A large crowd was waiting for Bhagwan Baba. People stood in a line leading up to the veranda, in silence or soft conversation, reverent hands clutching packets with offerings for Bhagwan Baba. There was none of the hysterical activity usually associated with holy men, no burning of incense, no chanting, no peddling of holy pictures or religious artifacts.
Jehangir’s parents explained that when Bhagwan Baba was ready he came out to the wooden bench. The visitors then went up to the veranda and sat with him, one by one or in a group if it was a group consultation.
A man just ahead of them in line overheard, and spoke up as though waiting for the cue: “There is nothing to worry about. Bhagwan Baba is wonderful. Whatever he will say or do, it is only for your own benefit.” Bhagwan Baba started granting audiences at eleven A.M. It was now eleven-thirty. With the air of one privy to special information the man said, “Bhagwan Baba knows best. If he is late it is for a good reason.” His hands performed practised gestures to embellish the earnestly devout speech: fingers bunched together to describe a vertical line in the air; right index finger wisely held aloft and lowered through an arc into the left hand; palms together in a clasp; and so on. “We are only simple human beings, so how to understand everything Bhagwan Baba will say or do, how to know why his spirituality is manifesting in one way and not in another?” He paused, then added unctuously, “For us, it is only to stand and wait till Baba is ready to mingle with poor souls like you and me!”
Jehangir found the man’s effusive devotional talk embarrassing. He wished his parents would stop encouraging him by nodding pious looks of agreement. Bhagwan Baba appeared now, supported by two men. Something like a collective suspiration was audible in the garden. Then the scattered whispering fell silent. He was dressed in a white kurta-pyjama, and looked quite frail, with bare feet. His head was bald but he had a white beard. A short stubbly beard. And he wore dark glasses.
“Sometimes he takes off the glasses,” the man whispered, “then at once puts them back on. Everyone waits for that, to see his eyes. Exactly what it means I don’t understand. But it is absolutely significant, most definitely.”
Two little boys and their older sister climbed onto the bench-swing in the corner of the vegetable garden. Their clambering set it into a gentle, squeaky oscillation. The sister sustained the motion of the swing with a pushing-kicking movement of her legs. During the forward swing her skirt billowed, then fell with the retreat; forward and back, billowed and fell.
Out of a long-formed habit Jehangir, craning, positioned himself to obtain the best view. When he had newly started going to college he discovered a pastime to which the Law of Diminishing Returns did not apply. The excitement of descending the stairs sometimes kept him from paying proper attention during class. There were two flights to each floor, and as he rounded the splendidly carved newel at the end of the first flight, his eyes lifted upwards. Above him flowed a stream of panties, a cascade of crotches out of the heavens, while he descended slowly, hand upon the balustrade to keep his balance, for it was heady stuff.
The thrills of this sport suffered greatly after that day at choir practice when she spoke to him. He realized that she could be amidst the descending crowd while his head was thrown back at a right angle to his trunk. It would be mortifying if she spotted him in this stance, she who believed him shy and, doubtless, pure of mind. Like Mother who, until recently, would say with pride, “My Jehangir, such a quiet good boy, aitlö dahyö, make choon or chaan. Does everything I tell him.” What a revelation if she could enter his prurient mind. Ironic that two women so different could share the same misconception, both beguiled in identical ways.
The bench-swing reminded him of the exercisers in the children’s playground. He now gave that place a wide berth when he visited the Hanging Gardens, preferring to think that the playground and the exercisers belonged to a part of his life which had concluded for good. He wondered if the exercisers still went there every night, if their muscles had developed further since he last saw them more than two years ago.
The children lost interest in the swing. It slowed down, steadying into its former stillness, with the squeaks coming further and further apart, then dying away completely. Jehangir turned away from it, feeling victorious after his sighting. Not only had he succeeded, he had done so in Bhagwan Baba’s garden amidst devotees thinking pious thoughts, and the touch of blasphemy was particularly satisfying. The sanctimonious fellow in front had been quiet for a while, not sharing any more of his insider’s information. His turn was next. He smiled at Jehangir and his parents, and stepped up to the veranda. The sun had progressed in its descent, and the pumpkin vines and tomatoes would soon need watering. A slight breeze was evident in the faint rustle of leaves.
Now they were first in line. Jehangir’s apprehension and uncertainty returned. He began digging frantically in his trousers for the photograph before remembering that on the train, while his parents slept, he had transferred it from his wallet to his shirt pocket. “How do we start this?” he asked. “Do I show the photo first?”
Mother said she would take care of that. All he should do was listen carefully when Bhagwan Baba spoke.
From Bhagwan Baba’s house to the railway station was a short walk along a dirt road. Jehangir and his parents hurried along silently in the face of a rising wind. A sombre, rainless cloud cover dominated the sky.
The dirt road was deserted. The suns midday sharpness had been replaced by a heavy, stifling air mass moving over the land. Clouds of dust rose at the least provocation and Mother held a handkerchief over her nose and mouth. A few simple shacks and shanties on either side of the road were the only structures on the barren plain. Their sunken-cheeked occupants watched with empty eyes as the three figures made their way to the station.
The shelter of the waiting-room was a relief. It was deserted except for the man attending to the cold-drink stand. They purchased three bottles of Limca and settled on a bench to await their train. The bottles were closer to tepid than the ice-cold promised by the sign, but the drink was refreshing.
Bathrooms were located next to the cold-drink stand. From behind one of the doors emerged the song of a broken tap, the copious drip splashing in complex, agitated rhythms upon the stone floor.
“Shortage of water everywhere. But listen, listen to the shameful waste,” said Father. He sipped Limca through the straw, anticipating the final empty gurgle to signal the end. “It was a little disappointing. He removed his dark glasses to see the photo, but did not say much. And three hours in line.”
Mother said, “That is normal. Bhagwan Baba never speaks unless you ask him specific things. Jehangir did not open his mouth sidhö-padhrö, to speak clearly. Not one word. What do you expect Bhagwan Baba to do?”
“But you said you would explain …”
“I said I would begin for you. That does not mean you show no interest in what is your problem.”
“I don’t have a problem. You do because you don’t like her.” The entire day had passed without argument. Now it seemed the heat and dust would take their toll.
“I never said I do not like her. But no sense talking to you, you don’t want to understand. We decided to come, you should have shown more concern. Now we still don’t know what is the best thing for you.”
Jehangir returned the empty Limca bottles to the cold-drink counter. A ceiling fan hung motionless in the waiting-room, and he pointed to it when the cold-drink man caught his eye. “Power shortage,” the cold-drink man replied. “No lights even. At night I sell by lantern light. And kerosene is not cheap. So price of cold-drinks had to go up.”
Jehangir nodded indifferently and returned to the bench. Father said, “Bhagwan Baba did not say much. But it seems to me he did give an answer. He said life is a trap, full of webs. Ask yourself, what does the sensible person do if a trap is facing him? Avoid, get away from it. So I think Bhagwan Baba was saying that Jehangir should stay away from that girl.” He was pleased with his interpretati
on.
“But if that was what Bhagwan Baba meant, why not say it plainly?” said Mother. “Every other time he has given us plain answers, simple language.”
“I don’t know. There is always a reason for what Bhagwan Baba does. That much I know. To me his words sounded like a warning for Jehangir.”
“But Jehangir is not saying anything. Again you are staying quiet, like you did with Bhagwan Baba. Tell us whatever is on your mind.”
And he was tempted to tell: of the sight which had shocked and embarrassed him one night when he had come home, changed his clothes, and left them on the pile for the gunga to wash next morning. A few minutes later he had returned, having forgotten his pen in one of the pockets. But Mother was there, sniffing; scrutinizing the gusset under the light. To find smells of illicit sex? Stains to corroborate her suspicions of the girl’s sluttishness? Evidence that her boy had been ravished by a flesh-and-blood succubus? She had started counting garments for next day’s washing quota when she saw him.
Trying to conceal the rough edge of resentment that crept into his voice now, he was only partly successful. “You keep saying the girl, the girl, the girl. You know her name is Behroze, why don’t you use it? Do you think if you pronounce her name she will become more real than she is?”
His parents shifted uncomfortably. “You never talk to us these days,” said Mother. “You were not like that in school. How you used to come home and tell me everything. The little butter we could afford I would always save for you, make your tea, help with homework. And how you used to go running to Dr. Mody every Sunday at ten o’clock, do you remember, with your stamps.” Those happy years brought a wistful smile to her face. She reached out as if to stroke his cheek. But the memories also exacerbated the imperfection of the present, and she left the gesture unfinished.
“We never treated you like other parents when you misbehaved. That old Karani woman in B Block, she used to make her boy stand naked out on the steps for punishment, to shame him. A brilliant CA he is now, but to this day the poor man has not completely recovered from that cruelty. And Dr. Mody, rest his soul, would slap his son Pesi left-right on the face. Outside in the compound for all Firozsha Baag to see.” Mother paused, remembered the point she was trying to make, and continued.
“Maybe it is because you have changed so much that we fret. You used to care about our problems, worry just like Daddy and me. More and more selfish you seem to be now, so what am I to think? That your new life in college, and your new friends, and that girl – Behroze – have changed you.”
“Again we are starting to argue. No use talking of it now,” said Father, “when we are all so tired.”
“But I want to tell you what I think,” said Jehangir. “Bhagwan Baba talked about a trap. He also said no one can do anything about it. No one means not you or I or Bhagwan Baba himself. So what is the point of a warning no one can act upon?”
“You see what I mean?” asked Mother, turning in despair to Father. “What I mean when I say he has changed? He takes all these logic and philosophy courses in college and gives us smart answers. We begged and borrowed to pay his college fees, and this is the result. Not afraid even to twist the words of Bhagwan Baba. Don’t forget, all your smartness and your ambition to go to America will come to nothing. This girl will change you and keep you here. Then you will finish your days like your father and me, in poverty and filth.”
The suburban local to Bombay Central was announced over the loudspeaker. As the train swept in, Mother realized that the brown paper bag of oranges blessed by Bhagwan Baba was missing. Jehangir raced into the waiting-room and back to the compartment where they had found seats.
“You can eat one every day for the next three days,” Mother said. “It will help you think clearly about your problem.”
Jehangir did not tell Behroze about Bhagwan Baba. She would dismiss him as a fake, lumping him in the same category as the quacks and charlatans of whom there was no dearth in Bombay, who sold their charms and potions and had a thriving trade among the educated and the uneducated alike. It would lead to an argument, and he did not want to have to defend Bhagwan Baba.
That week, he missed choir practice and went to the Hanging Gardens. He walked, taking the short cut up the hill as he had done so many times with her. He mulled over the words of Bhagwan Baba. Not that it matters one way or the other what he meant, he kept assuring himself. A trap, he had said. Did he mean Behroze trapped me? That was absurd. Why would she want to? If anything, he had trapped Behroze, luring her with his melancholy looks and the sad and gentle air which so became him and his shyness. Or had Bhagwan Baba meant trap in a larger – sort of cosmic – sense, so that he and his parents and Behroze were all trapped, and must work out their lives within its confines? This interpretation at least had some metaphysical appeal to it.
The sun was on the verge of setting when he arrived at the Gardens. There was yet another possibility: that he could not break with Behroze even if he wanted because these things were out of man’s control. Ludicrous, the thought that he was seeing her impelled by some higher force.
On weekdays the Gardens were empty except for ayahs with their charges and the elderly out for a constitutional. They left when it got dark. Then couples arrived to seek privacy behind bushes and trees. But shortly after dusk a gang of men roamed through the Gardens, flushing out twosomes in their sanctuaries. They would stand around and snicker, or yell out obscene encouragement punctuated by lewd flourishes of hands and fingers, till the couples took flight in frustration and embarrassment.
Jehangir walked till the sun went down. The ayahs and the little children departed with their prams and toys, and across the greying skies a flock of sparrows ushered them to the exits, chirping urgently. He could go on seeing Behroze as if nothing had changed. But then the squabbles, the scenes verging on hysteria, the bitter taunting would continue to fester. In one way Bhagwan Baba’s words made sense; life is a trap – I cannot solve both problems. How long could such terrible discord persist without rupturing something vital? He never understood that so much unhappiness could come upon the happy, loving family they used to be. A horrible end would come of it, some awful mess, if things continued in their clamorous, disturbed manner.
He emerged from the Gardens through the gate opposite the one he had entered by. Where the shik-kababwalla sat. Fanning his coals, and the skewers ready in his basket, loaded with bits of beef and liver. Nodding at Jehangir in recognition. Then across the road and into Kamala Nehru Park, with its hedges sculpted into the shapes of animals and birds. In bright sunlight, when freshly trimmed, the figures were delightful to look at. But now the hour was passing through the final moments of dusk, and the shapes were indefinable. Looming in a strange, unearthly manner. Possessing neither the randomness of nature nor the manicured discipline imposed by man.
He left quickly. Something eerie about the place. Back into the Hanging Gardens, to retrace his steps homeward, down the hill.
And then a slight detour occurred to him, through the children’s playground. His heart raced a little as he approached, wondering if the exercisers would be there.
He heard their panting before he saw them, and hurried to turn the bend in the hedge and position himself at his old place. Unnoticed, he watched their sweating bodies perform. The old fascination returned at the sight of their rippling, bulging muscles. In their rhythm and symmetry, in the sureness of their pulse, in the obedient responses of their limbs he rediscovered what he had always found strangely enticing, and remembered the days in the gym at St. Xavier’s: the smell of sweat, the camaraderie that flowed, the slapping of flesh, the search for the hairiest chest, bushiest armpit, longest pubic hair, the grabbing and jostling, all the fun which he was never a part of, always ignored by the boys, always isolated.
And now, regarding these fellows building bodies by night, a wild urge came over him. To step out of his concealed spot and touch their muscles, feel the hardness, make his body join theirs in the e
xercises. To engage in good-hearted physical competition, to see who could do the most push-ups, to arm-wrestle, to grunt and heave together.
But it was only momentary. I was never good at such things, I’ll look foolish. He laughed at himself and left, feeling better now. As if the straining, exerting muscles of these men at exercise had kneaded away the disquietude and anxiety he had been feeling about Behroze, about Bhagwan Baba, about his parents. Nothing is a trap, I exercise control over my own destiny.
To discover where he had been, Mother began some skilful questioning. She stalked around, observing his face for suspicious-looking marks or blemishes, his shirt and collar for questionable discolouration. Instead of ignoring this customary examination he said, “You won’t see anything. Behroze never puts on makeup when we go out for kissie-koatie.”
She clutched at her throat with both hands. “When a son speaks so shamelessly to his mother it is the end.” And Father scolded in his mild way: “It is a disgrace when you talk like that.”
Next evening he was drawn again to the Hanging Gardens. Lack of rain was obvious in the fading lushness of the lawns, but what green remained was still soothing. All the fountains were dry, their coloured lights switched off, and the little waterfall was a slope of grey sun-dried rock. After a few minutes of aimless strolling he went down to the overhang. It was the most secluded spot in the Gardens, at the edge overlooking the sea. Thick with bushes and trees on all three sides, and two wooden benches affording a spectacular view of Chaupatty beach, from the Queen’s Necklace along Marine Drive to the modern skyscrapers mushrooming at Nariman Point.
Behroze and he had come here once when both benches were unoccupied, on a slightly cool December evening. There was a gentle breeze. They sat down, his arm around her, watching the sky till the first star appeared. The gang of voyeurs was nowhere in sight, and Jehangir had a plan: to turn her head and kiss her when it was darker. A few moments later she reached her hands up to his face – she must have had a plan, too. But there were footsteps. He froze, then tore away from her hands.
Tales From Firozsha Baag Page 22