at the bottom of which was a door that opened onto the main street. The water from the previous day’s heavy rain had not receded. Within minutes, the sun disappeared behind clouds. The slow drizzle turned into a downpour. He looked up. The rain drops hurt his eyes. It must have rained all night. Only rain restores order to this city.
That afternoon when he reached the office, his head still ached. The clouds cleared and a rainbow appeared in the sky, not brilliant, but symmetric, well-behaved. The next day he remained drowsy and grey and didn’t notice Pestonjee pass by his desk, twice. Thompson was not in office yet.
‘Where’s Mr Young?’ Banerjee asked Natwarlal that afternoon.
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘Who put my briefcase here?’ Banerjee had assumed that he had lost it two nights ago.
‘I did. Young sir asked me to accompany him. I waited outside the shop until you and Young sir came out.’
‘Is that how I ended up in Dhobi Ghaut?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh! I was wondering what I was doing in that neighbourhood. I couldn’t imagine myself in a place like that. I’ve never been there, ever. Where is Mr Young?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
25
It was hot and humid. The Causeway remained as pebbled, as grey. The stone arches of the building were protective. The paanwala was nestled inside his shop, whistling at the dull afternoon. Enumerator A remained in his chair. He filled only half of it. When the sun hit him at an angle he seemed older. He usually looked quite boyish with his inquisitive, jet-black eyes. At this hour, his eyes were not visible. He had drifted off some time ago, his pencil lay on the ground.
He woke up with a start. For a few seconds, he could not determine what was vibrating, the table or his ears. The man, whose large hands had slammed the table, was more than twice his size in height and girth. His face was wrinkled, weather-beaten. His beard and moustache were ginger. His salwar kameez and turban were both white. Dry flowers on snow. Enumerator A began introducing himself as Thorle Saheb from Pandharpur, but the pathan showed little interest.
The pathan was from Herat. He said that in his hometown all doors were open to him. All men and children, on horse and foot, stopped to seek his blessings. He was here because the news of this game had spread, from Punjab to Baluchistan, to Peshawar, and the winds had carried it to his ears.
‘Here, enter my name—Dara Kosh Pathan.’
Enumerator A added his name on the fifth page of the long red register along with his age and place of origin.
‘Ready? There’s the hole. You know the rules. Stand as far back behind this line as you can.’ As the pathan turned towards the line, Enumerator A added, ‘Wait, you have to buy paan first.’ He pointed to a blackboard hung on the wall of the paan shop, ‘There, you see, the names and scores of the top three record holders. The first hasn’t been broken in three months.’
The pathan walked to the line, across it and kept going. Enumerator A wondered whether his instructions had been unclear. The pathan stopped when he was twice as far as Enumerator A expected. He looked towards the sky, then at the six-inch hole in the ground. He inhaled the urban air; humid, salty, fishy. His eyes closed. Moments later his lips parted and his spittle ripple
d through the air. As it approached its destination it curved at a right angle and like a slithering eel, entered the now seemingly large hole, in the centre. The poise, the rhythm, the grace, defied the urgency of the city and its people. Enumerator A, the paanwala and three bystanders held their breaths in awe. Tears filled the paanwala’s eyes; Enumerator A’s eyes followed suit. Dara Kosh Pathan, in his white garb, appeared transcendental. The paanwala and Enumerator A felt honoured. They wanted to hoist him on to their shoulders but feared that they would stain the moment or transgress upon something sacred. The gulf between them became impassable. How was one to account for it? the enumerator wondered. He measured the distance with his tape. It was two and a quarter times the previous record. He measured the spread. It would have been a perfect score even if the hole had been smaller. What about all that could not be measured? They added the pathan’s name on the top of the list. It was to remain unchallenged and those who followed never quite aimed to reach it. As the word went around, the game attracted participants, journalists and fans from across the oceans. It had become an annual event, a festival, a pilgrimage. People arrived on steamers, on trains, some walked for days.
~
By the end of the first year, Enumerator A had paid off his interest; by the end of the second, his debt; by the end of the third, he settled an unmentionable family obligation; by the end of the fourth, he bought a store; by the end of the fifth, he moved into a small room; by the end of the sixth, he built a two-storey house in his village; by the end of the seventh, he employed a servant; by the end of the eighth, nothing; by the end of the ninth, he donated funds to the village temple; by the end of the tenth, he bought a house in the city; by the end of the eleventh, he travelled in a horse-carriage; by the end of the twelfth, he got himself a mistress; by the end of the thirteenth, he supported her entire family; by the end of the fourteenth, he accounted that over the past five years no one, not even his close friends, had called him Bandu, he was Thorle Saheb; by the end of the fifteenth year, he lost his initial enthusiasm for the game. After Dara Kosh Pathan, he felt destined for disappointment. By the end of the sixteenth, he said to the paanwala, ‘I don’t want to continue.’
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