In the Shadow of a Dream

by Sharad Keskar

  ‘All right. Make certain you come. Otherwise I’ll come to the cinema. Then you, all of you will get the sack.’ Boman waved a hand. ‘Okay, boy, you! Come here. Easy job. You know, easy kitchen-work. But first bath. There, give me those clothes. Yes, yes, you will get them back.’

  The older boys left promising to return. ‘Now boy,’ Boman said. ‘Do you see that stand pipe near the wall. Stand under tap. I’ll get soap. Wait there.’ A moment later he returned. ‘You know how to wash? Good. It’s not cold. The wind will dry you. Then, put these on and come inside through that door. You follow my Hindi? Good. Now,’ he added in English, ‘what is your name?’

  ‘Bal. My name is Bal.’

  ‘Why you like speaking English? Say in Hindi.’

  Bal shook his head. ‘I want talk English. Christian hostel, all talking English.’

  ‘How long? How long have you been here, in Bombay? How many din?’

  Bal hesitated and Boman repeated the question. Bal counted on this fingers, then indicated twenty-one with his hands.’

  ‘And you can sing English songs you heard.’ Boman smiled. ‘Tonight. Where you sleep?’ Boman helpfully folded his hands against is face and shut his eyes.

  Bal pointed to the courtyard flagstones and lay down.

  ‘All right, all right,’ Boman nodded solemnly. ‘I bet you’ve been sleeping on the pavements. Get up, get up. Now listen. I wanted to speak English. Your age. Small boy, like you. But I went to school. I was lucky.’ He stared at the boy and realised that Bal was finding it hard to understand what he was saying. Boman mumbled to himself: ‘Poor boy, how will you ever get to the school’, then aloud: ‘What are you waiting for? Take off your clothes. Don’t be shy. Okay, leave that on, but take the top off. What’s that?’ Bal had taken a folded piece of paper from under his tunic, opened it, pressed it flat and placed it lovingly under the sandals. It was a cinema film poster. The first two words of the title read: Tarzan and…the rest of the title was hidden under the sandals. Bal removed his tunic, Boman pointed to a filthy oil drum lying on its side ‘Throw those old clothes away, there. Yes, into that kutchera bin, and the pyjama too. You’ve got a nice shirt and shorts now. Wear that and come in.’ He waited till the boy started to wash himself under the tap. Then he turned and entered the building. Twenty minutes later Boman came out to find the boy shivering in his clean clothes.

  ‘Hey, didn’t you understand what I said?’

  The boy nodded.

  ‘Then why didn’t you come in?’

  The boy leaned back and craning his neck pointed up. Leaning down from a third storey balcony was a boy wearing a green school-cap. He was grinning widely, and in his hands brandished a catapult. A second later a missile whizzed through the air. It missed Bal by inches, and ricocheted on the flag stones.

  ‘Minoo! Stop that!’ Boman shouted up at the balcony. ‘Get inside! At once!’

  ‘But daddyji, he was sneaking into the building. And he’s wearing my clothes.’

  ‘I gave them to him. They’re old, and small for you. And, I told him to come in.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, sorry, da.’

  Boman looked at his wrist watch. ‘Hey, Minoo, still half hour. Plenty time. Come down for breakfast.’ He shook his head and muttered to himself: ‘Today early school and half-day.’ He turned to Bal. ‘Did he hit you?’

  Bal shook his head. ‘Sahibji,’ he said timidly. ‘This your house?’

  ‘Yes. Not house. Building. Many flats. Lot of families live here. Okay, now, go inside. Wait by the door. Don’t come in. Not now. When I tell you. People coming into restaurant now.’ He looked up at the balcony. ‘Minoo’s gone.’ From behind the door he took out a broom. ‘Here, take this. Don’t look like that. Haven’t you seen a jharoo before? Sweep the courtyard. You know how? Good. Not that hard. Slowly. Keep dust down. Put all rubbish, all kutchera, there. That same bin.’ He turned to go in then faced the boy again. ‘When finish, knock on this door. I’ll send Minoo with a mug of hot tea and bread.’ He looked up at the skies and pointed to a bulging jute sack by the door. ‘If it rains, come inside and sit there. Make sure water don’t get in. Pull sack in, like this.’ Boman demonstrated. ‘Any problems. Call me.’

  ‘Onions?’ asked the boy, pointing to the sack.

  ‘Sack of onions, yes. Just come. This storeroom, and this door…’ Boman opened the door, ‘going into the kitchen, and…’ pointing to the bamboo-bead curtain behind him, ‘into restaurant. I will be there. When rain comes, call me. Don’t forget.’

  ‘Call? How calling?’

  ‘Yes, say mister…No, no. Malik, say, malik. Yes, now what?’ The boy pointed to a low pre-fabricated shed at the far end of the courtyard beyond the stand pipe, ‘Yes, yes, lavatory. Flush. You know how?’ The boy nodded hesitatingly. ‘I’ll show you, come.’ They walked up to the shed. There was a small bucket outside next to a tall zinc tub of water. ‘Fill bucket with water, and…Whoosh! But first wash your…’ Boman pointed to his bottom and laughed.

  It was the third week of June and it rained early that afternoon. Bal dragged the brown sack as far as he could into the storeroom and sat on it. The heavy downpour soon flooded the courtyard and the water started to flow over the threshold. Bal shouted: ‘Malik! Malik!.’ But Boman had anticipated the boy. Two men came out from the kitchen and pulled the sack in with the boy still seated on it. The astonished expression on his face made one of the men laugh loudly. ‘So, this is the lad looking for a job? He’s too small to do anything but wash pots and pans.’

  ‘Well,’ said the other man, who had been staring hard at the boy, ‘there is always demand for that.’ He was tall with black curly hair, liquid eyes and a large sensuous mouth. ‘I’ll give the boy a job, if Boman lets him go.’

  ‘Come on D’Silva,’ said the other man, ‘don’t build up the boy’s hopes.’

  ‘I’m serious, man. Honest! Phil, no joking. I cook. I could do with help.’

  The man addressed as Phil laughed again. It was a strange laugh, more apparent from the jerking of his shoulders and less from the hissing sound he made through clenched teeth. ‘Oh, come on!’ he said. ‘You’ve got a one bedroom flat. Where’s the boy to sleep? I mean he can’t work for you and sleep on Bombay’s pavements.’ Phil’s large round eyes bulged as he dusted his hands and brushed his bald head. ‘Bloody hell! That sack was full of dust. Dizzy, you’ve got dust on your trousers.’

  ‘Yes, man.’ Ronny D’Silva brushed his trousers. ‘Well, the boy can sleep in the kitchen. I’ll get him a cot. Say, Phil. Seen his eyes? Beautiful. God! I’ve never seen eyes like that!’

  ‘Yeah, I saw them. Anyway, check with Boman. Just in case he’s got plans for the lad. Mind you, he’ll know. You’re a great one for boys.’

  ‘Shut up, man! Don’t say that in front of the boy. And Boman will hear.’

  ‘Na, he can’t hear. Not with all that noise of rain.’

  ‘God, I’m stuck. Forgot to bring umbrella. And I’ve got to be back in the office in twenty minutes.’

  ‘It’s June, man. What did’ya expect? Monsoon’s late, already. Ask Boman. He’ll lend you an umbrella. There, he…’ The bead curtain moved and Boman entered the corridor dragging two sandbags, which he propped against the door to stop the water getting in. ‘You okay, Bomi. I could lend you a hand. Come on Dizzy, shake a leg.’

  Boman turned to the men. ‘I can manage now. Thanks. Go back and finish your breakfast. Fresh made toast on the table. I heard. Dizzy can borrow an umbrella.’

  The three men went into the restaurant dining hall, Boman, to stand proprietarily behind the counter; Phil and D’Silva back to their table. A tall, sad looking young man entered. ‘Good morning!’ Boman greeted him. ‘Has it stopped raining?’ The young man nodded sullenly and made straight for a free table. ‘Sorry, gentleman, please!’ Boman called out to him and pointed to th
e small notice displayed on the counter. It read: “All orders here before seating at tables.”

  ‘Masala scrambled eggs on toast; and tea,’ the thin, sad man said mechanically.

  Boman repeated the order down into the kitchen and waited for its echo. ‘Good choice,’ he said with an encouraging smile. ‘Biku, my cook, makes the best masala scramble in all Bombay. What tea, Liptons, Brooke Bond, Lopchu?’

  The thin sad man shrugged. ‘Tea in a pot.’

  A moment later Phil came up to the counter. ‘D’Silva has to leave in ten minutes. He’s offering the boy a job as top servant. He’ll explain.’

  After a brief consultation with Phil and D’Silva, Boman called out to Biku to man the counter and the three men returned to the storeroom. They found Bal on the floor poring over a school exercise book on a tea-chest, a thick lead pencil in his hand. On the floor next to him was an enamel mug and plate. Boman recognised both the book and pencil. ‘Where did you get those?’ he asked. ‘Did Minoo give them? It’s okay. What have you drawn?’ He bent down and saw in large illustrative lettering the word “Tarzan”. Boman pursed his lips. ‘Good. Where’s the poster?’ He had to repeat the question and make signs. Bal managed to convey that he had left it outside and that it was destroyed by the rain.

  Boman turned to his friends. ‘Okay, D’Silva,’ said Boman, ‘let’s find out how the boy feels about working for you. Hey there! Bal. Come here.’

  ‘Bal? That’s no name. Bala means babe, does it not, Bomi?’

  ‘Dizzy, the trouble with you Goans, you treat Hindustani like a foreign language. Why ask if you know what it means. The British Raj is khatam, finished. It’s time you fellows decide to be part of India…’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. We’re all bloody Indians now. Come Bal, come here.’ D’Silva offered Bal a slab of chocolate. ‘Take it. It’s sweet. Good stuff.’

  ‘He won’t like it,’ Boman said. ‘He won’t know chocolate. The boy’s a dehatti, a villager.’

  ‘Go on, Bal, take a bite.’ D’Silva unwrapped the silver paper.

  Bal took a bite and spat it out. ‘Ooh, mutti, mutti!’ he said wiping his lips.

  ‘God,’ D’Silva said, ‘he’s calling it mud.’

  The bald man called Phil burst out laughing. ‘What did you expect. Use your head Dizzy. Boman told you he’s a peasant, a villager from some…’

  ‘But,’ Boman interrupted, ‘what is so surprising is his light skin colour. So much fairer than his friends. His face is sunburnt but when I made him bathe under the tap, his chest fair. Almost pink.’

  ‘Could be Parsee,’ D’Silva said. ‘They’re quite pale.’

  ‘A Parsee villager!’ Phil exclaimed. ‘What rubbish you talk, man. Parsees look after their own. You’ll never see a Parsee beggar. And look at that face. Bomi says he’s from Baroda side. That face is not…’

  ‘But, he’s got a big nose, like Parsees have. See for yourself. Nice face, big…’

  ‘Ronny,’ Boman intervened, don’t waste time. ‘The boy’s without a job. Are you really offering him one? If so, then I’ll ask him. See, those alert, intelligent eyes? As if he understands what’s being said. He knows we’re talking about him. Hey boy! Do you want job?’ Bal nodded and his whole body shivered. ‘There is nothing to be afraid about. This sahib, he’ll give you job. Tell your friends this evening, you’ve got a job. And if you go with him, you can stay with him. Sleep in his house.’

  ‘Food also, and ten rupees a month,’ D’Silva added encouragingly.

  Bal looked at Boman, studied D’Silva’s face for a while, then back to Boman. He shook his head firmly and ran back to his place on the onion sack.

  The three men stared at Bal and then at each other. Boman said: ‘The boy is no fool. He knows what you are after. Young as he is, he’s much too sharp.’

  ‘Bloody Phil. I told you the boy was listening. I’m sure he heard you.’

  ‘Yeah,’ growled Phil. ‘But how was I to know. He’s not supposed to understand. He’s only a baccha, a kid. You don’t expect…anyway, good for the boy, I say.’

  ‘You know,’ Boman said. ‘Even if the boy said yes, I would have stopped him.’

  ‘Have a heart, Boman. Don’t believe Phil. He’s a bloody trouble maker.’

  ‘What you do in private is none of my business, Ronny. But…’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘No don’t misunderstand me. Nothing to do with you. There’s something strange, something special, about this boy.’ Boman walked to the tea-chest and picked up the exercise book. ‘You see that Phil? He did that. From memory.’

  Phil whistled.

  ‘Boman held the book in front of the boy’s eyes. He pointed. What’s that, boy?’

  ‘Tarzan,’ Bal said.

  ‘See what I mean? The boy’s had no schooling. He couldn’t have had. I’ll prove it’ Boman turned the page and wrote the letter “E”. And what’s that, boy?’

  The boy stared. Then answered correctly.

  ‘See what I mean, Phil? He can’t have been to school, and no village school will teach English. Let me tell the schoolmaster. He’ll be interested. Right time too.’ He moved the bead curtain and peeped into the restaurant. ‘Yes, he’s finished marking. That’s what he does. Has breakfast, a cup of coffee and marks his school books.

  Phil peeped over Boman’s shoulders. ‘You’re talking about Sam Dustoor? I once asked him why he doesn’t mark his pupils’ books at home. He joked: “Because,” he said, “I’m bloody inefficient”, and that when he goes home he gets lost in his books and forgets about school—and what books, man. He’s got big, big library.’

  ‘Also grand house in the Bombay Fort area,’ added Boman.

  ‘Hey, now, he’s a Parsee and a clever bloke. He can tell you if the boy is Parsee or Gujarati. Always chooses to sit in that corner.’

  ‘I keep it reserved for him. Comes here regularly for breakfast, and sometimes for dinner also. He’s one of my best customers and a good friend.’

  ‘Who are you talking about?’ D’Silva asked and poked his head between the two men. ‘Oh, him. Yeah, seen him many times. Talks like an Englishman.’

  ‘What do you expect,’ Boman said derisively. ‘England returned. Cambridge.’

  ‘He comes here because it’s convenient.’ Phil said turning away. ‘Teacher. Head of English at St Thomas’s High School, Flora Fountain. Near here. You know. Just across the Maidan. Posh school. Bomi, your son, Minoo, goes there?’

  ‘Phil,’ D’Silva thumped Phil’s back. ‘All Church schools in Bombay are good schools. My nephew goes to posh Catholic school, in Santa Cruz. St Anslem’s.’

  ‘But Dizzy, with all respect, this is the tops, if not the top school in Bombay. Very high fees, and long, long waiting list.’

  ‘Bomi managed to get Minoo in.’

  ‘Because Dizzy, Sam and Bomi are obviously old friends.’

  ‘Arrey, it’s not that simple. Minoo still had to pass the entrance test.’

  D’Silva made a face. Then he waved a dismissive hand. ‘I must be going. Bye. The rain has stopped, but I’ll borrow an umbrella, Bomi, just in case.’

  ‘There on the stand behind the counter. Bring it back. The umbrella. I thought Bensons was closed on Saturdays, being a British company.’.

  ‘Yeah. It’s a British company,’ Phil drawled. I always envied Dizzy. Saturday for me is like any working day. Bloody native firms. Squeeze the blood out of you.’

  Boman grinned. ‘Mr Philip Green, the chances of you going “home” are zero. You better get used to “native” bosses.’

  ‘Choke it, Bomi,’ Phil retorted angrily. ‘If we weren’t friends, I’d sock you one. One day, you’ll see, I’ll get to England. Wait till my papers come from Seychelles. Yes they will. Proof, my grandfather was British citizen. Then I’ll be lau
ghing. So, Dizzy, wipe that smile off your face.’

  ‘See, he can’t take a joke. Anyway, shows how little you know, Phil. American firms have Saturdays off. We get half day, like the schools. Bomi, this chap, Sam, does he really come here for dinner? Is the fellow a bachelor?’

  ‘No! Looks younger than he is. Sam is in his late forties. His wife left him some years ago—nineteen thirty-nine or forty. He won’t talk about it. That big house is the family house. He inherited a lot of money. Property also, I think.’

  ‘So I’m right about the big library.’ Phil yawned.’

  ‘Handsome guy. Could’ve married again,’ D’Silva said. ‘I really must be going. Coming, Phil?’

  ‘Yeah, let’s go.’

  Boman waved the couple off, returned behind the counter, where he made another pot of coffee and took it across to where Sam Dustoor was sitting.

  ‘This is fresh, no charge.’ Boman smiled. ‘I’ll take that pot back. It’s gone cold.’

  ‘That’s kind. Thank you.’ Sam Dustoor looked at his watch.

  ‘Do you have a little spare time, Master sahib, please.’ Boman asked.

  ‘Yes, about twenty-five minutes. Just finished marking this little pile here. How can I help?’

  ‘There’s a boy here, I want you to see.’

  ‘Oh, dear. I see enough boys. Well, where is he?’

  The cook from the kitchen placed two steaming plates of fried eggs on toast on the counter and called out “Table number four”. Boman turned. ‘One moment, sir,’ he said and took the plates to a couple seated in the centre of the room. Both were men, and from the sound of their conversation, British. The one wearing a white dog-collar was doing most of the talking, while his attentive listener, in a beige cotton suit, answered with grunts. ‘Anything else, Padre sahib,’ Boman asked.