Arzee the Dwarf

by Chandrahas Choudhury

  He was just about to run upstairs when he saw his family emerge, his mother a picture in a rustling rust-red silk sari, and Mobin in black trousers and a blue shirt that, tucked in, made him look even taller.

  ‘Like mother, like son, both smelling of the same rose perfume!’ thought Arzee, and urged, ‘Come, come, come! I’ve got a train to catch. Get in! The meter’s already gone on from one.’

  ‘Why haven’t you put your suitcase in the dicky?’ said Mother. ‘Put your suitcase in the dicky, son.’

  ‘Let’s not waste time over these petty things, Mother. I’ll sit in front and keep it on my lap.’

  ‘What was the need to sit in front with the driver?’ said Mother, once the car had started. ‘You should have sat here with us at the back.’

  ‘Mother, it’s not even a five-minute journey.’

  ‘Have you got your ticket? And your phone charger? Don’t forget to call as soon as you reach.’

  ‘I’ll call, Mother.’

  ‘And tell her – tell her that I want to meet her first. Don’t go ahead with anything on your own.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Arzee.

  ‘Listen, brother,’ said Mobin, ‘do you have a comb on you?’

  When they came to a halt outside the Old Wadia Chawl it was instantly clear that a wedding or grand function was on, because two big Petromax lamps were burning brightly on either side of the gate, and horns and drums were tuning up discordantly further down. They got out of the taxi, Mobin paid because Arzee had no change, and then they went forward, marvelling.

  All these days Arzee had been wondering how it was possible to hold a reception in an area as congested as Phiroz’s. But credit had to be given to the old man’s brain. There was a passage, eight or ten feet wide, adjoining the small clearing at the entrance to Phiroz’s building, and by covering the entire area with a red carpet and tenting it over with more red cloth, Phiroz had improvised a wedding hall. At one end of the L-shaped space burners were just being lit under a buffet, and at the other a dais with a pair of thrones was awaiting the arrival of the newlyweds. If Phiroz could successfully squeeze a reception into such a small space, then, realized Arzee, there was no need to book a hall for his own wedding either. There was plenty of space on his own street – if he was going to get married.

  He went forward quickly to study the arrangements, leaving Mother and Mobin behind. The roof of the tent, dented a little in one place by the bulge of a tree, was spangled with silver stars, and gold streamers hanging down from red balloons were swirling in the air like the tendrils of the banyan tree outside the Noor. Liveried bearers were doing the rounds with trays of pistachios, pink and green sweet drinks, and kababs speared with toothpicks. And who were all these people milling on the carpet? Arzee didn’t know a single one of them, though he could tell from their birdlike faces and hooked noses that they were all Parsi. All the gifts they had brought were stacked on a table to one side, and Arzee left his suitcase beneath the table so that he could keep an eye on it. From there his eyes picked out the stick-like figure of Abjani, dressed in black from top to toe and nervously smoking a cigarette as he stood all by himself in one corner. Arzee grinned. Abjani wasn’t used to such brightly lit surroundings! He thought he’d chide and harass him a little, but first he wanted to take a look at the dishes Phiroz had ordered for the buffet. As he was heading there Arzee saw the brass band emerge from a hole in the side of the tent, the red and gold of their uniforms matching their surroundings. The musicians lined up, looked at each other’s faces, nodded, and began to play. Arzee observed their work for a couple of minutes, his hands behind his back, before turning for the buffet. Just then he saw Phiroz, moustacheless, looking dapper in an old-style grey suit, emerge from a group of people.

  ‘What a show, Phirozbhai, what a show!’ he cried, clapping as he went towards the old projectionist. ‘And what a suit that is, Phirozbhai! It looks like you’re the one who’s getting married.’

  ‘It is my own wedding suit from thirty-five years ago,’ confessed Phiroz. ‘I only had to alter the trousers.’

  ‘There’s only one thing wrong with your dress today, Phirozbhai. And that’s your tie.’

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ said Phiroz, peering at his chest. ‘Have I used the wrong side?’

  ‘You shouldn’t have made such a simple knot. That’s the kind schoolboys make, because it’s just four steps. You should have made a proper one. But let it be now.’

  ‘No – make one for me then, if you know how.’

  ‘All right, just bend over a bit and I’ll do it without your tie even leaving your neck. Good perfume, Phirozbhai.’

  ‘I’ve never seen you wear a tie. How do you know so much about tie-knots?’ asked Phiroz. ‘Be quick, or my back will lock.’

  ‘How do I know about tie-knots? A-ha. I’ve seen dreams too, Phirozbhai! After all one day even I’ll have to wear a tie at my wedding. But tell me one thing, Phirozbhai. What did all of this cost you?’

  ‘Quite a bit,’ said Phiroz, clacking his tongue at the memory of his expenses.

  ‘But how much?’

  ‘I haven’t done all the accounts yet.’

  ‘Approximately?’

  ‘Be quick,’ said Phiroz. ‘I’ve got dozens of things to look after.’

  ‘Okay, okay. Where are Shireen and her husband?’

  ‘They’re on their way. These young people take forever to get ready. Everything is late today. Is it done?’

  ‘One moment more, Phirozbhai. Isn’t it you who always says a job done should be a job well done? The reason I’m asking where they are is that I’m in a hurry myself, because I have a –’

  Beeps began to emanate from Arzee’s pocket, growing louder and louder. Phiroz looked around, puzzled. Arzee quickly coaxed the fat end of the tie through the knot, and whipped out his mobile phone and shut off the alarm he’d set as a precaution.

  ‘Because I have a train to catch, and it leaves from Bombay Central in forty minutes!’ he finished.

  ‘A train – where are you off to?’ said Phiroz, standing up straight and peering at his tie-knot.

  ‘It’s a long story, Phirozbhai, a long story. I’ll tell you when I come back. And there’s so much else to tell you too. Isn’t the tie looking better?’

  ‘It must be,’ said Phiroz. ‘Didn’t you bring your mother and brother?’

  ‘They’re over there, Phirozbhai – in that corner.’

  ‘They aren’t having anything. I’ll go and speak to them,’ said Phiroz.

  ‘You’ll have to introduce yourself, Phirozbhai – I don’t know if my mother will recognize you without your moustache. I just had one more thing to tell you, Phirozbhai.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t be sad that your daughter is leaving. Life’s too short to be sad. Everything will turn out all right, you’ll see.’

  ‘Life’s too short?’ said Phiroz. ‘Life’s too long.’

  ‘Don’t say such things, Phirozbhai. Today is your day to be laughing and dancing.’

  ‘If you’re going, don’t leave just like that,’ said Phiroz. ‘Eat before leaving.’

  ‘I’ll eat, Phirozbhai. How can a person like me leave before eating?’

  Arzee watched the old projectionist amble away, and thought that in his grey suit Phiroz looked just like a very large pigeon.

  And now it was only forty minutes before his train pulled out of the station, and Shireen and her husband had still not arrived. Arzee lifted some kababs off a tray as it went past, and clambered up onto the dais and tried to look over the heads of all the guests. Were Shireen and her husband coming? If they weren’t, he was leaving.

  The band now struck up a famous song from the seventies, and it seemed to Arzee as though any moment it was not Shireen but Monique who would appear at the entrance, clad in a white gown with a veil over her face. And then all the guests would cluster around the dais, clapping and cheering, and the newlyweds would pose for photographs. Arzee saw that Mother ha
d caught hold of an unsuspecting Parsi gentleman and was telling him some long-drawn-out story, stabbing the air with her forefinger, and that brother Mobin was standing right next to a very pretty girl, and pretending that he wasn’t feeling conscious. Some children from the Old Wadia Chawl had stuck their heads in through a hole in the tent, and were watching, entranced. And one of them had his mouth open in such a familiar way, such a familiar way. It was Deepak – no, it was Deepak’s son! Phiroz was moving from one person to another, and having his hands squeezed and his waist hugged and his back slapped, and the old man was actually smiling, and even laughing; his eyes were dancing with pleasure. With every minute the pile of gifts on the table grew higher and more colourful, and behind the tablecloth he could see the bulge of his suitcase, which contained a cat pendant he’d bought for Monique in the afternoon from Grant Road market, and also his beach shorts.

  His beach shorts! Arzee slapped his forehead when he realized he had forgotten to pack his sunglasses, for without sunglasses there was almost no point in going to Goa.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank Amit Mahanti, Ruchika Negi, Subhashim Goswami, Richa Nigam Bhatia, Rahul Bhatia, Kavita Bhanot, Aamer Hussein, Saugata Mukherjee, Robert Wyatt, and Thomas and Elaine Colchie for their patient reading of and helpful comments on various drafts of Arzee the Dwarf.

  Chandrahas Choudhury grew up in Bombay and his native Odisha, was educated at the Universities of Delhi and Cambridge, and now lives in Delhi. He writes a weekly column on Indian politics, society and literature for Bloomberg View. Choudhury's essays and book reviews have appeared in The National, The Wall Street Journal, Foreign Policy, and The New York Times, and he is the editor of the anthology of Indian fiction India: A Traveller’s Literary Companion, published by Whereabouts Press and with a foreword by Anita Desai.