Rohinton Mistry - Tales From Firozsha Baag

“Sarosh left Dr. No-Ilaaz’s office with his mind made up. Time was running out. There had been a time when it was perfectly natural to squat. Now it seemed a grotesquely aberrant thing to do. Wherever he went he was reminded of the ignominy of his way. If he could not be westernized in all respects, he was nothing but a failure in this land — a failure not just in the washrooms of the nation but everywhere. He knew what he must do if he was to be true to himself and to the decade-old commitment. So what do you think Sarosh did next?”

“What, Nariman Uncle?”

“He went to the travel agent specializing in tickets to India. He bought a fully refundable ticket to Bombay for the day when he would complete exactly ten immigrant years — if he succeeded even once before that day dawned, he would cancel the booking.

“The travel agent asked sympathetically, ‘Trouble at home?’ His name was Mr. Rawaana, and he was from Bombay too.

“ ‘No,’ said Sarosh, ‘trouble in Toronto.’

“ ‘That’s a shame,’ said Mr. Rawaana. ‘I don’t want to poke my nose into your business, but in my line of work I meet so many people who are going back to their homeland because of problems here. Sometimes I forget I’m a travel agent, that my interest is to convince them to travel. Instead, I tell them: don’t give up, God is great, stay and try again. It’s bad for my profits but gives me a different, a spiritual kind of satisfaction when I succeed. And I succeed about half the time. Which means,’ he added with a wry laugh, ‘I could double my profits if I minded my own business.’

“After the lengthy sessions with Mrs. Maha-Lepate and Dr. No-Ilaaz, Sarosh felt he had listened to enough advice and kind words. Much as he disliked doing it, he had to hurt Mr. Rawaana’s feelings and leave his predicament undiscussed: ‘I’m sorry, but I’m in a hurry. Will you be able to look after the booking?’

“ ‘Well, okay,’ said Mr. Rawaana, a trifle crestfallen; he did not relish the travel business as much as he did counselling immigrants. ‘Hope you solve your problem. I will be happy to refund your fare, believe me.’

“Sarosh hurried home. With only four weeks to departure, every spare minute, every possible method had to be concentrated on a final attempt at adaptation.

“He tried laxatives, crunching down the tablets with a prayer that these would assist the sitting position. Changing brands did not help, and neither did various types of suppositories. He spent long stretches on the toilet seat each morning. The supervisor continued to reprimand him for tardiness. To make matters worse, Sarosh left his desk every time he felt the slightest urge, hoping: maybe this time.

“The working hours expended in the washroom were noted with unflagging vigilance by the supervisor. More counselling sessions followed. Sarosh refused to extinguish his last hope, and the supervisor punctiliously recorded ‘No Improvement’ in his daily log. Finally, Sarosh was fired. It would soon have been time to resign in any case, and he could not care less.

“Now whole days went by seated on the toilet, and he stubbornly refused to relieve himself the other way. The doorbell would ring only to be ignored. The telephone went unanswered. Sometimes, he would awake suddenly in the dark hours before dawn and rush to the washroom like a madman.”

Without warning, Rustomji flung open his door and stormed: “Ridiculous nonsense this is becoming! Two days in a row, whole Firozsha Baag gathers here! This is not Chaupatty beach, this is not a squatters’ colony, this is a building, people want to live here in peace and quiet!” Then just as suddenly, he stamped inside and slammed the door. Right on cue, Nariman continued, before the boys could say anything.

“Time for meals was the only time Sarosh allowed himself off the seat. Even in his desperation he remembered that if he did not eat well, he was doomed — the downward pressure on his gut was essential if there was to be any chance of success.

“But the ineluctable day of departure dawned, with grey skies and the scent of rain, while success remained out of sight. At the airport Sarosh checked in and went to the dreary lounge. Out of sheer habit he started towards the washroom. Then he realized the hopelessness of it and returned to the cold, clammy plastic of the lounge seats. Airport seats are the same almost anywhere in the world.

“The boarding announcement was made, and Sarosh was the first to step onto the plane. The skies were darker now. Out of the window he saw a flash of lightning fork through the clouds. For some reason, everything he’d learned years ago in St. Xavier’s about sheet lightning and forked lightning went through his mind. He wished it would change to sheet, there was something sinister and unpropitious about forked lightning.”

Kersi, absorbedly listening, began cracking his knuckles quite unconsciously. His childhood habit still persisted. Jehangir frowned at the disturbance, and Viraf nudged Kersi to stop it.

“Sarosh fastened his seat-belt and attempted to turn his thoughts towards the long journey home: to the questions he would be expected to answer, the sympathy and criticism that would be thrust upon him. But what remained uppermost in his mind was the present moment — him in the plane, dark skies lowering, lightning on the horizon — irrevocably spelling out: defeat.

“But wait. Something else was happening now. A tiny rumble. Inside him. Or was it his imagination? Was it really thunder outside which, in his present disoriented state, he was internalizing. No, there it was again. He had to go.

“He reached the washroom, and almost immediately the sign flashed to ‘Please return to seat and fasten seat-belts.’ Sarosh debated whether to squat and finish the business quickly, abandoning the perfunctory seated attempt. But the plane started to move and that decided him; it would be difficult now to balance while squatting.

“He pushed. The plane continued to move. He pushed again, trembling with the effort. The seat-belt sign flashed quicker and brighter now. The plane moved faster and faster. And Sarosh pushed hard, harder than he had ever pushed before, harder than in all his ten years of trying in the new land. And the memories of Bombay, the immigration interview in New Delhi, the farewell party, his mother’s tattered prayer book, all these, of their own accord, emerged from beyond the region of the ten years to push with him and give him newfound strength.”

Nariman paused and cleared his throat. Dusk was falling, and the frequency of B.E.S.T. buses plying the main road outside Firozsha Baag had dropped. Bats began to fly madly from one end of the compound to the other, silent shadows engaged in endless laps over the buildings.

“With a thunderous clap the rain started to fall. Sarosh felt a splash under him. Could it really be? He glanced down to make certain. Yes, it was. He had succeeded!

“But was it already too late? The plane waited at its assigned position on the runway, jet engines at full thrust. Rain was falling in torrents and takeoff could be delayed. Perhaps even now they would allow him to cancel his flight, to disembark. He lurched out of the constricting cubicle.

“A stewardess hurried towards him: ‘Excuse me, sir, but you must return to your seat immediately and fasten your belt.’

‘“You don’t understand!’ Sarosh shouted excitedly. ‘I must get off the plane! Everything is all right, I don’t have to go any more …’

“ ‘That’s impossible, sir!’ said the stewardess, aghast. ‘No one can leave now. Takeoff procedures are in progress!’ The wild look in his sleepless eyes, and the dark rings around them scared her. She beckoned for help.

“Sarosh continued to argue, and a steward and the chief stewardess hurried over: ‘What seems to be the problem, sir? You must resume your seat. We are authorized, if necessary, to forcibly restrain you, sir.’