Rohinton Mistry - Tales From Firozsha Baag

“I’m sorry. I had something very important to do. It concerns us. I would like to talk to you about it.” The note of formality in his short, complete sentences sounded reassuringly in his ears. “This is the first time you’ve been alone at home,” he ventured with an echo of her accusing tone.

“You didn’t come since last weekend. Maybe my parents think we’ve broken up, and they didn’t need to stick around to guard my virginity.”

Jehangir turned away to look outside the window. He felt very uncomfortable when she talked like this. The flat was on the ground floor at an elevation that raised it above the compound, and he could see the volleyball in its flight over the net but not the boys who smacked it. A few minutes of daylight remained. When the room began edging towards darkness she reached out to switch on the table-lamp. Her movement caused the skirt to rise a little more.

“They’ve gone to a wedding at Albless Baag. Won’t be back till eleven o’clock,” she said.

“And Shanti?”

“Gone to visit her family. Has the weekend off.”

“I could not come last Sunday, I went with my parents to Bhagwan Baba—”

“Your string is showing again,” she interrupted. He reached behind, thinking his kusti had slipped out over the waistband of his trousers.

She laughed scornfully. “Not your kusti , I meant your mother’s extra-long apron string. Anyway, tell me about your Baba. This should be good.”

“If you’re going to mock me even before I…”

“I’m sorry, go on.”

Jehangir described the visit to Bhagwan Baba and the pronouncement. He paused before announcing his own decision about them. She adjusted her skirt properly over the knee and said, “But does that make any difference? Surely you don’t believe all that mumbo-jumbo.”

“But that’s not the reason —”

“Your parents will try anything, you know they hate me.”

“They don’t hate you,” he started, and stopped. His well-tempered sentences wrought for the occasion now seemed silly — he realized he had known it all along, even as he rehearsed the words in the Hanging Gardens. He looked outside. The volleyball no longer flew over the net, and the boys had either gone home or down to the bhelpuriwalla for a snack. The sudden gloom was due to the sky’s fierce clouding, which had overtaken the gradual change from dusk to night. In the window the curtains flapped, violently at times.

The decision made in the Hanging Gardens was no comfort. No comfort at all. Refused to buoy him up. Instead, it suddenly started to dissolve. Where was the peace and serenity he experienced that night in the Hanging Gardens? How could it come and go so quickly? To recapture his elusive confidence he imagined himself in the Gardens amidst the community of exercising men, sculpted hedges, chirping sparrows. But they swam pointlessly through his mind now. It was all meaningless.

Drawn by his anguished face, she came and sat beside him on the sofa. She slipped her hand in his; the scorn had gone out of her eyes, leaving them soft and brown. She moved closer, and he put his arm around her. His confusion and anxiety started to evaporate. He remembered the other time on the overhang bench: what would have been their first kiss had been interrupted by the unrestrained, coarse, unabashed passion of the other couple. Today there would be no interruptions. She switched off the lamp. Outside, there was the first rumbling of thunder, very distant, and the first drops of rain. The fresh, wholesome smell of earth was soon in the air. It was still raining when Jehangir was racing homeward. People waited, huddled under awnings of shops or overhangs of buildings, under whatever shelter was afforded till the shower passed. There was gladness on all faces at the rain which had at long last arrived.

Outside a jhopadpatti , where even at the best of times a hundred and twenty residents depended on one water tap or the fortuity of a malfunctioning fire-hydrant, the joy of celebration was the most intense. Children and grownups soaped their bodies, tattered clothes and all, and stood gratefully under the cleansing waters from heaven. Mothers washed naked babies to the accompaniment of gleeful squeals. Some women were scouring their grimy, greasy pots and pans. Little rivulets of soapy water were soon running down the pavements leading from the jhopadpatti into the main street.

Jehangir was soaked to the skin. But he did not notice it, as he noticed nothing else around him. He was oblivious to the celebration of rain, to its freshness and abundance, to the delicious coolness and comfort that graced the air which barely an hour ago had been vile and full of threat.

With long desperate strides he splashed through the puddles. Some of them were ankle-deep, and his shoes were soon waterlogged, but he hurried along. The rubbled pavement abandoned in mid-construction was impossible, so he took to the road.

A car fixed his soaking figure in its headlights, honking in annoyance. Sweat mingled with the rain-water coursing down his face. Waiting for a bus back to Firozsha Baag in this weather was pointless, it would take too long. He was panting hard, gasping for breath, but did not slow down. And his wretched, anguished mind would not be rid of her seated figure on the sofa, her hair over her soft brown eyes in which there were traces of moisture.

And to think that just a few minutes before he’d been sitting beside her on the same sofa, they were holding each other so close. Things could not be more perfect, it had seemed to him at that moment.

“Isn’t this like a Hindi movie?” she had said smiling, adding wickedly to make him blush, “only thing is, I should be wearing a sari made transparent by rain. Even the thunder and lightning soundtrack is perfect for lovers” Lovers? Was that a hint? She had stroked his hair. “Tell your parents and your Baba they did not succeed.”

Jehangir had rested his cheek against hers, at peace with life and all its tangled complexities. His eyes wandered around in the dark, passed over the clock (a flash of lightning showed eight-fifteen), the outline of the bookcase, the piano and the frowning bust of Beethoven.

Eight-fifteen. Was that the right time? He had to find out. The radium-painted numbers of his watch dial would glow in the dark and show the correct time. He shifted, uneasy, and tried to move his hand. But she’d noticed immediately.

“If you want to look at your watch don’t be so sneaky about it.” She shook off his hand.

“I’m supposed to be home by eight.” He looked at his watch.

“I know. You remind me every time you see me.”

“In my watch it’s almost eight. It’s set with the clock at home. We eat dinner by it,” he added apologetically, as if that would set things right. Short, complete sentences again, for reassurance. He got up.

“Going home on time for your mother is more important than —?” and she broke off. Her eyes rested for a moment on the cushions which lay about the sofa, comfortably rumpled, still holding the heat of their bodies, then returned to his face. He did not reply, just glanced at his watch again. Tidying up in great haste, he tucked in his shirt, put the crease back in his pants, smoothed down the tousled hair: raced with the clock of Mother.

Behroze watched in stark disbelief at this exhibition of terror, the transformation from man to cowering child. “Calm down, will you? Your mother’s world won’t end if you are late. Haven’t you learned yet? All these are just her tactics to —”

“I’ve told you before I know they are tactics,” he snapped back, “and I’m doing it all because I want to, because her life has been troubled enough, because I don’t want to add more misery to it. Because, because, because! Do you want me to repeat everything again?”